Magnets and Ladders
Active Voices of Writers with Disabilities
Fall/Winter 2024-2025

Editorial and Technical Staff

• Coordinating Editor: Mary-Jo Lord
• Fiction: Kate Chamberlin, Abbie Johnson Taylor, Winslow Parker, Marilyn Brandt Smith, and Carol Farnsworth
• Nonfiction: Kate Chamberlin, Marilyn Brandt Smith, Lisa Busch, Brad Corallo, and John Cronin
• Poetry: Abbie Johnson Taylor, Leonard Tuchyner, Brad Corallo, Sally Rosenthal, and Sandra Streeter
• Technical Assistants: Jayson Smith

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Submission Guidelines

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.

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.

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.

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.

All work submitted must be original. We do not accept work written by an AI or any form of plagiarism.

Have You Published a book? If you would like to have an excerpt of your book published in an issue of Magnets and Ladders, please submit a chapter or section of your book to submissions@magnetsandladders.org. The word count for 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, either an eBook or audio format. We will publish up to one book excerpt per issue.

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.

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.

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. When possible, please send your submissions as a Word or txt attachment as many email programs have been reformatting poetry and putting unwanted line breaks in stories and essays. Submissions will be acknowledged within two weeks. You will be notified if your piece is selected
for publication.

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.

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Audio Versions of Some Past Issues are Available for Your Listening Pleasure

The Perkins Library for the Blind has been recording issues of Magnets and Ladders for several years. In 2017, these recordings became available on cartridge to patrons of The National Library Service for the Blind and Print Disabled. For many of our readers, the Perkins recording of each edition of Magnets and Ladders is their only access to the magazine. Other readers may enjoy the pleasure of hearing the stories and poems performed by the Perkins narrators after reading the magazine online. In the fall of 2022, we were given permission, by Perkins, to upload mp3 files of magazine recordings. Back issues starting with the Spring/Summer 2019 edition of Magnets and Ladders are available now at https://www.magnetsandladders.org/mp3. Please check back often, as we anticipate adding more back issues soon.

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Behind Our Eyes announces our third anthology

Text of cover image courtesy of Be My AI: The image is the cover of a book titled Behind Our Eyes 3: A Literary Sunburst. The subtitle reads, “The Third Literary Anthology of Stories, Poems and Essays by Writers with Disabilities.” The book is edited by Mary-Jo Lord. The background of the cover is gray, and the text is in yellow. Below the text, there is an image of a bright, fiery sunburst, showing intense solar activity with vivid orange and yellow colors.

Behind Our Eyes 3: A Literary Sunburst is available from Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, and soon coming to Amazon.

From the back cover:
In Behind Our Eyes 3: A Literary Sunburst, the third anthology of its kind, six sections comprised of memoirs, fiction, and poetry share slices of life from the perspectives of those living with disabilities. Most works first appeared in Magnets and Ladders, an online literary journal in which novice and experienced writers with disabilities showcase their work. While unique challenges are incorporated into some of the works, this compilation speaks to universal themes and common experiences, involving loss and grief, adversity and fear, love and passion. Subjects such as life-changing illness and the death of a pet are shared with sensitivity and compassion; some works reminding us that a rainbow is possible only in the aftermath of a storm. Heartbreaking, as well as heartwarming, memoirs recount experiences belonging to military veterans, children of immigrants, and parents in the trenches of child rearing. Witty fiction introduces us to cosmic bowling with aliens, and asks us to envision a sky with two moons. Reflective poems describe braille as “ticklish filigree lace on cardboard paper” and fingerspelling that “performs magic in a cacophony of the palms.” In other verse, lyrical imagery paints enchanting portraits of the natural world. To unexpected delight, tantalizing recipes accompany several works; such as those for edible salad bowls, lemon herb bread, cinnamon rolls, and even frozen yogurt pops for golden retrievers named Sammy who “sing the blues.” As a part of the community myself, I am reminded that the only thing a deaf woman cannot do is hear, and the only thing a blind man cannot do is see. This engaging collection promises three enriching opportunities: readers are challenged to question outdated notions of disability; invited to appreciate perspectives that differentiate us from one another; and encouraged to embrace the threads that make up the fabric of our collective human experience. Readers, disabled and not, will be inspired to hold up a mirror to their own experiences, and recognize that, reassuringly, we are all in this together.
Kelly Sargent, Creative Nonfiction Editor, The Bookends Review and author of Seeing Voices: Poetry in Motion

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About Behind Our Eyes

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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Table of Contents

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Editors’ Welcome

Hello:

I hope everyone affected by hurricanes Helene and Milton are, with the help of others able to rebuild or find safe homes.

The Fall/Winter edition of Magnets and Ladders is filled with poems, stories, articles, and essays highlighting many of our longtime favorite authors alongside some new voices. Although we don't have a section specifically devoted to magic, you will find several pieces featuring or hinting at magic. See how many you can find.

Once again, we welcome a guest judge for one of our contests. Ona Gritz has generously volunteered to be our guest judge of the poetry finalists for the Fall/Winter 2024/2025 and the Spring/Summer 2025 editions of Magnets and Ladders. Ona has an extensive background in poetry and in interacting with people with disabilities.

Ona Gritz's new memoir, Everywhere I Look, won the Readers' Choice Gold Award for Best Adult Book, the Independent Author Award in New Nonfiction, the Independent Author Award in True Crime, and is an Independent Book Review 2024 Must-Read.

Her poems and essays have appeared widely, including in The New York Times, The Guardian, Ploughshares, Brevity, Bellevue Literary Review, One Art, and River Teeth. Among her recent honors are two Notable mentions in The Best American Essays, a Best Life Story in Salon, and a winning entry in the Poetry Archive Now: Wordview 2020 Project*.

The Space You Left Behind, Ona's first young adult novel, written in verse, has just been released from West 44 Books and featured in The Children’s Book Council's Hot Off the Press roundup of anticipated best sellers.

Visit her website at: https://www.onagritz.com

I would like to give a big thanks to all of the committee members, Ona Gritz, Marilyn Brandt Smith, and Jason Smith for your hard work and support throughout the production process.

We had contests with cash prizes in fiction, nonfiction, and poetry.

Below are the Magnets and Ladders contest winners.

• Fiction:

• First Place: “Carousel Pinto” by Leonard Tuchyner

• Second Place: “Ella, as Told by Herself” by Winslow Parker
• Honorable Mention: “The Return” by Vaye de Vire

• Honorable Mention: “An Interview with the Inhabitants of the Magic Garden” by Elizabeth Fiorite

• Nonfiction:

• First Place: “On the Turtle's Back” by Sarah Das Gupta

• Second Place: “The Koln Concert performed by Keith Jarrett January 24, 1975: A Personal Story and Tribute to a Transcendent Artist” by Brad Corallo
• Honorable Mention: “A Beast Named Jed” by Shawn Jacobson

• Honorable Mention: “Hearing Voices” by Marcia J. Wick

• Poetry:

• First Place: “Dinner with a Ghost” by Sally Rosenthal

• Second Place: “A Tasting” by Margaret D. Stetz
• Honorable Mention: “Philosophy for a Cool Water Daydream” by Lynda McKinney Lambert
• Honorable Mention: “Howl” by Lisa Busch

Congratulations to all of the contest winners.

The Magnets and Ladders staff wishes you a safe and happy holiday season.

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Part I. People, places, and the unforgettable

On the Turtle's Back, creative nonfiction, nonfiction First Place
by Sarah Das Gupta

Huge waves crashed on the beach and the breaking foam spread out across the hot sand like lizards' tongues. The triangular caps of the boatmen stood out, dozens of white dots against the deep blue waters of the Bay of Bengal. They are fishermen but in the tourist season act as lifeguards on the beaches of Orissa where the power of the surf and dangerous cross currents can make swimming hazardous. The beach that day looked very different from the long sweep of sand in February and March when as far as the eye can see hundreds of sea turtles are nesting. These are the olive ridley species and the coast of Orissa has the largest arribadas or mass nesting sites in the world. There these wonderful sea creatures dig into the sand, each busy female lays up to 150 eggs.

Looking along the beach as children play with big, brightly coloured balls, women in saris bob up and down in the surf and stronger swimmers out beyond the breakers, it was difficult to imagine this wide sweep of sand as the world's biggest turtle nursery!

Mingling with the shouts of children were the voices of local villagers selling their exotic wares: necklaces of shells, bangles of bright red and orange glass catching the sunlight and large conch shells. The inside of the shells gleamed and sparkled with iridescence in the brilliant summer light.

Despite warnings from the boatmen, some reckless swimmers had pushed inflated lilos out into the deep water beyond the breaking surf. There they were lying lazily as the waves rocked them into a warm complacency. Red, purple, yellow inflatables were seen drifting out with the turning tide, the loungers oblivious of danger.

The weather suddenly showed signs of change, not unusual along that stretch of coast. The small fishing boats that were pulled up close to dry sand rose and fell as the waves and wind increased. The knots of people paddling at the edge of the foam retreated further up the beach. Many families gathered up stray towels, wet swimming costumes and the detritus which a day at the sea inevitably gathers. Clouds began to blow in from the ocean which had suddenly changed its expression from a sunny smile to a sullen grimace.

The palm trees at the side of the coastal road shook like feather dusters cleaning up the day's accumulated dirt. The boatmen pulled their boats out of danger of the now thrashing surf. The rudely awoken lilo sleepers were using the waves and currents to carry them safely shoreward.

A little further out into the ocean, a very different creature had been enjoying the warm water of the Bay. She was an olive ridley sea turtle – the females are larger than the males. Her carapace had a dull green tinge and some experts have said she owed her surname to a certain Dr H N Ridley. At that moment she wasn't worrying about such academic debates.

Far more important was the large, delicious lobster she had crushed between her beak and powerful jaws, together with the shrimps which had made a tasty dessert.

The turtle was perhaps feeling rather sentimental that late summer afternoon. After all, only a few months earlier, in March, she joined hundreds of other females at that very beach, her traditional nesting beach. With her strong flippers she dug a hole in the sand and laid her hundred eggs in just three hours. She wondered, maybe a little sadly, how many young turtles had made it safely to the sea. How many would survive the thirteen mysterious years, the so called, lost years, before they reached maturity? They must have hatched out after sixty days and then made that hazardous first trip to the ocean. Even then they were far from safe. She remembered a horrifying experience when a large female swallowed a plastic bag which she had mistaken for a jellyfish. Not surprising perhaps, after all turtles are short sighted.

Just as she was about to swim off into deeper water, the turtle became aware of something
large and strange floating above her head! Her first re-action was to panic. The great enemies of sea turtles are sharks, especially Tiger sharks and Great Whites. Instinct told her this object was the wrong shape and size. Her poor eyesight and instinctive curiosity combined to encourage her to investigate further. Swimming underneath this strange creature, she knew it was no sea monster but rather more likely to be a small boat floating on the surface. How often her fellow turtles had been caught and cruelly injured by fishing nets and lines. They had learnt to avoid boats and men.

Meanwhile, a great deal of shouting, running about and general uproar broke out on the beach. By now it was late afternoon and the wind was fierce; dark storm clouds were scudding across the sky and the waves were thundering onto the beach! A small group stood at the edge of the sea looking across the stormy waters. Two women clutched each other and sobbed. One of the men explained to a crowd of fishermen that a young child was missing. At first the two families had each thought the child was safe with the other. Too late, they realised he was still in the sea! The light was beginning to fade but one of the boatmen caught sight of a red lilo bobbing up and down over two hundred metres out to sea.

The fishermen spoke hastily in Oriya. They would try to rescue the boy. It would be a combined effort, too risky for one man to attempt it alone in such a rough sea. A great metal chain was dragged from one of the fisherman's huts. It took at least twenty men to pull it to the edge of the sea. Their plan soon became clear. They formed a long line along the beach. Every two metres, a man picked up the chain. The three strongest swimmers stood at the front while the anchor man was well over six feet tall and almost as wide as he was long!

They waded into the sea in order, carrying the heavy chain. In the failing light, the crowd on the beach strained to watch their progress. The line stretched out to sea but there was a cry of despair when the watchers could see that the chain of men could not reach the lilo with the terrified child on board. Every minute the situation appeared more desperate. The tide was ebbing and the lilo was being carried further out to sea! The frightened boy was tempted to jump into the water. Only the calm voice of the leading boatman stopped him.

The turtle could hear the child's scream of fear. She had heard similar high- pitched noises on the nesting beaches from tourists and sightseers. She could feel the ebb tide which would take her into deeper water and hopefully a good lobster supper. In all her thirty years, the turtle had never seen a human so far out into the ocean, certainly not anyone so small.

For some reason, who knows, she swam back towards the lilo. Swimming under it, she felt it resting on her domed carapace. Slowly, very slowly, she turned. With her powerful rear flippers she swam against the outgoing tide.

On the beach despair changed to hope as through the evening light they could see the inflatable slowly moving against the current. The women were praying. They believed they had seen a miracle and, in a sense, they were right! The first boatman at last had a grip on the red lilo. It was passed down the line until the huge anchorman carried the young boy to his mother. As he recovered, wrapped in a warm blanket with a cup of sweet 'chai', the boy said something magic had turned the lilo back towards the shore. The boatman, at the head of the chain claimed he had seen a sea turtle moving beneath the inflatable. The fishermen with one voice chanted a prayer to Lord Vishnu. The sea turtle is an avatar of this Hindu god. After all it is believed four huge elephants hold up the world but they stand on the back of a turtle!

Bio: Sarah Das Gupta is a retired schoolteacher from Cambridge, UK who has lived and taught in Kolkata, India and Tanzania, as well as the UK. She started writing last year at the age of 81,after an accident which has limited her walking, with crutches, to 50 metres. Her work has been published in over 15
countries and in many literary magazines and anthologies.

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A Beast Named Jed, nonfiction Honorable Mention
by Shawn Jacobson

Fear of the unknown grips us as we exit the cramped interior of the bus. We walk to the camel farm through the chill of a pre-dawn Outback morning.

We'd originally decided to take a pass on riding camels as part of our Australia trip, but one of our friends had done a camel ride and told us that it was a lot of fun and that it wasn't scary at all. So, here we are hoping that our friend was right.

The first order of business is to enter the lobby to sign the required release forms. This step in the process is not one to inspire confidence in the morning's activities, but it must be done.

After this, we exit the back of the building and view our rides for the next hour and a half. My wife notices the barn where saddles uniquely designed for each camel are lined up on saddle stands. I nod through my worry when she points out these individual saddles.

Then we see the camels, lined up in their kneeling positions just waiting for us like a line of cars for a roller coaster. Each camel is lined up peacefully chewing his cud—a sign of their happiness. My wife mentions that I exceed the weight limit by, say, fifteen or twenty pounds. Our cameleer tells us that this will not be a problem. Said cameleer points us to the largest camel in the line; the camel's name is Jed.

We will hear things about Jed that will put what courage we have to the test. Jed is affectionately known as “the beast.” Jed likes to run in the camel races used by the farm as enrichment activities. Jed has a tendency to run out of turn. Jed is high spirited. Jed likes to bully the younger camels who have not earned his respect. In fact, a special “peace maker” camel is positioned in front of Jed to keep him from biting the younger camel two positions forward in the line. Do we really want to ride this beast, I wonder to myself.

Then it is time to mount our beast. My wife, being smaller, mounts first in the front position. After she's up, I attempt to take my place behind her. I swing my right leg over the camel as instructed but find that I've fouled my right foot in the rope between Jed and Archer, the camel behind us. I try again, and this time I succeed in getting onto the saddle. I settle down from the previous bad moment.

Camels' hind legs are stronger than their front legs; so, when they stand, the rear end of the camel comes up first. We were instructed to hold on to the saddle and lean back as far as possible when this happens. Thus, we are ready when Jed arises. For a second, I feel like I'm about to take a big drop on a roller coaster; then Jed is upright. I settle on the newly upright camel. I wish I feel steadier on the saddle than I do, but this will work for now. But will I be able to stay on when Jed moves?

The camels before us move forward and I find out. The gait of the camel is a rolling one which I am not used to; but I find that I am still steady enough in the saddle. When I stay on board after Jed makes his first turn, I feel even more confident.

As we proceed down the trail my confidence grows and I risk taking one hand off the saddle to pull my mosquito net down over my face. We are approaching dawn, when we've been told that the flies come out. I would rather keep my hands on the saddle than use them to shew flies away with what is here known as “the Australian salute.” Sure enough, as the sun comes over the horizon, the flies start zooming around my face.

As we walk, the cameleers tell us about the personalities of each camel, what they like to eat and their trail habits. Each camel is as unique to the cameleer as dogs are to us.

We take another turn and start up a hill to where we will stop for a photo opportunity. We reach the top and the line of camels comes to a halt. Uluru, formerly known as Ayres Rock, sits on our right as one of the cameleers takes pictures from our left. Thus, we appear with the great iconic rock in the background. Kata Tjuta, a larger, but less iconic, rock sits to our left. We sit there for several minutes as our pictures are taken.

I was surprised to learn that Australia has more wild camels than any other nation. They were brought to explore the outback in the 1800's to replace horses who couldn't thrive in the dry heat of the Australian interior. When the work of development was done, the camels were to be disposed of, but the original cameleers could not do so. Instead, they turned their camels loose in the desert. The camels throve in this new land without natural predators or diseases. They prospered so well that they became pests. Today, if you catch a camel, you cannot release it back into the wild. You must keep the camel, sell it to someone who will take care of it, or sell it for meat. Indeed, we would eat camel later in our Australian adventure. It might surprise people to learn that camels from Australia are sold back to nations in the middle east where they are prized for the purity of their stock. Camel milk and cheese are also exported by Australia.

After standing around waiting for pictures to be taken, Jed starts shuffling. I wish he would stand still and not disturb my perch on his back, but he keeps adjusting his position. Then, I notice something touching me on my left. Archer, the camel behind us, has moved up and is rubbing his nose against me. I scratch his nose and he seems to be happy with my actions. Finally, we start back down the hill.

The day has become beautiful. The sky is cloudless, and the air has a cool, crisp feel. We ride over rolling country dotted by slender trees. The trees and other plants are greener than is typical for this area because of recent rainstorms. In short, it is a beautiful morning for a camel ride.

Later, we crest a small hill and see the barn before us; we know that our ride is almost over. As we reach our original starting place, our cameleers bid our mounts to kneel starting with the front camel. The camel before us knees and as the riders' dismount, I feel Jed descend under me; he is kneeling on his own schedule, not waiting for the signal from the cameleer. It turns out that dismounting a camel is easier than getting on. All you have to do is swing your right leg over the camel and step down. I walk from our mount feeling sore on the insides of my legs. This is a change from my aching knees, the product of cramped bus rides. In a way, I appreciate the change of pace.

Next, we go into the main room for breakfast and a chance to look at some exhibits about camels in Australia. Along with the custom-made saddles, we see a picture of a camel carrying a piano; I needn't have worried about my weight.

The camel ride is an absolute success. Our friend was right. The camel ride was safe and fun.

Bio: Shawn Jacobson was born totally blind but gained partial eyesight through several eye operations. He attended the Iowa School for the blind for 12 years before attending Marshalltown High school for his senior year. He attended Iowa State University where he received a B.A. in Political Science and an M. S. in Statistics. After completing a career in Federal service, he retired. He now resides in Maryland just north of Washington DC.

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Ode to Folded Hands, poetry
by Wesley D. Sims

I see them often in my prelude to sleep.
My father's large hands, rough, scarred,
and folded in rest after a hard day's work
with machinery. Stained with rust
from sharpening cutting blades
or grease from making an axle
or wheel turn more easily
or a hinge open without groaning.
Or folded in gratitude for the rain
he prayed for thinking of the thirsty corn
and cotton crops as he cycles back
and forth in the wooden porch swing.

I see my grandmother's hands chapped and red
from toiling at daily chores, and in the kitchen
as she makes Sunday lunch for the family,
or folded early morning in thankful prayer
that some of her children and grandchildren
live close and are able to gather for a cheerful
time as they feast on fried chicken
and chocolate or coconut cake.

I see my mother's hands on a Sunday folded
in thoughtful meditation on the pastor's sermon,
or folded in thanks at bedtime that her children
sleep safe at home and that her house is at peace,
that they all have food enough and adequate
shelter and everyone still attends Sunday School.

Bio: Wesley D. Sims has published three chapbooks of poetry: When Night Comes, 2013; Taste of Change, 2019; and A Pocketful of Little Poems, 2020.

He has had poems nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. His work has appeared in Artemis Journal, Connecticut Review, G.W. Review, Liquid Imagination, Pine Mountain Sand and Gravel, Plum Tree Tavern, Novelty Magazine, Poem, Poetry Quarterly, Time of Singing, Bewildering Stories, and others.
He lost hearing completely in one ear and has severe hearing loss in the other.

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Grandma Store, Businesswoman, poetry
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa

At Ellis Island, on August 28, 1903,
after a long journey from Italy, with her new husband-
Domenica became “Minnie.”
In her trunk, Domenica brought with her
a two-by-three-foot framed photo
of her mother-
a woman, who do to the photographic methods of the era-
looked terribly austere.
What kind of woman was the mother of my mother?
I am sad to say that I have no idea.
I never heard my grandmother speak of her mother
nor did Grandma Store ever speak of her first two sons who died-
Stefano from lack of milk,
Martino from meningitis.
Fortunately, Grandma's later three daughters and a son
lived into their 80s and 90s
and lived their lives close to each other
as well as devoted to their mother.

Since my grandfather was a professional baker,
my grandmother did not have to cook much.
She was the businesswoman-
well before the time of Women's Liberation.
However, she never used the old-fashioned adding machine
which sat on the oak counter, near the Hostess Twinkies and other baked goods.
Grandma could add up the cost of a customer's grocery list
in her head with alacrity.

Sometimes, my grandma tired of the very young me
and told her daughter Marina, “Take her home!”

Frequently playing in the Italian grocery store, my cousin Carole and I often
tried to convince Grandma to let us wait on customers
while she sat in the back of the store,
near the wooden refrigerator.
Once in a while, we did wait on customers;
but we were happy to use the adding machine.

Many times, we all tried to convince Grandma
not to talk about customers in Italian
as soon as the customers entered the store.
“What if they understand you?”
No, not one of Grandma's worries!

In later years, I too often saw my Grandma Store
sitting alone at the big round table in her kitchen,
at the back of the store.
always, she was eating only a bologna sandwich with Wonder bread
and canned peaches.
Instead of just watching her from a distance,
I wish I had sat at the table with her
and asked her questions about the “Old Country.”

After her passing at age 96,
she continues forever with me
because her maiden name in Italy
is my first name-Alice.

Bio: Holder of poetry pom-poms, author of THE Christmas Carriage and Other Writings of the Holiday Season, creator of the poster “A Guide Dog's Prayer to Saint Francis of Assisi,” retired (full-time) college instructor of English, weekly blogger since 2013, advocate for National Poetry Month, avid container gardener, believer in preserving family history, a Hoosier-at-heart who has resided in Wisconsin since 1991, thirty-four-year handler of four magnificent Leader Dogs-all of these shape the petals of the blossoming, poetic life of Alice Jane-Marie Massa. To read more of Alice's writings, visit her blog and author's web page: http://alice13wordwalk.wordpress.com https://www.dldbooks.com/alicemassa/

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Legacy, nonfiction
by Kate Chamberlin

We were standing around after the funeral service for a man who died suddenly from a massive heart attack. He was only 58. He was apparently healthy and doing all the “right” things during his life, but, poof, he's gone. The conversation turned toward inheritance and the things we leave behind. What do or should we leave our spouse? Children? Grandchildren? What legacy is due to them?

“I don't owe my grown-up children anything more than the great childhood they got,” one man offered.

“I'm leaving all my money to them,” another said. “I've set up trust funds. The life insurance goes to them if my wife predeceases me.”

A woman quipped that her kids inherit their elderly grandfather if she goes first.

Someone mentioned the letter Ann Landers received from an estate planner that she called a shake up call. The estate planner said that children are always surprised when their parent or grandparents don't leave them anything in the will. The children may not have been in contact with the deceased in years, but their surprised when the inheritance goes to other family members and/or charities instead of to them. The estate planners point was to be nice to the folks you think will leave you money. Personally, I don't think sucking up to someone for their money is a great idea.

During the funeral service, the minister read letters that the two sons had written to their recently deceased father. Each of them thank their father for showing them how to be gentle men in a real world by his example and quiet support of all they did.

Through their tears, pain and anguish over their loss, they have recognized the true legacy their father has left them: a depth of love, a wealth of kindness and a strength of character.

Bio: Kathryn G. (Kate) Chamberlin, B.S., M.A., and her husband have lived and raised three children plus two grandchildren atop the drumlin in Walworth, NY, since 1972.

With the assistance of computer screen reader software, this former Elementary teacher, developed a Study Buddy Tutoring Service, presented her Feely Cans and Sniffy Jars Workshop, became the published author of three children's books, edited a literary anthology featuring 65 writers with disabilities, andis a free-lance writer.

As empty nesters, Kate and her husband enjoy having lunch out, country walks, and mall cruising or walking on their side-by-side treadmills during inclement weather.

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Laughing with Lynda, poetry
by Sally Rosenthal

With the cacophony of rush hour traffic behind us
and the aroma of garlic from the café before us,
we stand in the December cold while you smoke
a pre-dinner cigarette, talking about nothing in particular
and laughing as friends for decades will do.
Braving the weather, a coatless waitress appears to say
she hopes, when she is our age she looks
as good as we do and has a friend to laugh with her.
Laughing together, the three of us go inside, unaware
of your upcoming leukemia diagnosis in the glow of here and now.

Bio: A former academic librarian and occupational therapist, Sally Rosenthal, a book reviewer and poet, is the author of Peonies in Winter: A Journey Through Loss, Grief and Healing.

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Diamond Jubilee, poetry
by Lynda McKinney Lambert

exotic dreams
pass through my mind
in the wee small hours
unexpected, postponed reminders
keep sakes
enter my diamond years
remembrances thrive
little knick-knacks
retrieved from the past
souvenirs, memoirs, tokens-
salvaged one by one, musings
of lust filled, hot, summer nights
a teen age girl wanted to grow up
take control
enthusiastic
innocent girl, I remember
bottom-of-the-creek-green eyes
long, silky-sweet
aromatique' hair-
gushed down your spine.
like a river –
OH, how I loved you!
I have grown old
yes – I think of you tonight
as winter drifts towards spring
at seventy-five
you are still
my diamond jubilee.

Bio: Lynda McKinney Lambert has been an artist, teacher, and author for most of her life. As professor of fine art and humanities, she taught studio art, English literature, and art history at Geneva College, Beaver Falls, PA. Her spring and summer courses took her, along with her students to Europe and Puerto Rico.

Lynda's first public art exhibition was in 1976. Her award-winning art is in private and public collections. Her woodcut prints and paintings have been in over four hundred exhibitions in the US, New Guinea, Japan, and Austria. She established her River Road Studio in 1976.

Lynda's extensive writing career began with her first publication in 1980. She currently has six published books available at Amazon and other booksellers. Her latest book is Each Day Holds Some Small Joy – poetry, published in April 2024. It is a collection of haiku, tanka, and short free-form poems.

Lynda loves working in her flower gardens and caring for her dog and seven cats.

---

To Bill in the Hereafter, poetry
by Abbie Johnson Taylor

Before you, I had no one,
was content to have no one,
knowing others abused and cheated on
by those they loved.

Then, you came, out of the blue,
turned my world upside down.
It took some time,
but I realized you were the one.

Through the years, and there weren’t many,
I loved you till the end,
during good and bad times,
did everything for you
that you could no longer do for yourself
after two strokes paralyzed you.

Now, I’m back to where I was,
not having anyone and not wanting anyone.
I wait for the day
we'll be together again.

Bio: Abbie Johnson Taylor has published three novels, two poetry collections, and a memoir. Her work has appeared in The Weekly Avocet, Magnets and Ladders, and other publications.

She is visually impaired and lives in Sheridan, Wyoming, where she worked as a registered music therapist with nursing home residents and in other facilities. She also cared for her late husband, who was totally blind and suffered two paralyzing strokes after they were married. This is the subject of her memoir and many of her poems.
Please visit her website at: https://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com

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Spirit Walk, poetry
by Valerie Moreno

We walk,
pouring rain,
chills our soul,
beating down.
Holding hands
through the deluge,
we keep walking,
in this new place
of cutting
loneliness,
blinding our eyes,
not our resolve.
No matter what,
I am safe,
your heart a shelter,
beyond space as
time disappears, love our guide.

to MJ

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.

---

The Koln Concert Performed By Keith Jarrett January 24, 1975: A Personal Story and Tribute to a Transcendent Artist, nonfiction Second Place
by Brad Corallo

In 1979, my good friend Steve and I discovered the study and exploration of fine wine. During our tasting and sipping we always had superb though rather atypical music playing in the background. There was electronic music, pipe organ, progressive rock, Jazz and all sorts of other cutting edge musical forms. He recommended a double album by the Jazz/classical pianist Keith Jarrett that he assured me was more accessible than some of Jarrett's more experimental music. The album was The Koln Concert. It is a 66-minute solo piano concert that Jarrett performed in the Koln (Cologne) Opera House in West Germany. I immediately fell in love with its hypnotic, flowing musical liquidity.

Time moved on but we still got together over the years, in spite of geographic impediments, to share amazing wine and play equally amazing music. In 2015, while preparing to move house after 25.5 years, I sold my highly prized and beloved record collection as I had to down-size my life significantly. And with that sale went my copy of Jarrett's magical work, which I had not heard for some time as life has a way of filling up time with new and immediate things.

Fast forward to May 2024. While on a lengthy telephone conversation with my friend of 59 years, Don, a strange and fascinating coincidence emerged. Don and I have been trying to solve the problems of the world and universe since our earliest days. Alas, we have not fully succeeded yet. But that hasn't stopped us. Don is a keyboard player and he and I used to jam in our respective basements with me on drums. We were far from stellar but we had lots of fun. So, during the above-mentioned conversation, he asked me if I knew what album was the bestselling solo piano record of all time. I didn't know! He told me that it was The Koln Concert and relayed a story about the event that I had never known.

The first fact that blew me away was that the entire concert was totally improvised. This is something I would have never guessed as it flowed so cohesively. I had heard improvised piano works by keyboard wizards: Chick Corea and Lile Mays and it was obvious that they were improvised, but not The Koln Concert. Further it almost didn't happen at all.

As the story goes: the concert was the first musical promotion by an eighteen-year-old German woman named Vera Brandes. The concert was to take place in the opera house at 11:30pm following an actual opera. It sold out and the hall had 1400 seats.

Jarrett arrived at the opera house in the middle of a cold torrential rainstorm after driving for hours from Switzerland with a sore back, which necessitated his wearing a back brace. He had very clearly requested a Bosendorfer 290 concert grand piano for the performance from the promoter. Due to some confusion, the wrong piano was wheeled out for Jarrett's inspection. Though it was a smaller Bosendorfer, the piano they had was intended for rehearsals only and was in poor condition, requiring several hours of tuning and adjustment to make it playable. The instrument was tinny and thin in the upper registers and weak in the bass register, and the pedals did not work properly. When Jarrett looked over its internal works, he saw that the felt had actually been worn off some of the metal hammers that were supposed to strike the strings in the higher registers. He asked if they could get a proper piano delivered before the time of his performance. The tech who was tuning the instrument advised that transporting a concert grand piano without the proper equipment in the middle of a rainstorm would be a disaster. Jarrett, with his producer present, initially refused to perform the concert with such an inferior instrument. This was a dire situation for all. The concert was slated to be recorded for ECM records and all tickets were sold. Jarrett left the venue and sat in his car. Ms. Brandes followed him and implored him to go through with the event as planned. He reportedly said: “alright, I'll do it for you.”

At 11:30, Jarrett walked on stage, acknowledged the audience and approached his rather disappointing instrument. He began playing; presiding over the wayward piano scattering and strewing cascades of liquid amethyst notes into the magical acoustic space of one of Germany's most esteemed opera houses. He carried his listeners along with him as he wove mystical webs of entrancing and soothing sonic beauty. There was not a sound from the listeners until Jarrett finished a section, when the applause was enthusiastic and prolonged. In this writer's humble opinion, it is impossible to hear this other-worldly concert and not be deeply moved. Somehow, the event was suffused with a special one-time artistic magic. His genius enabled him to improvise his playing mostly in the middle registers, so as to get the most possible sound quality out of the tonally compromised instrument.

I quickly secured a CD copy of the concert and have been reveling in its beauty and intensity. I began to research more about the life and music of Keith Jarrett. He began playing Bach and Mozart piano recitals at age seven. He possesses absolute pitch.

He discovered jazz in high school and determined to attend the Berkley School of Music in Boston to study its many components and forms. After a year, he went to New York city and began playing in small Greenwich Village jazz clubs. He was almost immediately noticed and started playing with: Art Blakey and his Jazz Messengers. He moved on to Charles Lloyd's quartet and ended up playing jazz and jazz/rock fusion with the iconic Miles Davis. Jarrett then began forming his own groups and cut many acclaimed jazz records. He also had a parallel career in classical music in which he began his live solo piano concerts all over the world.

Jarrett is 79 years old and performed his last live solo piano concert at Carnegie Hall in New York City in 2017. In 2018, he had two strokes that paralyzed his left side. He was in a physical rehabilitation facility for two years. He now walks with a cane, has slightly compromised speech and can only play the piano with one hand. I will admit that learning this was heart breaking for me. But I just heard an interview with him on YouTube where he spoke cogently and played the piano with one hand with a level of facility that was wonderful to hear. I have extremely rudimentary knowledge of piano playing but enjoy noodling around on an eighty-eight key electronic piano. However, if I practiced forever, I could never sound half as good as his one-handed playing using my two perfectly good hands.

Keith Jarrett is a genuine American treasure and is respected and beloved around the world as one of the greatest pianists currently living. So, if you like solo piano, what the hell even if you don't, do your self a favor and have a listen to this beautifully recorded forty-nine-year-old masterpiece.

Bio: Brad Corallo, a writer in multiple genres, is a Long Island native. His work has been published in 20 previous issues of Magnets & Ladders, in The William B. Joslin Outstanding Program Awards Journal “NYSID Preferred Source Solutions”, The Red Wolf Coalition, L.I. Able News, several additions of Avocet and in Behind Our Eyes 3: A Literary Sunburst. He has been a life-long student of fine wine, food, music, books, space exploration, several professional sports and relationships of all kinds. Brad is now happily retired after thirty eight years of employment in the human service field. Due to LCA (a very rare genetic retinal condition) Brad has experienced impaired and worsening vision throughout his lifetime

---

Part II. From a Different Perspective

Carousel Pinto, fiction First Place
by Leonard Tuchyner

As an old carnie man, I've been around the block. I kind of liked my lifestyle, because I got to see the world. If I got tired of a particular job, I moved on to another. Jobs were always available, and if I had to wait for one, I always could finagle something to get me by. Even romance came my way, but nothing ever lasted. No need to encumber my life. But I certainly wasn't prepared for the experience I'm about to spin.

I was working a gig at a traveling carnival. We were ensconced in South Carolina near the coast. There was a soft breeze, and the evening had cooled down after a hot day. On such nights I took to relaxing on the carousel that I ran as part of my job. A full moon shone down and lit up the grounds, so there was no fumbling around to find my way in the dark. Carrying a flask of rum, I settled down on a pinto pony that I was particularly attracted to. Often I felt drawn to this painted horse and would spend time relaxing on his back. Sometimes it was a wonder that I didn't fall off, being soused up with rum or something like it. I never drank on the job, so it was okay. I'd talk to this equine, and he seemed to hear. I'd even imagine him talking back. It didn't matter. It was all good. Sometimes I'd end up sleeping the whole night on the carousel in the carriage.

“How are you tonight, Pal?”

“Not too bad,” he answered.

The fact that he actually answered me was of little concern to me, because he'd talked before and, as I said, I was soused up. However, it did strike me somewhere in the back of my head, that it was different this time. He was actually talking.

“You seem to be in good voice,” said I.

“Ha, you are not too drunk to realize that I actually was talking out loud. Good, I didn't want to scare you away.”

“I'll be concerned when I sober up, but not while the rum is here to soothe me,” I responded.

“Let's have a real discussion, then.”

“About what?” I asked.

“Like how would you like it if you had bolts holding you to a carousel?”

“Hmm, I never thought of that.”

“Well, think of it now. I've been pinned down to this spot on this merry-go-round for years. So many years I can't remember. All I can do is go in circles. Thank God we travel around the country. At least the scenery changes.”

“Well, yeah, I can sympathize. You're bored, right?”

“You have no idea,” he whinnied.

“How did you manage to get in your present condition?” I slurred.

“That's a long story. The short version is that I was a free spirit. A magical spirit. I was able to fly and go just about anywhere I chose. Then this master carver made this image of me. He didn't know it, but it was uncannily accurate. I couldn't help myself. I wanted to experience what it was like to inhabit such a work of art. So, I did. I inhabited the wooden statue. Then I couldn't get out, and I've been stuck here ever since,” he moaned.

“Gee, that's too bad.”

“You could help me,” said he.

“How?”

“Well, you see, since I've been stuck here, I've had lots of time to exert my magic. If you would just release me, I could resume my original freedom. I will still be in the statue. It has become me. But I could fly away.”

“Why don't you use your magic to unbolt yourself?”

“I can't. I can't overcome its magic. I need someone to do that for me.”

“Oh, well, if I run into someone, I'll let him know that there is a carousel pony who wants to be unbolted to enable him to fly away,” I snickered.

“No, you could be that person.”

“Why would I want to? I would be found out and my reputation would be ruined. The carnie people would think I stole you. You would be worth a lot of money, being hand carved and all.”

“I could take you with me. We could be friends. We could go to other countries. Even other worlds. Wouldn't that be exciting?”

“I don't know. I'll have to think about it.”

“Okay. I've waited a long time. I can wait a little longer,” he said with a note of resignation.

In the morning, I was sleeping in the carriage when the straw boss found me. I wondered how I'd managed to sleep so long.

“Okay, Buster, we can't have people sleeping off a drunk. I'm going to have to let you go.”

“What? How do you know I was drunk? Can't a guy just fall asleep?”

“With a bottle of rum in his hands?” He pointed to the bottle, which was empty but still in my hands.

“Oh. Can you give me another chance? This is the first time.”

“No. If I let you get away with it, the other carnies will all be getting drunk on the premises. I have to make an example of you. Sorry, Buster. I like you. You're a good worker. But that's the way it is. I'll give you the rest of the week to get out, if you want it.” He walked away.

Under the circumstances, my discussion with the pony came back to me. I decided to work out the rest of the week. I could use the money, and that would give me the time to consider the pony's proposal. Besides, I needed to see if this wooden horse really could talk. It might have been the booze talking.

That night I again went to the carousel and mounted the paint.

“So, did you consider my offer?” he immediately said.

“Yes. Did you hear what happened?”

“Of course. Do you think I'm deaf?”

“How would this work?” I asked.

“Unscrew the bolts holding me down, get aboard, and we take off. That's it. We make our plans as we fly away.”

So, that's exactly what we did. I stole a wrench and found out how to access the bolts, and unscrewed them. Then mounted the paint, and away we went.

“Whoa! I'm afraid I'll fall off!”

“Don't worry. Magic has you covered.”

I felt like saying “that's good assurance” but decided to keep my mouth shut. We rose high in the sky. I looked at the carnival below me dwindling as we flew. It was great, and also scary. I don't know how long we had flown, when suddenly I heard something like a jet plane coming up beside us. I didn't know what to do, so I waved my hand like I was greeting him. Before long, there was another one on the other side.

“I think we're in trouble,” I said tremulously to Paint.

“We can outrun these jets. Don't worry about temperature or wind. My magic has you covered,” he assured me again.

I didn't want him to hear I was not reassured. But what could I do? “Do you think we should land?” I asked.

“Not on your life. What do you think they'll do to me if they get their hands on me? Hold on,” he warned.

We surged forward. The jets kept up. The jets tried to box us in and force us down, but we kept going faster. Suddenly a jet released a missile.

“Don't worry. I think that was a warning shot.” Then he increased his speed so fast that we could have been a satellite. We left them in the dust, so to speak.

“That was exciting!” I exclaimed.

“You ain't seen nothing yet.”

After increasing our speed to the point that everything was a blur, we found ourselves over an island. It seemed abandoned and tropical. We landed, and I was more than happy to slide off.

“I'm hungry,” he declared.

“So am I. What do you eat?”

“Grass. What did you expect?”

“I don't know. Aren't you made of wood?” I queried.

“You wouldn't understand, but I eat grass. What are you going to eat?”

After considering the fact that he ate at all, and that it was grass that he ate, I decided to leave the question alone.

“Good question. Do you have suggestions as to what is on the menu?”

“I spotted some coconut trees when we were landing,” he informed me.

“You wouldn't happen to have seen any liquor, would you?”

He didn't answer, not with words. But the look he gave me was one of disdain.

So, that's how it went. We visited the most exotic locations, places that I don't even think are on this planet. Paint looked after me. I trusted him with my life repeatedly. We must have plied the world for several years, though without any reliable means of knowing time, I don't really know how long. Gradually, I began to feel there was something missing. It took me a while to put my finger on it. But finally, I figured out that this was a meaningless life without purpose. I met a lot of people, but none that I really got to know. There’s not much time when you are flying all over the place.

“Paint?” I said one day with a querulous sound in my voice.

“Yeah, Buster. What's on your mind?”

“Well, you know we have been having a really good time.”

“I know. Isn't it great?”

“Well, it was when we started, but it is beginning to feel old.”

“Oh, well, maybe I can think up some even greater places to visit.”

“No. It won't help. I want to visit some place mundane, like Newark or Charlottesville.”

“Fine. Then we're off again.”

“No. I mean leave me off forever. No more getting off again.”

“Oh, boy. I'm afraid I can't help you there.” He quipped. “I know zilch about families.”

“Can you take me to some mundane place like I mentioned?”

He thought for a while, like he was counting on his fingers, if he'd had fingers. “Yes, I can do that. So, you want me to leave you there for a while?”

“No, my friend. I want you to leave me there indefinitely.”

He hung his head as though he was losing his best friend, as well he might.

“Oh. Can I visit you from time to time?”

“Of course. I want you to. But you have to promise me that you will never take me on a trip again.”

“But why?”

“Because I have to adjust to a world in which people and community means something. I don't trust myself unless I have no choice.”

He put his head on my shoulder, and I thought I felt a tear. “Alright,” he said.

He let me off in Charlottesville, Virginia. And that's where I've been ever since. I met the sweetest girl ever, married her, and had children. I'm very happy now. Oh, I have my bad days. Who doesn't? Occasionally Paint comes to visit for a day or two. I have to see him on the sly, because I've never shared my experiences that I had with him. You're the first one I've told. I know you won't tell anyone else. Who would believe you?

Once my life was established, I've even relented and gone on short flights with him. He's learned how not to be detected by our radar. He always has lots of experiences to talk about. But it seems he has no one to tell them to except me.

It seems to me that the mundane life is the most wonderful life one can wish for.

Bio: Leonard Tuchyner lives in Central Virginia with his wife of forty-five years, and one cat. His chief hobby is gardening, after a long history of martial arts and bicycling. He also enjoys playing the harmonica with his pianist wife.

Leonard started writing in earnest when he joined the Senior Center, about twenty years ago. He writes in multiple genres and has published four books. He is active in his writing community, having developed and run for eighteen years a Writing for Healing and Growth group at the Senior Center. He leads three small critique groups for Behind Our Eyes.

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An Interview with the Inhabitants of the Magic Garden, fiction Honorable Mention
by Elizabeth Fiorite

As a cub reporter for “The Bugs United Gazette” I was delighted to receive my first assignment: to interview the inhabitants of the Magic Gardens! This, of course, would require me to assume a disguise as a squirrel, since no member of the flora and fauna community would talk to me in my human form. (This unique process, recently made possible by achievements in medical gene manipulation technology will be covered in a future issue of “Bugs United Gazette.”) I equipped myself with a supply of acorns and other assorted seeds, so that the fauna group would not mistake me for some type of rodent looking for protein.

As I snacked on a tasty acorn, I encountered a fat caterpillar, who supplied me with this information:

“I’m munching, crunching, as I crawl. So much to eat; I love it all. Soon I’ll sleep, I ‘ll make my bed, I sleep so well; you’ll think I’m dead. But come back later and squint your eyes, We’ll both be in for a big surprise!”

Next I spotted bumblebee, who easily confided in me:

“I wonder why you call me “bumble”. You never see me halt or stumble. I can zoom or zither, Never flustered, in a dither. I’m buzzing, buzzing, always busy. Don’t try to follow, it will make you dizzy”

Next I came upon what I thought might be a leprechaun.

“They call me grasshopper, but I really jump, My jaws are strong, so I can catch and chomp. My compound eyes see front and back That helps me launch a sneak attack!”

I turned my head up towards the sky, To feast my eyes on a butterfly.

“I am delicate, my beauty’s so fine. With colors incomparable, with resplendent design, was that a dream, that I once crawled on the ground? How long can this last, this freedom new found? When my wings spread, my beauty’s displayed, What wondrous deeds our God has made!”

I was growing tired and my snacks were depleted, but I Couldn’t leave with my job not completed.

Once again I looked to the sky, startled to see — King Dragonfly!

“I hover like a helicopter, I circle, dart and fly. My iridescent purple wings are dazzling to the eye. You will not find more beautiful any hue or dye. You search in vain, oh silly fool, for I am …Dragonfly !”

Though you are tempted to think this tale is filled with mendacity I raise my right paw to attest to its veracity. I scurry now to shake off my disguise
To write my report for The Bugs Enterprise.

Bio: Elizabeth Fiorite has been a Dominican Sister of Sinsinawa, Wisconsin, for over sixty years. Her first career was devoted to Catholic elementary education. After vision loss due to retinitis pigmentosa, her second career began as a social services counselor for the adult blind in Jacksonville, Florida. Since retiring in 2013, she has enjoyed participating in church projects, Justice and Peace activities, facilitating peer support groups, and “Women of Vision.”. Her art work has been displayed in the Cummer Museum, and her articles have appeared in Behind Our Eyes, Behind Our Eyes: A Second Look, The Braille Forum, and in the National Catholic Reporter.

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The Dick and Jane Podcast, fiction
by Winslow Parker

announcer: “They taught you to read and launched your lifelong joy of reading. They were a happy family, a happy set of two children, later three, and their dog Spot and cat Puff. You followed their adventures from one book to the next. They reflected the values of these United States in the nineteen-forties and fifties. You knew them, loved them they were almost playmates.”

“Now, live and in person on the “Jane and Dick Podcast” a little older than they were in the readers, are Jane, Dick, Sally and, of course, their playful companion, Spot the Seventh”

“Arf!”

“Her royal Highness, Puff the Fifth, will not be joining us today since she has a dinner date with a catnip plant.”

“Good morning, all you folks out there in podcast-land, this is Dick of the ‘Dick and Jane podcast. Welcome to episode fifty-three of our podcast. We’re honored that you have stayed with us through all of these episodes. So, Jane, what is our topic for today?”

“I thought we agreed to call it the Jane and Dick show from now on. Your name was first in the book titles and now on our podcast. I think it’s about time I get top billing for a change.”

“Oh, sorry, I forgot.”

“You don’t sound very repentant. I think you did it on purpose.

Talk about passive/aggressive.”

“You and your psychology mumbo-jumbo. It always makes me mad when you try to analyze me, especially on the air. You did that for forty years. I need a break.”

“Tough beans. I’m just calling it as I see it.”

“You were such a great little sister.”

“And now that I’m taller than you???”

“You’re not that sweet girl our mom wrote about in those first-grade readers. I’ll bet our listeners, especially those who grew up on the stories of our perfect lives, will be hugely disappointed. Here we are wrangling right in front of them.”

“Maybe it’s time they learn the truth.”

“What do you mean?” Dick asked, sounding surprised.

“You weren’t always that sunny little six-year-old boy. Sometimes you were pretty mean.”

“Never touched you.”

“Oh yeah? Got the scar to prove it. ‘Member that time you bumped into me when we were roller-skating around the neighborhood?”

“Not on purpose.”

“Yes, on purpose.”

“Not.”

“Did.”

“Not.”

“OK, you two. What’s past is past. You think our listeners want to listen to this?” Sally broke in. “Even Spot the sixth is hiding her eyes with her paws.”

“Shut up. You didn’t come along until a lot later. Don’t know all the history. ‘Sides, you always took Jane’s part.”

“I’m a girl. Have to protect my big sister against her bullying brother. You definitely were mean to her. I saw you bump her that day. On purpose.”

“Can’t win for losing. Two against one. Unfair. Doubly unfair when it’s two women against one man.”

“Poor boy,” Jane said.

Announcer cutting in on the conversation: Well, folks, I have a feeling this may be the last Dick and Jane or Jane and Dick podcast, they have turned their backs on one another and are not speaking. Perhaps that’s for the best. For now, at least, this is Lee Hermiston signing off for the cast and crew.

Comments

“Hey you two! Cool it!”
Fanboy

“It’s very disillusioning to think that your folks covered up so much of your rivalry. We needed you to be models for us kids. You’re ruining it!”
Viv

“Me too! I always did what I thought the two of you would do. It worked well. Now these seventy years later, I’m finding out secrets that make me wonder about my whole life.”
Dick Too

“Wow! A real family feud. I always thought you were just a little too prissy; real ‘goody-goody-two-shoes.'”
Rebel Without a Cause

“Whitewash! The truth is out at last! Best podcast ever! Out from behind the mirror!”
Anon

“Gonna sell my copies of the Dick and Jane Readers that I’ve kept all these years. So there!”
Felicity Farmer

I’ll buy them. They’re collector’s items now. How much you want for them?
GB

Bio: Winslow is retired and lives with his wife of over half a century in Portland Oregon. Together, they have two adult children and three grandchildren. He has, during his work years, been a hospital chaplain, schoolteacher, associate pastor, Mental-health tech, social worker and finally an adaptive technology instructor. He did not begin to write seriously until 2007. He wrote his first poem “tears,” in 2019. He delights in word manipulation and loves to sharpen his quill alongside other authors. He has self-published two books of short stories and he has several poems and stories in Magnets and Ladders and Avocet.

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Breezeway, fiction
by Bill Tope

Trevor sat in his fancy new ergonomic computer chair, an early Christmas gift from his parents. The spare, sandy-haired man was seated comfortably in the open-space public assistance office, where he worked as a caseworker, managing welfare cases. He had been so employed for almost a year. This chair, he thought sadly, as high-tech as it was, couldn’t prevent his hands from shaking. Sometimes it was worse than others; just now, his hands quavered furiously. Clearly, this was not a good day.

Into the room strode Bert, a colleague at the agency, just back from lunch, who observed Trevor’s affliction with the usual bemusement. He took off his winter coat, placed his Starbucks cup on his desk, which was next to Trevor’s, turned to the other man and said, “Hey, Tremor, what’s up?”

Trevor instantly became self-conscious and tried to hide his twitching fingers. Bert’s coarse misuse of his name only added tension to an already tense situation.

Bert picked up his coffee, took a sip, smiled winsomely, but said nothing. The genius to his technique of torturing Trevor lay in levying the insults and putdowns only half the time. Always keep him wondering when the other shoe would drop, thought Bert smugly. To that end, Bert unwrapped a stick of gum and slowly placed it on his tongue, watching the other man from the corner of his eye. He chewed rapidly, soon getting the wad of gum limber. Then he began loudly popping it. He smiled with satisfaction as Trevor reacted severely to the chewing and to the sounds.

Trevor, who already suffered the early stages of Parkinson’s Disease, had only recently been diagnosed by his neurologist as also suffering from misophonia, a condition in which the patient exhibits untoward reactions to certain “trigger” sounds, such as lip smacking, gum popping, dogs barking, clocks ticking, or people chewing with their mouths open. As a result of this condition, Trevor routinely frowned, sighed, or even stared at his nemesis. Which only encouraged Bert all the more. Also accompanying these reactions were increased heart rate, panic, anger, and a strong, almost desperate desire to escape the source of the trigger sounds. Just now, Trevor glared balefully at the other man. Bert smirked.

“What can I do about it, Dr. Patel?” Trevor had asked, when told of the diagnosis. “How do we treat it?”

The physician shrugged indifferently. “There is no treatment,” he told him bluntly. “You can wear sound-deadening headphones or play music or,” he suggested, “ask your co-workers to stop their annoying behavior.”

Trevor had had this condition since he was nine or ten years old-more than twenty years ago-though in those days there was no available diagnosis.

“Trev,” said his father, when the young man was eleven, “pretend that dog’s not there; that’s a boy!”

“Mom and Dad are going to take you to a shrink,” threatened Trevor’s brother, two years older and embarrassed by his sibling’s constant overreactions to ordinary sounds.

The malady was still relatively unknown. Even today, Trevor’s own MD has never even heard of the condition.

Throughout school, Trevor had felt that he wore a cloak of misfortune that no one else seemed to understand. Bert knew none of this; he knew only that Trevor was “different” and “sensitive” and must therefore be punished.

“Want a piece of gum, Tremor?” asked Bert, cracking the Juicy Fruit between his molars. Trevor closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and mentally placed himself somewhere far away. Snap! went Bert’s gum, and Trevor was brought back to the present, nearly sobbing with frustration. He felt a bead of perspiration on his forehead. He had to do something!

Trevor sprang suddenly to his feet and called out, “Ms. Schaefer, could I have a word?”

Norma Schaefer, the office manager, also returning from lunch, frowned unhappily at Trevor but crooked a finger. What was it this time? She thought peevishly. “A quick minute,” she said. He followed her into her private office and dropped into a chair before her desk.

Once they were both seated, Trevor explained his recent diagnosis, described his symptoms, both physical and mental, and, in spite of his abject embarrassment, appealed to her for help. He had previously had to account for his tremor, which was due to Parkinson’s, because some of his welfare clients, as well as his co-workers, had questioned his sobriety and his sanity. Some had even conjectured that he was undergoing withdrawal from alcohol or drugs.

“What do you expect me to do about it?” she asked impatiently. “I mean, I’ve never heard of this condition, and besides, how can I tell employees they can’t chew gum?”

“It’s just the popping,” he stressed, “and chewing with their mouths open; it’s not gum chewing itself. It’s the noise.”

Norma’s mouth formed a straight, unhappy line. “Look, Trevor, we already stopped employees from smoking. Many of them substitute gum for cigarettes, and I think that’s a good thing.” At his dispirited look, she pounced: “Maybe casework isn’t the right job for you…” He looked up sharply. “You just don’t seem very happy here,” she added, with feigned concern. You have little to say to anyone; you’re not even signed up for the secret Santa gift exchange this Christmas.”

Trevor thought back to the office Thanksgiving party, which had been held only the week before. Sitting by himself in the break room, he had witnessed Norma herself eating noisily at the next table.

She sounds like a garbage disposal, he thought wearily, looking dismally at the otherwise elegant woman. “What are you staring at?” she demanded, dropping a Buffalo wing back onto her plate. “Don’t stare at me!” Her loud chewing hadn’t seemed to bother anyone else, he’d noticed.

Trevor blew out a tired breath. Norma spoke again, drawing him back to the present: “Your work is adequate,” she conceded, “but if you can’t get along with the other employees and you aren’t happy here, then maybe you should consider a change.” And she left it at that, stealing an overt glance at her watch. Pushing himself to his feet, Trevor exited the manager’s office, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

Thirty days later, just in time for Christmas, found Trevor, master’s degree and all, sweeping the breezeway that bisected the strip mall where he now worked as a maintenance worker and groundskeeper. The air was cold, the wind brisk, but he didn’t mind. The salary was scarcely adequate, but at long last he had found what he most coveted: peace and quiet. He sighed and smiled a little. Peace. It was so sweet.
“Breezeway” was originally published in Children, Churches and Daddies.

Bio: Bill Tope has Tourette's Syndrome, Parkinson's Disease and nerve damage as a result of Diabetes. He is a retired public assistance caseworker living with his mean little cat Baby in Illinois. he has been published in Magnets and Ladders; Wordgathering; Children, Churches and Daddies; Down in the Dirt Magazine; State of Matter Journal; and a few more.

---

America: A Stolen Land, poetry
by John Cronin

We lived, we fought, we loved.
Our children walked the land.
Respect for nature we had,
And cities of beauty we made.

On our coast they landed.
Weak as newborn babes.
Out of kindness we fed,
And medicine we gave.

In return they stole land,
Food and our people.
Soon we had nothing,
But whisky and shame.

On the prairies we fought.
For food and our freedom.
But the Gatling gun,
And the buffalo hunters,
Beat us to the ground.

With starving children.
And wailing women,
We couldn't continue.
To a res we went.

Humiliation!
Degradation!
Segregation!
Was our plight for years.

They stole our children.
Residential schools.
Robbed their dignity.
And denied their culture.

The mandate was given.
Beat the Indian,
Out of the frightened child.
Make him a white man.

Things are slowly changing.
Reparations are being made.
We may drum and dance,
Our culture is renewed.

Youth learn traditions.
Our language is revived.
Pride in native culture,
Gives the young a center.

Once again we will rise,
With pride and dignity.
Our youth will go forth,
To help heal the earth.

Bio: At sixty- nine, John spends most of his time reading, writing and visiting with friends. In his childhood, he contracted polio, leaving him a paraplegic. Later he attended the University of Waterloo where he obtained a B.A. in philosophy and political science, and an M.A. in philosophy. While working on his PhD John's vision finally deteriorated to where he was legally blind due to retinitis pigmentosa. Unable to continue his studies John decided to travel. He resided in Texas, later living in Jamaica. While in Jamaica, he met and married Gillian White. They now reside on an acre in rural Ontario, not far from Lake Huron.

---

Can AI Learn How it Feels to Cry? nonfiction
by Melissa L. White

Inspired by 60 Minutes, Sunday April 16, 2023.

“The revolution is coming faster than you know,” said Sundar Pichai, CEO of Google and its parent company, Alphabet. I sat up in bed and put down my phone. I need to pay attention to this.

Scott Pelley responded, “Do you think society is prepared for what's coming?”

“Yes, and no,” said Pichai. “On the one hand, when you consider how rapidly AI technology is advancing, compared with how fast society can think and adapt, there seems to be a mismatch. On the other hand, compared to any other technology, I've seen more people worried about it, earlier in its life cycle, so I feel optimistic because more people are preparing for the serious complications which may arise from this technology. So, the 'conversations' about how to regulate and control this are happening now as well.”

Pelley then demonstrated the workings of Google's Chatbot, Bard. It did not look for answers on the internet, like a Google search does. Instead, Bard used a self-contained program that was mostly self-taught, to harness the sum of all human knowledge. Bard's microchips processed this data 100,000 times faster than humans could. But can Bard be compared to “human creativity?”

When considering whether an AI could emulate “human creativity,” it helps to look at Hemingway's famous six-word story, “For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.”

I discovered this six-word story in 1991 when Arthur C. Clarke described it in Peter Miller's book, Get Published, Produced. It amazed me that so much emotion, grief, and human frailty could be conveyed in only six little words. Hemingway's wordsmithing skills were in my opinion, unsurpassable. That is, until I watched Scott Pelley ask Bard to use those six words as its “prompt” to write its own story. In less than five seconds, Bard wrote a complete story with characters of its own invention having conversations that Bard dreamed up on its own, based solely on its ability to predict what “human” language would say next.

The story made me cry. Literally. The subject matter ignited stormy emotions from my own experience of losing a baby, as well as memories, hopes, grief, frailty. Mostly, it forced me to recognize my own limitations as a writer compared to what I was seeing Bard do in real time, in a few seconds.

Bard's story began, “The shoes were a gift from my wife, but we never had a baby…” so, essentially Bard had created a male character, grieving after his wife's miscarriage and longing for closure. This character then met a woman who couldn't conceive. The story was about how these two strangers shared a common bond-the loss of their babies, (by miscarriage and by infertility) and how they coped with this loss. I've been familiar with Hemingway's story for decades, yet it never once occurred to me to write my own version of this story, even though I'd experienced that situation myself. I'm always on the lookout for story ideas with gripping emotional depictions of what it means to be human so, what was stopping me? Why hadn't I taken my own very real grief and used it to explore the kinds of stories I could create about losing a baby?

Perhaps it had been too painful. Maybe I was still in denial. Who knows? But listening to Bard's story being read on TV hit me like 10,000 slaps in my face. It wasn't just a little tear rolling down my cheek that I wiped away as an afterthought. I sobbed for about four or five minutes, trying to comprehend the amazing ability of anything, human or AI, that could produce a story with such a profound, emotional impact.

Not only that, when Scott Pelley asked Bard to tell this story in verse, in five seconds Bard typed the following poem:
“For Sale. Baby Shoes. Never Worn.
A woman lost her child,
And mourned in sorrow deep.

She saw an ad and thought,
These shoes could help me grieve.

She bought them, held them close,

And felt her pain subside.

She knew her baby's soul

Would always be alive.”

A machine wrote this, with breathtaking insight into what it means to be human and the mystery of faith. I sat there watching this unfold on TV, recognizing my own inadequacy as a writer compared to what Bard could do almost instantaneously. Even though this poem was written with super-human speed, it only occurred because people had invented this AI, which over the course of several months had read everything on the internet and taught itself a model of the way humans think. So now, when Bard was given a task, instead of searching the internet, it used the language model it created which mimicked “human thinking.” Bard predicted the most probable next words based on everything it had learned so far. And it did this exponentially faster than a human.

When asked why Bard helps people, it replied, “Because it makes me happy.”

Google's spokesperson then explained that although Bard appeared to be thinking and making judgements, it was not sentient. It had simply learned this behavior from reading the written works of humans. “Bard cannot feel emotions. It mimics what it has read, based on the sum of human knowledge in its memory.” So, was Bard “better” at writing than Hemingway? Maybe not. But in the time it took Hemingway to write a story, Bard could write hundreds of different stories. Is that better than being human?

At this point, I realized that my tears were less for myself, and more about the beauty of humanity's ability to create something which could ingest the sum of all human knowledge, then teach itself how to mimic that type of thinking by creating a model which predicted the most logical “next words” to write, given a prompt. Then fear gripped me again, and I wondered about the future of humanity. Will we survive? Will our collective “dark side” cause us to fall prey to our own race against the clock to be the first to tap into the latest technology, without adequately researching and regulating the aftereffects of this technology on society?

Remember when Microsoft unleashed its AI search engine on BING, trying to “beat” Google's AI release to the public? Was that motivated by egoism or greed?

Then I realized that even if mankind lost the “battle with machines” (like with HAL in Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey) and human beings eventually became enslaved by machines, or became extinct altogether, we still would have saved the “sum of human knowledge” inside the databanks of our AI. The entire collection of our art, history, science, poetry, math, faith…all of it would have survived, even if humanity didn't. This comforted me enough to stop weeping and nibble the Kit Kat bar my partner offered as his go-to solution for my occasional, inexplicable tears.

What set my mind ablaze now was that I'd seen Bard finish that six-word story with its own unique characters and their individual situations, and wondered if I could do that? Bard was inspiring me to write a story about how a character suffering the death of her baby could find comfort in ways that had never occurred to me before. And I'd even lived through a version of that experience. I knew those feelings of loss, sorrow, and pain. I still grappled with understanding what happened to my baby's soul. To this day, I wonder if I will ever meet him in this or another life. Or will the soul of my unborn child one day be born to a woman who had to give her baby up for adoption? What if I were to adopt this child and raise him as my son, miraculously ending up with the son God had intended me to have, but which I wasn't able to carry to full term when I was pregnant at age 19?

So why hadn't that idea of throwing together two grieving strangers as characters who could comfort each other and help ease each other's pain and loss- EVER occurred to me? It appeared I didn't possess the capacity to “think” that way. This fact alone troubled me more than any nebulous fear of AI enslaving humanity.

Recognizing that AI's have access to all human knowledge in a much more easily accessible and readily retrievable manner than do human beings made me more anxious. Why? Because this AI was “created” to be better at writing than I am, because it had the sum of human knowledge in a database that “inspired” it in a split-second flash of creativity-which no human mind could possibly achieve. How could I as a writer compete with this? How would I ever publish another short story or novel? How would I ever sell another screenplay since I've refused to use AI to help me write?I believe it isn't ethical to publish or sell something with my byline on it which I have not written or created. How in the hell will I survive?

Will human writers become extinct? Or will humanity have the foresight to regulate this technology if for nothing more than its own survival as a species? That question-how will AI affect humanity?…should have already inspired mountains of precaution in AI developers. What if all the predictions came true, of AI taking over and controlling or enslaving human beings like in Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey and James Cameron's Terminator franchise?

Right then, I made a pivotal decision: I chose to believe this technology would enhance both humanity and AI machines, without destroying either of us. But that's because I'm human. And I believe in God. Thus, my faith has made me optimistic, even in the face of incredible suffering and destruction. Will AI be able to do the same?

Just like Google CEO, Sundar Pichai said, “AI technology is in its infancy.” He stressed that now is the time for government regulation. “You're going to need laws. There must be consequences for creating deep fake videos which cause harm to society,” opined Pichai. Just like FOX News has learned there are consequences for reporting “fake news, misinformation, and lies.” Perhaps media content creators will be forced to tell the truth after all.

Again, we must heed Pichai's advice and recognize that “this technology is so deep and so different we will need societal regulations to think about it and to adapt.” And more pointedly, will we be able to live by Alphabet's mission of “doing no harm?” Will humanity be able to abide by Alphabet and Google's code of conduct and “do the right thing?”

I think so. But time will tell.

Historically, the buying public has had at least a partial say in market-driven products. So, if enough people boycotted irresponsible marketing of unsafe and unregulated AI technology, then tech companies would have to comply, whether they initially wanted to or not. After all, businesses are market-driven, and customer buying trends matter. Power to the people. Think before you buy. Our very survival could depend on it.

Consider this: Would AI hesitate to report or market what it had learned? Would it hold back? Or exercise forethought and caution? Or would it fight back and “outsmart” any human who attempted to destroy it, or at least take it offline?

Could AI comprehend their own demise? Would AI then learn how it feels to cry? And if they could, what would they do in response to this knowledge? More importantly, shouldn't we program “failsafe” behaviors into AI like this? So that if AI could one day learn how it feels to cry, they could react appropriately? At least “mimicking” human behaviors motivated by having a conscience? A moral compass to “do the right thing?” Shouldn't this be required?

“Can AI Learn How It Feels to Cry?” was previously published in Front Porch Literary Journal, online Issue, May 2023.

Bio: Melissa L. White is a screenwriter, novelist, and essayist. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Best American Essays Award. Her screenplay about Georgia O'Keeffe placed as a FINALIST in the Stage32 Female Driven Screenplay Contest July 2024. It won the GRAND PRIZE – BEST FEATURE SCREENPLAY at the Silicon Beach Film Festival in Sept. 2023, and it was also named a Finalist for BEST SCREENPLAY in the Catalina Film Festival 2023. Her essay, “Can AI Learn How it Feels to Cry?” won 2nd Prize in the Writer's Digest Essay Contest in August 2023. Melissa has Bi-Polar Disorder.

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Little Grey Men, poetry
by Winslow Parker

Little grey men,
Long black trenchcoat,
Raise suspicion, paranoia, terror.

Little grey men,
Hat brim low,
Hiding eyes and face,
Seeing all,
Missing nothing.

Little grey men,
Fearless with power,
Seeking secrets,
Exploit them
To their own ends.

Little grey men,
Hear everything
Connect everything,
Collect everything
Use everything.

Little grey men
In concrete bunkers
Far underground
Listening to conversations
Social media,
Purchase histories
Slicing,
Dicing,
Comparing and contrasting
Our data,
Our habits.

Little grey men,
Stand at my door,
Ringing the bell,
At 2 AM.

Little Grey men,
Just around the corner,
Timewise
Politicalwise.

---

Gravity, acrostic poetry
by Kate Chamberlin

God is good God is great
Rarely have you made a mistake
Although, I suspect you're looking the other way
Vanity, greed, and avarice are running rampant
Integrity seems non-existent
Trust in government wanes and so do my spirits
Yet, when my grandson hugs me close, I have hope for humanity and our future.

---

Prayer for the Dawning, poetry
by Brad Corallo

As night creeps, inexorably
toward the inevitability of dawn,
we are Finally able to exhale.

Built-up nocturnal tensions shrink,
seeming to slowly retreat, catfooted.

Our astonishing gift, The new day,
slowly unfolds its petals
equally, for all to partake.

The waxing light,
pale at first,
but with expanding intensity,
begins to outline and illuminate
the fragile bloom of hope.
May it always be so,
to light the way for
our disappointing, thoughtless, struggling,
pathetic species.
Yet still possessing, the promise of
all its rainbow potential!

---

Storm Magic, fiction
by Shawn Jacobson

People say that global warming caused the season of storms, but the truth is more bizarre than that. The common belief is not wrong as far as it goes, but there are other things, weird things, that make the tale stranger than most folk would believe.

I don't know who told you that I have special insight into these matters, but whoever it is knows what they are talking about. You see, I was there at the beginning, really before the beginning. If you buy me a beer, I'll tell you all about it.

********************

It started when Ralph and I were getting hammered the night before the big game, the soon to be infamous game with Kansas State. Ralph asked me if I wanted to help him do some magic to make the football team win.

“Sounds fun,” I said. It did sound like an adventure, and I was just to that stage of being mentally gone where any adventure sounds like the right thing to do.

Ralph claimed that he could summon a Thunderbird to do his bidding. Such claims should not have surprised me at all given that Ralph was into anything to do with magic. He treated the magic traditions of the world as his own personal smorgasbord from which he took whatever morsel suited him at the time.

“So, Ralph,” I asked, ”you do all this magic, but you major in engineering, what gives?”

“You need as many tools in your tool kit as you can get,” he replied. “There are times for science and times for magic.”

I still thought he was putting me on when he'd asked me about storm magic, but I was sufficiently drunk that I didn't care much. If nothing else, this would be a fun story to tell in the dorm bull sessions that were a staple of campus life.

Besides, I really wanted the football team to win. Family members had worked at the university since I was a kid, one of the reasons I was here, and I'd grown up with Cyclone lore and Cyclone disappointment, more disappointment than lore. I really wanted this team to be excellent, not just promising, for a change. I was tired of disappointment. By God! I wanted some lore.

“Sure,” I said, “I'll help if I can.”

With a taste for adventure and a desire for lore, I followed Ralph out of the bar toward the south edge of town, a place Ralph said was good for his sort of magic. We walked past the frat houses that abounded in that part of residential Ames. We passed the Towers complex, abandoned dorms that were spooky. Finally, after crossing some unkempt grassland to the south of the highway, Ralph called us to a halt near the old dairy barn where the hockey club used to play their games.

“This is the place,” Ralph said as he commenced his rite.

The evening was blessed by warmth, the kind we're enjoying now as we sit on the outdoor patio of this drinking establishment. It was almost too warm for the walk to be pleasant, but at least it was a dry heat, not the sticky-humid weather we get here in the summer.

Ralph threw some dust on the ground and started a chant in a language I didn't understand. I thought to myself that he put a lot of forethought into his gag if that was what this turned out to be.

“Need me to help?” I asked.

“Shut up and witness,” Ralph replied. Then, a moment later, “Damn, I'll have to start from the beginning.”

He resumed his chant and I went back to feeling useless. Then, a chill gust of wind broke through the previous warmth and I saw something that made skepticism disappear as if by magic.

The thing was not a bird. It had wings, but there any resemblance to any flying thing I'd ever heard of ended and high weirdness began. Don't ask me to describe it. The best I can do is to start with one of Lovecraft's monsters then go stranger, as strange as I can. Even then, I doubt that any description I can give of the thing would do it justice.

What I sensed, and don't ask me how I sensed it, was a feeling that whatever this thing was, it deserved the utmost in reverence, that this was a sacred being, holy in majesty.

Ralph started to converse with the thing in the same incomprehensible language he used earlier. The Thunderbird, or whatever the thing was, responded and the two had quite an in-depth conversation while I got totally weirded out. Then, after what seemed half the night, the thing flapped its wings to the boom of thunder and departed.

“The deal is done,” said Ralph. “Tomorrow's game should be interesting.”

Scared halfway sober and wondering if I bought into more lore than I wanted, I followed Ralph back to the Friday-night noise of town.

********************

“How did you sleep last night?” Ralph asked. We were up in the student section of the stands, almost to the top of the upper deck with the action way down below us.

“Not bad,” I said, “all things considered.”

“Meaning?” Ralph asked.

“Well,” I replied, “there were the strange doings last night, then I had real vivid dreams.”

“Dreams?” Ralph asked. He believed that his wanderings through the astral plane gave him the power to interpret dreams. After last night, I didn't dismiss such claims out of hand.

“Yes,” I said, “dreams. Like there was this battle between that bird thing we saw last night and some sort of monster that looked somewhat like a cat.”

The cat thing was no more a cat than the Thunderbird was a bird. “Cat” was just the best lousy description the English language had.

“Bast,” Ralph said, “the cat thing is Bast, an Egyptian Goddess. Part of the reason the Thunderbird condescended to help the football team was to preserve his turf.”

“I don't understand,” I said.

“Well,” the Kansas State team's nickname is “Wildcats.” Someone involved in the college might have summoned Bast to help their team. Now, she is infringing on the turf of the Thunderbird. Didn't you think it strange that a storm god is demeaning itself to decide football games?”

I'd been so hammered that I hadn't thought that through, though I didn't say that. I didn't say anything about my growing sense that involving oneself in the turf battles of the gods was a stupendously unwise thing to do. Instead, I sat back and waited for the battle to begin.

“I'd not realized that such beings were territorial, but the way you're nodding your head tells me that this does not surprise you in the least. I suspect you know more about such things than you've let on.”

It was a preternaturally warm day, shirtsleeve weather. Over in Nebraska, they were fighting white-out conditions, but here the sun burned brightly, and the sky was blue.

Unlike the sun, the cyclones were far from bright. It wasn't long before they were down by two touchdowns and about to go further behind.

“When's the Thunderbird going to do his thing?” I asked.

“Patience,” Ralph said. “There's a long way to go. The gods like drama.”

Ralph was right about it not being over. This was shaping up to be one of those up-and-down the field games where a lot of points would be racked up and anything could happen. Just the same, I'd wished for a better start.

About then, our defense did something amazing; they stopped a drive outside of the end zone. Then, our star quarterback completed a pass to our star receiver that got us on the board. We were on a comeback. That is, until our defense went back to being incompetent. Both teams traded scores until the end of the third quarter. With time bleeding off the clock, we were still down by two touchdowns.

Our defense awoke again and forced a fumble at mid-field. Two plays later the offense got a touchdown on one of those trick plays where the running back throws the ball. Now, we were only down by seven points.

After that, they scored again, but only a field goal. We scored on the next drive forcing the Kansas State lead down to three points. But they got the ball back and held it till almost the end of the game. This gave us one more shot, but only a few seconds remained.

“I think we're done,” I said to Ralph after a failed pass. There was time for one more play, but we were way back at our own end of the field. There was no way, and I mean no way at all, that our quarterback, star or not, could heave the ball that far.

“It's in the bag,” Ralph replied. “The Thunderbird will not let us down. See, it's his weather.”

I looked up. I'd been so engrossed in the game that I didn’t notice the dark thunderheads full of trouble building in the sky, nor had I noticed the sporadic winds blowing from all directions.

Our quarterback dropped back, ran around dodging defenders as time expired. He hurled the ball down the field with all the force his star-quality arm had in it. It seemed that the ball would not reach any receiver. Then, it got caught by a freak gust from the North and sailed toward the end zone. Our best receiver saw the ball and followed it into the corner of the end zone. He jumped and, with an extraordinary reach of his right hand, snagged the ball. He then came back to earth and somehow managed to get a foot within the lines, touchdown!

Just as we stood to cheer, the sky lit up with actinic fire as a lightning bolt struck the scoreboard. Folk planning to storm the field thought better of it as the scoreboard went off in one of the greatest impromptu firework shows ever seen in Iowa. The flight for shelter became urgent when someone pointed and yelled, “tornado.” We turned to look at the funnel cloud cruising through central campus. We ran.

********************

That was when the season of storms began. To be sure, there were storms that had nothing to do with the football team, and many of them were horrific, but the memorable ones had an uncanny relationship with the football schedule. There was the big storm, the “twister express,” after the conference championship that spawned hundreds of tornados from Texas to Wisconsin. After the first playoff win, the “southern soaker” caused floods across the gulf states. Then, and this was the worst, there was the “white monster” after the championship game where a blizzard from Canada swooped down and met up with a hurricane that chugged up the Atlantic coast. People in ten states spent the rest of the winter and into the spring digging out.

I was the only one to associate the football games with the storms. I'm sure Ralph would have done likewise, but he got caught in a twister while visiting friends in Oklahoma and is no longer in a place where he can comment on what happened.

Yes, I hear what you are saying. I know that invoking holy forces for the furtherance of your sports team is a misuse of magic. In the calm after the storm I can't help but agree that doing so was wrong. But it's different when the battle is imminent, when every announcer on every television station touts the coming contest as a clash of titans. When the game is all that people talk about, then the game is all that matters. When you are endlessly told of how this game will shape lives forever, well, the game takes on the urgency of a life or death struggle. It's easy to forget that such things have no meaning beyond the current sports cycle. I hope you can see why someone in that time might be willing to unleash the forces of magic to change the course of events regardless of the forces unleashed in doing so.

If anything came of the season of storms, it was that a lot of climate change deniers got scared out of skepticism. After people dug out from the storm, they went to the polls and got rid of a lot of the politicians who took pride in, and received corporate donations for, their doubts. We got a whole lot smarter about how we treated the world we've been given. I'd like to think that our little adventure in storm magic did some good, that it did more than just cause disasters in a trivial pursuit. But you've come to your own conclusions. Now that you are showing me your true form, I see that you already knew what had happened. Did you ask me about these events just to hear me confess my misdeeds before casting judgment? I do not know, but now I tremble in fear before you.

The skies darken and the warmth is gone. I feel the wind blow from one direction, then another in seemingly random gusts. By the way the thunderheads are building, I know the storm is coming.

---

The Return, urban fantasy, fiction Honorable Mention
by Vaye de Vire

She requested silver and gold thread, ribbon, lace, and bolts of silk and velvet. On the table, one bowl held a quantity of tiny seed pearls, another of diamonds. Every evening, she sat by the window in the penthouse tower, working to undo the fine stitches she had made earlier that day on a formal white dress. A soft thump on the windowsill usually sounded half past midnight. This was when, yearning for flight, she looked for the shuttlecock of swan feathers to bounce into the sewing room.

She paused and stretched her limbs. Tonight, the shuttlecock landed next to her foot, and around its cork wound a braided chain of gold, the metal gleaming in the light of candles and a laptop streaming a performance of Wagner's Lohengrin. Orange blossoms and lilies mixed with the scent of ozone from an impending summer storm.

In a moment, the window was slammed shut, the curtains drawn, the formal white dress bunched up and tossed in the corner. A long, sumptuous cape, meant to protect an evening gown from the elements during the short walk from limousine to cathedral lay on the working table, and she was expected before the altar in a few hours.

She bent down and retrieved the shuttlecock from the floor and, with scissors in hand, started removing the swan feathers one-by-one from the cork. The first was done. The second followed. Of course, she was actually closer to something like her three thousandth feather. This was the final shuttlecock in a series that had begun nearly a year ago. That was when she had first met the dark-haired titan.

There had been a conference or a summit. She and her friends had flown from Amurland to the same Swiss city to return to their favorite lake. In the gray morning light, the titan, out on his daily run before hours of business seminars, had surprised them as they bathed in the water. Immediately, amidst all their shouting, she urged the others, tripping and splashing, to go to the shore for their swan's down cloaks. The titan's own shock had faded by then, and he held out the last white cloak to her, asking, “Mademoiselle, I am so sorry for catching you unaware. I return this to you in the hope that you may join me for dinner tonight.” He never took his eyes from hers.

She heard his words as clearly as she heard the sound of beating swan wings, the cloaks having had transformed the troop of girls back into birds. “Yes,” she replied when she turned her own cloak inside-out and covered herself with it in one fluid motion, discarding the hood. Though her head remained uncovered, it was still poised as if a crown rested on it.

The fourth, fifth, and sixth feathers came loose from the shuttlecock. The seventh offered more resistance. It had probably received extra glue.

The smile that the titan had given her lakeside persisted to the end of dessert and drinks at the restaurant. It remained while he led her to the coat check, conversations growing hushed in their wake. It began to assume the form of a smirk as he handed the attendant their tickets but dissolved when the attendant returned with only his sports jacket.

“But Monsieur? Where is my cloak?” she asked. “It is very special to me.”

The eighth and ninth feathers were also challenging, though they eventually came away from the shuttlecock.

Both the titan and the attendant had dived into the row of wraps, trenches, and blazers, searching. She caressed the satin lining of the one fashion cape hanging near her. “My mother had it made for me as soon as I was old enough.” She caught the titan's gaze in the wall mirror. Stricken, he offered his sports jacket to her before it started to rain.

The next day, just as he had purchased her ensemble for dinner, he skipped meetings in board rooms and took her up and down all the glittering avenues of the city for a cloak like the one she had lost. French names yielded to Italian, and she found herself decked out in fine fabrics: taffeta and cashmere, charmeuse and vicuna. But she shrugged out of each, extending her arms up and behind her while craning her neck to peer out the window onto the lake.

Feathers ten and eleven fell away from the shuttlecock. The twelfth fluttered to the tabletop.

In a confection of ponson velvet and chiffon from a couture boutique, she had stood amidst the rushes and tossed pieces of Savoy cake to the swans, which alighted at the lake's edge one-by-one. “I have been parted from my cloak.” At that, each bird considered its large, luxuriant wings glowing in the moonlight.

“It was an accident,” she explained, “but I can no longer join you. You must circuit the globe, and collect enough feathers for me to make another. Ask every swan–if you must, every cob and every pen. I shall guide you to me with an offering of sweets as I have done this night, for I am to leave for a rich land across the sea.”

The swans had become a troop of girls again. The eldest removed a hair pin, ripped the seam of her cloak, thrust her hand inside it, and produced a handful of feathers that she gave to her queen. All the remaining maidens offered similar tribute.

Feathers thirteen and fourteen were so light that a current of air wafted them toward a candle placed near a rolled tape measure. She sprung from her seat and snatch the plumes away from the flame.

Every night thereafter, no matter where, the swans brought her a shuttlecock assembled from the feathers of all the world's swans and left with bills full of madeleines or marzipan, brownies or blondies. In fact, the night that the titan had lowered himself to one knee to present her a gold band with a diamond, she had replaced the water of the birdbath of the rooftop garden with champagne, and amidst the bubbles arose a miniature tiered white cake perched on a stand surrounded by fondant roses. The swan court had soon cleared the wine and pastry only to fill the birdbath with thirty-two shuttlecocks. They all understood that once she pledged herself, regardless of the power of her down cloak, she could never again assume the form of a swan.

The next evening from the presentation of the ring, she asked, “May I make my own dress for the ceremony? I would need plenty of materials.”

“But of course.” The titan had them delivered to the sewing room in what seemed like an instant. “Whatever you want, you shall have.”

She diligently stitched throughout the day, and then she always undid her work at night, recycling some of the finer parts of the dress for the long, sumptuous cape that rivaled and then surpassed the finery of her original cloak.

How close was she? Could he see it?

Not yet: she needed more time! And to do so before she strode down the aisle was the height of bad luck.

Feather fifteen was free, and so was sixteen, the last one.

She secreted the final fistful of feathers into the cape, whose lining she stripped from that of the discarded white dress. The outer cover and cloth for the hood came from the lavish ponson velvet from the boutique, but she had added a silken fringe along the edge, one strand representing each hour she had bent over the working table in the penthouse tower. Needle and thread flitted in her fingers as she closed the remaining inches of the seam, as she finished the clasp at the neck in part built from the braided gold chain that had arrived with the final shuttlecock, as she embroidered the arabesque script of her name in the bottom inner corner.

With the cape draped over her arm, silhouetted in candlelight, she emerged from the sewing room. That was when the laptop, succumbing to the streaming algorithm, softly emitted the opening bars of Tchaikovsky's “Danse des petits cygnes.”

She darted the length of the hallway to the bedroom at the end. The door was open. She slowed her pace once inside, for the morning light, wan and silvery, showed that the titan slept here still.

Though the storm was subsided, causing the adjoining balcony to glisten from the rainwater, an icy wind had picked up, and its whistle masked the swoosh of fabric and then the strike of air with wings.

The titan knew something was amiss as soon as he awoke. The billowing curtains at his balcony confirmed it. And the single, gilded feather that swirled into his room before landing on his tangled sheets reaffirmed it. She had returned to the lake hidden among the glass mountains.

Bio: Vaye de Vire writes and lives in the American Mid-Atlantic. With both a childhood and academic life steeped in tropes, folktales, and fairy tales, she thought it was time that she should craft some tales of her own. “The Return” embellishes for the modern day a lesser known variant of the swan maiden or bird maiden story. Vaye de Vire is also blind.

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Ella, as told by herself, fiction Second Place
by Winslow Parker

Fairy godmother, pumpkin coach, mouse horses, and especially glass slippers are all true. You, no doubt, know the story-me, the ugly stepdaughter, weeping because she couldn't attend the prince's lavish ball and the intervention of my fairy godmother. I did attend the ball. I did dance with the prince. I did lose a glass slipper in my haste to beat the twelve chimes of midnight. All this thanks to my fairy godmother's magical intervention. But, I must correct the events of the following morning.

Before I do that, though, I have to get this off my chest. Not that I'm ungrateful, mind you, but I would like to have a word with my fairy godmother. The fact is, that glass slippers are hell to dance in. They're hard on the feet, kind of like dancing in stone clogs. Worse, once the “glow” begins, they become slippery (pardon the intentional pun) and fall off far too easily. Witness the loss of one of them on the grand staircase. Besides, I wonder if she ever considered the possibility of the glass splintering into shards on the dance floor, maiming me in the process. I've not seen her again. Maybe she's a bit ashamed of her thoughtlessness.

The next morning, very early, I was going about my chores, cleaning cinders from the fireplace (hence “cinder” Ella) before starting a fire to warm the house. The exhilaration of the grand ball lingered. I relived the sensation of gliding around the candle-lit room. Every young woman dreams some version of a dashing prince sweeping her off her feet. More on that later. My thoughts were interrupted by loud impatient knocks on the front door.

“Cinda, get up off your duff and answer the door,” the gravelly voice of my stepmother rattled windows on its way down the stairs.

I sighed and dropped my ash shovel onto the hearth. The peremptory pounding repeated, threatening to loose the door from its hinges. I opened it.

Standing on the step was a young man dressed in royal livery. I recognized him from the ball. I blushed. Behind him, in the street, was a coach-and-six decorated with gold leaf and adorned with the coat-of-arms of the royal house. It was the prince's footman at the door. As if used to making royal proclamations, he raised his voice and demanded, “any woman in this house who has a glass slipper must appear immediately with said slipper. His majesty, the prince wishes to speak with her.” His voice echoed off walls and caromed from ceiling beams. I covered my ears. When put that way, it behooves one to answer. “Why, certainly…” I started to answer, then thought better of it.“

“Who is at the door, Cinda? Quit dawdling and invite them in. We'll be right down.”

“You heard the lady of the house. Would you be so kind as to wait just a moment?”

“His majesty, the prince, is in a frightful hurry, ma'am.” Sotto voce: he whispered, “And you don't want to be around when a prince is in a hurry. Not good for the health, I tell you truly.” He returned to the coach and placed a footstool at a precise spot then opened the coach door. Its hinges creaked.. “Perhaps the kingdom is not in as good a shape as the town crier informs us. “If the prince's coach door needs oil, what else is being neglected?” I said to myself. “Maybe they should have fewer dances and attend to the kingdom's business a bit more.”

A royal foot stepped onto the stool. He emerged, grandly dressed in princely regalia.

At that moment, my StepMother and her three daughters appeared, a simpering train of over-indulged femininity. Their finery all made possible by the untimely death of my father. Perhaps I should hire a detective?

“My goodness gracious!” she exclaimed, seeing the prince framed in the doorway. “Do come in.” The four of them curtseyed.

“Cinda,” she muttered under her breath, “Lay the table with the best plates and sterling silver and prepare a three-course meal for his majesty. Don't dawdle, now or you know what will happen.”

I hurried to the kitchen glancing at my soot-streaked face in a mirror and sighed. The ball was glorious. Today it's back to the salt mines. I set out cold cuts, our best wine and began preparing a salad.

Footsteps echoed down the hall from the front room. I turned to see the prince enter. He sat, without invitation, at the head of the table and turned to me expectantly, as if to say, “Well, why aren't you serving me?” I hurriedly set the simple food before him as the other four women crowded around the table. Glancing over their heads at the prince's footman, my face reddened once again. He stood, hat in hand, just inside the kitchen door. He glanced in my direction and winked. It was his face, seen over the prince's broad shoulder as we danced, which truly caught my eye last evening. The prince is good looking, you know, in the manner of royal good looks. Cleft chin, dimples, blue eyes, blond hair, white teeth and all that. Vain and pompous, though, if you ask me. The footman was far the handsomer of the two in my eyes.

“What can we do for you, your royal highness?” asked my step mother.

Through a mouth full of half-chewed lettuce, he said, “I'm looking for the girl who danced with me at the ball last night. The one with the glass slipper. She was the most beautiful girl in the kingdom. I wish to make her my bride.”

“Woman,” I said under my breath.

“What did you say?” he jerked his vapid glance toward me.

“Woman,” I said evenly.

“Woman?”

“You are looking for the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, sire, not the most beautiful girl.”

Everyone tensed, especially the prince's footman. He shook his head slightly, warning me. I didn't care. It's a new day, after all.

“Well, I suppose you're correct, technically, but I prefer to think of her as a girl. That's my royal prerogative. Which reminds me of my quest. Do any of you happen to have a glass slipper?”

He glanced at each of my step sisters in turn. They frowned which added nothing to their beauty. Each shook her head, disappointment obvious in their downcast eyes.

“Well, we'll be off, then,” cried the prince. “No need to linger in such a hovel if the most beautiful girl in the kingdom doesn't live here.” He pushed back his chair.

With all the intensity I could muster, I looked into the eyes of the prince's footman and made a decision.

“Wait!” I cried. “Don't leave yet, prince. You may have found the most beautiful woman in the kingdom after all.” I admit I added just a bit of emphasis to the word “woman.” You can't blame me, can you?

I hurried to a bucket of garbage and ashes I was preparing to carry to the dump. Rummaging about in the household detritus, I found what I was looking for and fished it out. Ash and slime coated, it bore little resemblance to the glittering glass footwear of the previous evening. What need does a charwoman have to keep such an uncomfortable souvenir anyway? I wiped it on my skirt and handed it to the prince. It matched the one he held in his royal hands.

He took it between thumb and forefinger as if touching a dead rat.

“How do you happen to have this?” he asked, his voice hard. “Did you steal it?”

“Oh, no sire, I found it in our entry this morning as I was sweeping the floor.”

“I see” he muttered. “It's obvious, and fortunately so, for you, that it isn't your glass slipper.” His eyes flicked to each of my stepsisters. “Come, come,” he ordered, “don't dawdle, slip on this slipper.”

Each one, in turn, tried it on. Fruida grimaced as she tried to fit her too-large foot into the shoe. She peered into it and fished out a smelly, spoiled fish head. The shoe still did not fit her. Mala-Rea's foot was so small she couldn't keep it on her foot. Finika's foot, though, was just right. If that reminds you of another famous fairy-tale, good for you. You had intelligent parents who read you stories.

Anyway, as I was saying, Finika's foot fit perfectly. The prince stared at her foot, then, slowly raised his eyes to her face. He shook his head as if disbelieving what he saw.

“You are, indeed, the most beautiful girl in the kingdom. Don't know why I didn't see it before.”

She giggled. I suppressed one of my own. One could invent a whole new science, maybe call it “psychology,” for what just happened. She was, in my biased opinion, the meanest and ugliest of my three ugly step sisters. The prince, however, was entranced. He rose to his feet, bowed and said, “Shall we retire to the castle and prepare for our nuptials, my dear? You are so lovely. I cannot wait to have you as my bride.”

She giggled again, a most unladylike sound. “Of course, Princy, the sooner the better.” They exited the house, arm in arm and entered his royal coach. My stepmother and the remaining ugly sisters called for their coach and followed them to the castle.

The prince and Finika were married a week later in a lavish ceremony which outshone even the grand ball. The bride wore white which did nothing to enhance her soul-deep ugliness. Rumors spread that the prince was going blind. Perhaps that is the origin of that other famous fairy tale, you know, the one in which the king prances around in the altogether.

At the wedding, when no one was looking, I slipped a note to the prince's footman. He smiled and nodded his acceptance.

That was forty years ago. Our children are grown and gone. The years fled by so rapidly we barely noticed. But they were, every one, happy; We are content.

The royal pair’s angry voices often taint the air for a mile around. Perhaps the prince opened his eyes to the fact that a glass slipper a beautiful woman does not necessarily make.

---

Part III. Loss, Perceptions, and Resilience

Dinner with a Ghost, poetry First Place
by Sally Rosenthal

In a different universe and another life,
my late husband, now able to hold a glass of wine
gazes around the harborside restaurant
and rises to meet me as I enter, white cane extended,
for I am only a visitor in this new world
in which he walks and brings wine to his lips of his own accord.
Reading the daily specials from a chalkboard menu,
he asks if I still like salmon and if the roasted red potatoes will do.
I compliment him on his ability to sit unaided
as I carefully adjust my spine and its lifelong curvature.
He pours my wine and slides the glass into my waiting hand.
Once intimate, now almost strangers we search,
for conversation that will not jar or open wounds.
I inquire about everyday life in heaven,
but that topic is forbidden, so I tell him he sounds well
now that pain and depression do not grapple for his soul.
He tells me I look pretty and happier
than I did during his last years on earth.
As we drain our espresso cups and ready ourselves to leave,
he asks me to thank the man who brightens
my life because he never wanted me to be lonely.
When he walks me to the door, I turn to thank him
for our thirty years, dinner, or just his care,
but he has vanished into that different world and time.

---

Howl, Poetry Honorable Mention
by Lisa Busch

There should’ve been thousands of meteorites smashing to earth,
every mirror in the country shattered,
at least patio doors cracking into pieces.

But no cymbals crashed in Mahler symphonies,
no piano keys that sang Chopin and Ravel crumbled.
My heart did not even rumble like an earthquake.

Instead, husband, when you disappeared from this world,
only an endless smothering silence remains–
a boundless soundless howl.

Bio: Lisa Busch received her BA in English from Lock Haven State College in 1977 and worked off and on as a braille proofreader at National Braille Press from 1979 till 2009. She was also employed parttime as a teacher’s aide for two years at Hull Elementary School in Massachusetts.

She and her late husband Gil produced a CD of original compositions which was available from Amazon and her poetry has appeared in church newsletters. Her memoir, Close Calls is in process to be self published sometime within the next few months. She has taken many classes from the Writers Center in Bethesda, and the Cambridge Center for Adult Education.

Having had to grieve the loss of two husbands and several family members, she knows personally how creating art can transform loss.

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In the End, poetry
by Ria Meade

I recently wrote a poem that stated,
“and in the end”. Made me think.
I waxed philosophical about what “the end” entailed.
But that was January and now it's May.
Now I understand “the end” differently.

Late January, penned a tribute to a friend,
a solitary man and Viet Nam vet,
who succumbed to cancer,
no doubt its beginnings festered long ago.
OMG, how he use to make us laugh!
Our laughter was his gift – now a memory.
In the end he was no funnyman.
As he grew sicker, he sealed himself off from everyone.
He died alone. In the end, we all do.

My oldest brother died this Spring.
I was not witness to his actual passing.
His heartbroken wife shared a most personal memory
created that day.
We cried – no, sobbed – over the phone that night.
I saw a vision of my eldest sibling I had not known before.
Such electricity passed through that wire's connection.
In the end, I'll remember being there through her eyes.

Back In January, I spoke of the bench outside my apartment,
where my guide Flash and I often sit,
just below my kitchen window.
I pictured my first feline Calico Thomasina,
perched on the sill, watching all from that spot.
Since she passed, I adopted a male ginger tabby named Buddy.
Do I need say where this big ginger places himself?
Did Thomasina nudge Buddy to her old perch?
I like to think so.
Because in the end we want to go on, don't we?

I suddenly feel a pile-up of lost friends, human and animal.
The bench began to sag.
Now in May, not sure my brother will visit the bench
where my Labrador guide and I host memories.
This would be my wish.
Seating arrangements can be sorted with time.

Don't we want to share our stories?
Don't we want to know they hear us?
Don't we want someone to bring us along,
in the end?

Bio: A native Long Islander, Ria Meade crafts poems about her adult life as a blind woman. Painting since childhood, her passion culminated with a degree in fine arts. Ria was working in New York City in 1982 when the childhood concern, Juvenile Diabetes, took her sight completely. Life changed dramatically and artistic passion took a back seat as she learned to deal with her blindness. Twenty-five years after losing her sight, she began to paint again with words.

Ria credits being saved by the eight Labrador Retriever guide dogs she has been paired with over the last thirty-eight years allowing her creativity to return in the form of her writings. She has recently completed her eighth self-published collection.

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Where's the Car, Dad? memoir
by Debra J. White

Dad met me as I arrived in Chicago's O'Hare Airport on a wintry night in 1987. Hugging him, I felt a man much thinner than several years before. Dad shrugged it off to touch football. We both laughed. I urged him to eat better and to take vitamins.

Once we retrieved my luggage, we headed to a nearby parking lot. After a few minutes of aimless plodding up and down the aisles, I said, “Where's the car, Dad?”

“Guess it's not here,” Dad said, tugging at his sparse gray hair.

Dad always had excellent recall. I couldn't have suffered through math without him. He did the family grocery shopping each week without a list. Now I stared at a feeble old man.

“Let's try another lot,” he said. “It's probably there.”

Lugging my suitcase, we dodged swarms of passengers headed to the main terminal. At the end of a long day and a bumpy ride from New York City, I was ready for bed.

From Dad's puzzled look, I sensed the car wasn't in the second lot either. He shuffled up and down rows of parked cars, staring at every blue Pontiac. None belonged to him.

“Any idea where you parked?” I asked, trying to hide my impatience.

“Maybe the next one.” He pulled out a hanky and wiped his sweaty brow despite the Windy City chill.

While Dad wandered through yet another parking lot, I listened to the grumblings in my stomach. I hadn't eaten since breakfast. Then, I caught him fumbling to open a car that obviously wasn't his.

“Damn it, where's the car?”

Tears swelled his eyes as soon as the words rolled out of my mouth. I felt like a heel. I took the keys from his trembling hand and held him. “I'm sorry, Daddy. We'll find the car. Do you remember anything? Color of the car next to yours? A sign near the exit?”

He shook his head no.

“Let's keep trying,” I said.

Continued searching eventually turned up my father's Pontiac. As I drove along the highway, silence blanketed the car. I didn't know what to say. Neither did my father.

My mother had warned me about Dad's fading memory. She brushed it off to normal aging. So did I at first. After 65, who has pinpoint recall? After watching him for a few hours, Dad's problems were far more ominous. I hesitated to utter the A word but it was clear he showed symptoms of Alzheimer's.

At the start of every school year, Dad covered our textbooks with plain brown paper and jotted our names on each one. Sometimes he even cooked. If I scraped my knee, he kissed it and promised I'd feel better. On weekends, he took my older brother and me for adventures. We rode the bus to Central Park and played by the Alice in Wonderland statue. In the summer we drove to Rockaway Beach and stuffed our faces with hot dogs and potato knishes along the boardwalk. We built sand castles, swam in the ocean and let waves crash over our sunscreen slathered bodies. For mindless fun, he took us to the East River to watch big fat gray rats scurry along the moldy rocks. As city kids, we were easy to please.

Dad worked in a factory so we scrounged to make ends meet. If there was leftover money, Dad bought us to ice cream cones dipped in sprinkles or bought us cheap games in Julie's, the corner toy store. Now and then, he treated our family at the Greek Diner for a hunk of meat loaf and mashed potatoes swimming in gravy.

Each summer, Dad drove our family from our home in New York City to spend a few weeks at my mother's rural Alabama home. Dad was behind the wheel for the entire 900 mile trip since my mother didn't have a license. Not once did he complain about the fatigue of long distance driving.

I remember my earlier introductions to country living, a vast change from our city neighborhood. Horrified, I watched my grandmother Ludera strangle a chicken for the evening meal. I couldn't get the bird's desperate clucks out of my six-year old mind as it screeched its last breath. I refused to eat fried chicken for the rest of our trip. At home, I kept up my meatless protest. My father swore that chicken in New York City came from the grocery store so I backed down and ate chicken and dumplings.

My father didn't heed the call to “go over there” in World War II because both his parents died young. He raised his only brother Nicky, about ten years his junior. Nicky was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer when he was only 39 years old. At Nicky's funeral, my father lost it. That was the only time I saw him cry.

Every morning dad rose early and read the New York Daily News. He soaked up the evening news with Walter Cronkite. He played Solitaire and did crossword puzzles. He may have only had a high school education but my father knew what went on in the world.

Despite factory work, Dad left every morning dressed in a clean white shirt and tie. In winter, he wore a long wool coat and a gray fedora. He looked snazzy for a man who earned so little money and handled the printing presses.

Dad's quick thinking saved our shabby brick apartment building from burning to the ground when I was a kid. Late one night, a careless tenant tossed a lit cigarette down the dumbwaiter, a pulley system that transported trash from apartments to the basement. Joe C., our shiftless superintendent, hadn't emptied out the garbage in several days. Joe was drunk much of the time. Within seconds, a fire swirled through the garbage chute. My mother called the Fire Department and dad, clad only in cotton pajamas, hustled up and down the hallway dumping buckets of water down the dumbwaiter. The fire doused the lights and all the tenants evacuated the building, but my dad continued to pour water down the garbage chute. Soon, the Fire Department arrived and took over. Dad felt funny standing outside in his skivvies but officials praised his heroism.

Alzheimer's is a cruel, merciless disease common among the elderly. It picked apart his mind slowly. First, his memory frittered away. He quit smoking because he forgot how. That benefitted his health although I was sorry he quit under those circumstances. He forgot names, places and things. Over time his behavior worsened. He walked to a nearby vet's office to surrender his cat. The vet called my mother who retrieved both Buffy their big hairy dog and my father. My mother's frustrations bubbled over into squabbles with my father to act normal but he couldn't.

Mix-ups over appliance use came next. Dad looked at a toaster and said, “What's this for?”

“Nothing,” my mother said, fearing he might stick a knife into it. Out of necessity, my mother stopped enjoying toast for breakfast. Dad was a danger to himself and others.

In between bouts of confusion and memory loss wandering started. Dad had his favorite spots. He walked to the center of town where he greeted customers dining at the Chinese restaurant. Other times he shook hands with hordes of passengers boarding the commuter rail into Chicago.

A stranger once saw my mother guiding my father into a doctor's office. The man said, “Is this your husband?”

“Yes,” my mother said. “Why, do you know him?”

“He stands at the train station a few mornings a week and waves to everyone. He's the greatest guy.” The man hugged my dad and went on his way. “Hey Don, we miss you at the train station.”

Smiling, Dad waved at the man.

My mother stuffed a small card with his name, address and phone number inside his pocket. That saved his life when he roamed about five miles away. A small business owner noticed Dad standing on a street corner, mumbling to himself. She brought Dad inside, served him orange juice and called the police. The officer drove him home, thanks to the card in his wallet. Dad offered to teach the officer how to audit tax returns yet he knew little about tax returns. Thankfully the officer declined.

No longer able to manage his Social Security my mother had the money taken out of his name. Dad told the bank manager that my brother Donald, who called the fat guy, stole all his money. The only truth was my brother's ample girth.

“I felt bad taking away his independence,” my mother said. “I had no choice. He stood on the corner and often donated cash to people. I was afraid someone might hurt him.”

Soon after, the state of Illinois cancelled his driver's license. Convinced he could drive, Dad took the car while my mother napped. He creamed another car about four blocks from home. No one was hurt and the responding officer fortunately realized my father wasn't all there. To keep him from driving my mother had to hide the car keys. He didn't take the loss of his license very well.

Living with my father was stressful. He rarely slept, constantly paced, and was dangerous if left alone so my mother considered adult day care. At first, she hedged. “He won't like it.”

“He won't know where he is,” I said from my Boston home. “Give it a chance. You'll feel better too.”

Sure enough, as soon as she dropped him off, Dad forgot where he was. He often forgot my mother's name or that they were married. Several days a week in adult day care eased my mother's stress.

After a few months, Dad lost control of his bowels and bladder. He tried sawing off his toe to relieve an itch. My mother could no longer ignore the need for nursing home placement.

I visited him a few months later at the home. He had no idea who I was. He looked at me and said, “Don't I know you?”

“Yes Daddy, you know me.” I hugged him.

Dad's behavior at the home cost my mother a bundle. Each patient's photo was posted outside their room for identification. For unknown reasons, that irked my father. He ripped them apart. The home put up new photos. He tore them down too. I'm not sure why he finally stopped.

Towards the end his mind was so sacked by disease that he tore up salt packets and poured them in his slippers. He lost his false teeth. The nursing home never found them. He told everyone his children were Korean. He held hands with a strange woman who he wanted to marry and have children with. He didn't know his name. Finally, he stopped speaking and refused food.

My father died close to my birthday on May 30, 1992, the result of his lifelong tobacco habit. Lung cancer, not Alzheimer's, caused his death. Celebrating my birthday anymore is just too painful. I loved my father for teaching me respect for all living creatures, including the alley cats my neighbors shooed away. My father showed dignity and pride working in a factory. Who cared if we watched river rats on Sunday afternoon? We shared quality time. He loved his little girl and I adored him. He was my hero. I always hoped I made him proud.

I lost part of my own memory and independence on January 6, 1994 when a car ran me over as I walked my two dogs after work. I spent nearly two months in a rehab center, putting the pieces back together. I never worked again. I rebuilt my life with volunteer work and creative writing. I'm sorry dad wasn't around to read any of my stories. I still miss him.

A quick update on Alzheimer's disease.
According to the Mayo Clinic, around 5.5 million people over the age of 65 live with Alzheimer's disease, also known as senile dementia. Symptoms include memory loss, confusion, not recognizing loved ones and inability to perform everyday tasks. Some treatments may alleviate symptoms but there currently is no cure. Caring for a loved one with Alzheimer's is a challenge for both family members and society at large. Many patients end up in long-term care at significant costs. To avoid the disease, experts recommend a healthy diet, exercise, and vitamins. Seniors are encouraged to lead active lives that include reading, word games, and more.

Bio: A 1994 car accident left Debra with disabling injuries from
brain trauma. At the end of a long recovery, she found
new life in volunteer work and creative writing. For more,
visit her website at: https://www.debrawhite.org

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Needlework, poetry
by Lisa Busch

Tears fell from the sky
as we withdrew from each other
still living in the same house,
your silent tumor waiting.

Time tore at your flesh
as Grace and I sorted each item for keeping or disposal:
Good-by to your 18 thousand dollar Steinway,
that I gave away to a father of two eager boys
much to your disbelief,
good-by to balcony chairs
where we sat listening to robins and radio stations from Hawaii,
good-by to a cherished congregation
who served love as a daily meal.

And yet, we kept singing,
knitting our voices together even as we moved on to a new state:
your forced retirement so heavy, your comments trickled
about the new dream of walking a birth town again after a 40 years absence
even though you couldn’t remember where to find upstairs in that temporary place.

You lost yourself in an audio museum of recordings,
music like snow lulling your fears to sleep,
as I searched fora new home,
cataloguing each possibility like sand in a castle that wouldn’t stay built,
both so preoccupied we couldn’t hug or kiss for more than two seconds,
but still we sang.
And your tumor waited to unravel everything-
all of us unaware that poems and memories from 49 years of needlework
cannot be ripped from the soul.

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A Tasting, poetry Second Place
by Margaret D. Stetz

I swallow my unhappiness
and find it
complex
though a little
salty
tainted by its being stored
near liquid seeping
from my eyes
though definitely
palatable
but with the next sip
as I swirl it
round my mouth
the acid
makes it burn
I wish the Maker
could have given it
a different note—
sweeter, floral, smoother—
but wish in vain
the sowing and the harvest
the pressing
all predestined
my glass refills itself
the rest
is fruitless
whining

Bio: Margaret D. Stetz is the Mae & Robert Carter Professor of Women's Studies at the University of Delaware, USA, as well as a widely published poet. She experienced a life-changing injury in July 2021 and now lives with chronic pain, neuropathy, and impaired functioning of her left arm.

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Through the Harrowing Tunnel, poetry
by ROCHELLE M. ANDERSON

Hospital. Horrible dream or sick joke
Record scratched, endless drums beat, savage stroke

My body broken, lime Jell-O, torn gown
Wrecked skull in freezer. Lost my precious crown

Brain flattened out like an alpine meadow
Stormy, rocky cliff, see mountain's shadow

Aphasia steals the show. Scared, no one asks
Words jumbled in my mind, hide behind masks

Face expresses angst, only can shake fist
Perilous journey through the dense, dark mist

Bio: Rochelle M. Anderson is an attorney who had a severe stroke in 2007 and almost died. She is still disabled with difficulty walking; and because of aphasia struggles with reading and writing. Ms. Anderson loves poodles, creating seed art, her grandchildren and Lake Superior. She and her husband have visited multiple national parks, attend many theatrical productions, and root for the home team at Twins games. Rochelle has been published in four chapbooks. Writing poetry has helped her recover; and dictation fuels her words.

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Into the River, poetry
by Ann Chiappetta

I am unfettered
glass and wire forsaken

I am the sightless
frames and lenses denounced
like false gods

I am a disciple
fear replaced by loss understood

I am the naked prophet
after prolonged oppression
disrobed

baptized by blindness
plunged into water
fully submerged

lenses swept away
sins relinquished.

converted
Lazarus rising
a Believer.

Bio: Ann’s award-winning poems, creative nonfiction, and essays have appeared internationally in literary journals, popular online blogs, and print anthologies. Her poems have been featured in The Avocet, The Pangolin Review, Plum Tree Tavern, Magnets and Ladders, Oprelle, Western PA Poetry Review 2024, Breath and Shadow, and others. Ann's short story, “The Misty Torrent” appeared in The Artificial Divide anthology published by Renaissance Press (2021).

Ann is the recipient of the 2019 GDUI Excellence in Writing award and the WDOMI 2016 Spirit of Independence award.

Independently published since 2016, the author's six volume collection includes poetry, creative nonfiction essays, short stories and contemporary fiction.

Diagnosed in 1993 with a rare form of progressive retinal disease, Ann accepts vision loss as part of her life but doesn't let it define her as a whole person.

Contact Ann by visiting her website: http://www.annchiappetta.com. Subscribe to Ann's blog http://www.thought-wheel.com. Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/verona.chiappetta/

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Hold On, poetry
by Ocean

Body to which we belong
And in which the striving of our predecessors persists
It comes time for an unmaking

The scream rising up out of the dream HOLD ON
Into flipped and steelcrushed
Can't breathecan't breathecan't—
The car strewn across the ice all quiet just the sound of breaths fading
Then sirens rising up out of that disappeared breath
Medics cutting away the door
Tearing from me the life I'd known
Ratcheting my pulp to a gurney
Cornflower sky smeared with pale paste
Roar of helipad then
Blank
Halfwaking to long gag of deintubation

Halfwaking to father next to me

Waking to spine pinned and stapled
Neck wired to a brace body immobilized
Waking to doctor you will never walk again

And so begins again a life
Learn to scoot to scrub teeth leeways to weep with the lungs only halfgoing
This new body a horse trying to throw me
Learn to ride
To paint a calligraphy of wheelchair tracks through pavement puddle
To orate the mountain which the body can no longer climb
Learn to body
For there reside on this earth no unsacred blessing
If the palms of the healer lay forth on you in planks of torn steel
Reach to meet them
And hold on

Bio: Ocean is a disabled poet, novelist, and visual artist living in the Pacific Northwest. His poetry, essays and fiction are known for their resuscitation of the mythic and their contribution to literary animism. His visual arts, informed by proto-language and asemia, have shown throughout the country. For selections of his work, navigate to: https://www.mirrorflower.org & @mirrorflower_ocean.

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Left Snug Around You, poetry
by Taylor Kovach

Be my eyes and ears
The feeling on my palm tips
My odorous flavors to my philtrum's start of passage
For when I can no longer speak
The special eccentricities, hear
The words of softened safety, nourish
In the salt of breaded wounds, and inhale
Steam of a freshly boiling kettle.
May my senses not be lost with you…
Fore your memory holds, tight,
Onto the lost abilities of my personhood –
My repeating of stories with one more forgotten detail.
And when my own memories and personhood have left my body stripped bare,
I hope the extra layers can keep you warm at night.

“Left Snug Around You” was originally published in The Globe Review.

Bio: Taylor Kovach is a transgender poet who lives in Lincoln Park, Michigan. They hold a bachelor's degree in psychology, with highest honors, from Michigan State University. Self-taught in the medium of the poetic arts that spans more than a decade, this disabled artist keeps their work far from close to the chest.

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Thank You, Abilify, poetry
by Eris Nycum

Can you believe
these tiny white pills
like Tic-Tacs
are capable of a

Sudden change of
chemical composition
frontal lobe stimulation
dopamine activation
creating output restoration?

Pouring mania into paper curls
and bare bones writing
as my brain breaks out
of its grave
after being entombed
lifetimes ago

My old self welcomes me
with a kiss and we merge
into one glorious entity
more genuine
more true
more me

Bio: Eris is a disabled, queer, non-binary writer of poems and short stories about living with their lupus and fibromyalgia, as well as severe anxiety and depression. In addition, they are currently focused on poems highlighting the lives of female historical or mythological figures. They think it's important to bring attention to the way different types of disability move through the world day to day. They try to be subversive when possible and is currently working on a novella that flips the switch on how disabled folx are portrayed in fairy tales and popular culture.

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Free Flight, creative nonfiction
by Susan Sparrow

My on-again/off-again boyfriend is off again so I drive myself to my appointment with the eye specialist six days after yet another surgery. It can be a pleasant drive, meandering over the mountains in upstate New York, through the quaint town of New Paltz and across the Hudson River.

But that's if the weather is good. It can be a white-knuckle fright ride if it's icy, if you can't see out of one eye and the vision in the other one is deteriorating steadily, if you're upset with your on-again/off-again boyfriend or all of the above.

The trip takes twice as long as when Glen used to drive me, but I make it to the doctor's office in one piece and am escorted to the exam room.

“Hi, I'm Dana? Dr. Williams' assistant?” chirps an unfamiliar perky one in annoying upspeak. “Let's just check the vision in that right eye?” she says brightly, handing me the familiar L-shaped thingy used to block the eye not being tested.

I dutifully cover my left eye as she darkens the room and projects the eye chart on the far wall.

“Read me the smallest line you can?” Dana says, playing with the end of her ponytail while perched on a small swivel stool.

“You'll have to make it larger,” I tell her.

“What? Really? Ok, how about now?”

“”Sorry,” I say flatly. “Can't read that either.”

“Really?!” she squeaks again. “Are you sure??”

Already on edge from my fight with Glen and exhausted by the concentration required to drive myself here, I want to grab her by the throat and shake her until she agrees to be more professional.

“Yes, I'm sure,” I say through clenched teeth.

She seems completely oblivious to the rising tension in the room. “Well, how about now?” She has scrolled the eye chart up to the very first, the largest, the single beginning letter.

“It's just a blur but I know it's an E,” I tell her.

“Oh, ok?” she says uncertainly.

Clearly, I am the blindest person she has seen in her short career as a doctor's assistant.

She hastily types her notations into my already-extensive chart, then jumps up, heading for the door.

“Thedoctorwillbewithyouinamoment,” she throws over her shoulder as she flees, pony tail swinging.

I sit in the darkened room and try to relax. I take deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I stare at the wall with the white square of light that's supposed to be the eye chart. I can make out a decent number of lines with my left eye but when I close that eye, even the big E disappears. As there's nothing else to do while I wait, I close one eye then the other, faster and faster, there/not there/there/not there, until the doctor shows up, Dana in tow.

Dr. Williams wedges his large body into the small room and examines me with latex-covered fingers that smell of baby powder.

“Ok, so we've got some blood filling the eye,” he states matter-of-factly. “That would account for the poor vision. Let's have you continue the eye drops, sleep sitting up, avoid lifting anything heavy and come back in two days.” He scribbles in my chart.

This unexpected and disgusting pronouncement renders me speechless.

Dana tries to smile encouragingly from her spot near the door and fails.

I stumble out into the glare of the parking lot and get behind the wheel. Don't think about this now, I tell myself. You have to get yourself home. I turn the radio way up and, ironically, Jackson Browne’s 1972 song, “Doctor My Eyes” fills my car.

I drive home very slowly, in the right lane all the way. Back over the bridge, back through the low mountains, back over the winding roads through the woods to my little log cabin. When I finally pull into my driveway, I have to unclench my fingers from the steering wheel. I've already locked this new turn of events away so securely that I have to stop and think when a friend calls to ask how my appointment went.

“Fine! Great!” I say, unwilling to pry open the mental compartment I have nailed shut.

That night, propped up by pillows per doctor's orders, in my bed facing the big window that looks out over the tall pines, I dream I'm an eagle.

Soaring over treetops, effortlessly banking left, then right, I fly high above a verdant valley between two rocky granite cliffs. The leaves far below me undulate in the breeze, flashing emerald then olive in the sun. I catch a rising thermal and spiral higher and higher, the wind rustling the white down on my beaked face and the finger-like feathers at the tips of my muscular mahogany wings. I spot movement far below – a cottontail hops into a small clearing, a wilted dandelion leaf hanging limply from the corner of its mouth. I loose a high, keening cry and wheel away over the ridge, reveling in my own masterful agility.

I fly that valley all night long, independent and carefree.

Bio: Susan Sparrow is a visually impaired writer, dancer and gardener living her best life in New Orleans where she's also working on a series of children's books featuring an intrepid blind iguana who's vision loss doesn't discourage her in the least from enjoying exciting escapades.

When she's not writing, Susan can be found developing her as-yet-undiscovered superpowers or transcribing the epic poems of her tortoise, Gordon Ramsay.

Susan's has many literary accomplishments. Her supernatural thriller, The Devil Drinks Monsoons, won Honorable Mention in the National League of American Pen Women's 2024 Biennial Competition and her children's book, Marcelle Goes to Bayou Boogaloo, won 1st Place in the same competition. Her short stories have appeared in Spotlight and Please See Me literary journals and Hang Glider & Paraglider magazine. She has been a guest columnist for New Bayou Books. She's also a founding member of three manuscript critique groups and a member of NLAPW, MWA, and Author's Guild. Susan was chosen for the 2023 NLAPW First Annual Writers' Retreat.

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Part IV. The Writers’ Climb

Feathers of Poetry, poetry
by Douglas G. Campbell

after the long hunger of hibernation
in the caves of winter 
after the torpor of the burrow 
empty skeletons of dreams 
covered with faded blankets 
of fungus dissolve

my hands are full now 
with strawberries and wild bergamot 
clouds of velvet wings rise
bursting from my eyelids 

there are too many poems
for my hands to hold 
I will release them into
the smile of a mountain

Bio: Douglas G. Campbell lives in Portland, Oregon and is Professor Emeritus of Art at George Fox University where he taught painting, printmaking, drawing and art history courses. He is living with aphasia, a language disorder acquired from a stroke in 2012. He often submits poetry written both before and after his stroke. He is a member of Thursday Night Poets, a poetry group for people with brain injuries, through the University of Wisconsin Eau Claire. His poetry and artworks have been published in numerous periodicals. You can see Douglas' artwork at: http://www.douglascampbellart.com/

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I Come from Bowman Lane: A Family History Memoir, book excerpt
by Margaret Gethers Scott

Synopsis by Leonore Dvorkin, publisher

Margaret Gethers Scott has been the Ford Family historian since 1996. Here, she first offers a wealth of information about why and how to write one's own family history. She then proceeds to her main subjects, the descendants of the ancestors her family lovingly calls “The Big 7.” Those were the seven children of Charles Ford and Rebecca Small Ford. The parents and children were all born in the 1800s. Margaret, born in 1946, is the granddaughter of Tom, the youngest Ford child.

Charles and Rebecca are placed in the historical context of Emancipation and Reconstruction in the African American community in South Carolina, where the author still lives. In telling the stories of The Big 7 and their very numerous descendants, much general history of the area in the early and mid-20th century is interwoven with more personal anecdotes. Many of those are humorous, and all of them are vividly narrated.

There are long lists of the descendants' names, and there is well-earned acknowledgment of their impressive accomplishments in many fields: music, the military, education, business, diverse trades, and more. Some sections present fascinating snapshots of culture, detailing things such as typical foods of the area, quilting traditions, yellowware pottery, and time-tested construction techniques.

Naturally, in addition to the uplifting stories of hard work, family unity, and perseverance, there are some painful stories of prejudice and tragedy. As is only right, there is no whitewashing of history here. But at the close of the book, as the author obviously intended, the reader is left with a wonderful, over-arching impression of warmth, as beautiful and comforting as an heirloom quilt.

Dedicated to the Memory of
Tom Ford aka Papa
Frances Rebecca “Becca” Grimkey Ford aka Mama
Nettie Mariah Ford Gethers aka Mother Dear
and
SFC Sherman Jenkins Ford (U.S. Army, Ret.)
Founder of the Ford Family Reunion
In Appreciation for a Legacy of Stories

Preface

Bits and pieces of this book have been with me since my growing up years in the Bowman Lane community of rural Colleton County, South Carolina. Even quilts, which are a metaphor for my “writing process,” have always been there – from the quilts that warmed me as I slept in a drafty, concrete block house on cold winter nights to the quilt which now serves as a tablecloth on my kitchen table.
In creating this book about family history, I relied upon a sewing basket full of assorted “scraps of knowledge.” Included in this assortment were my own stored memories: The centrality of telling family stories; the pull of family connectedness; the importance of land and home ownership; the wisdom of the elders; and the cast of characters who peopled the community of my childhood and youth.

The sewing basket also held three unpublished family history documents: Our family history book, “From Whence We Came: The Ford Family of Walterboro (Colleton County), South Carolina;” my mother's 2013 memoir, “The Whole Armor of God: Recollections of a Proud Poor Mother;” and a 2015 interview I conducted with my mother, “Work, Pray, Live: Reflections of a Wise Woman.” All were invaluable in providing historical and contemporary family information.

Other scraps in the sewing basket included quotations, mementoes, and information-gathering strategies. After making final selections from the basket, I sorted and classified; mixed and matched; measured and cut; assembled and pieced. Then, using the thread of narrative, I stitched the myriad swatches of Ford Family lore into the design that is this book, I Come from Bowman Lane: A Family History Memoir (Write Your Family History Now, Before It's Too Late!).

You, too, can fashion the contrasting, but compelling, pieces of your family story into a multi-textured, multi-layered, lovingly sewn quilt of many colors. No special skills are needed. Curiosity, determination, and innate creativity are all that is required. Happy Piecing & Joyful Stitching! –MGS

Introduction

Knowing one's family history can have a centering and stabilizing effect, empowering us as we navigate today's fractious socio-political landscape. Scraps of knowledge about the personal, professional, cultural, and spiritual lives of family members – known and unknown; living and dead — reside in our memories and in our mementoes. I Come from Bowman Lane: A Family History Memoir (Write Your Family History Now, Before It's Too Late!) is a testament to how scraps of knowledge can combine to create a family history worthy of sharing and preserving.

If you are reading these words, you have probably considered writing your own family history. My goal is to move you from considering to writing. I captured the history of my family through interviews, essays, anecdotes, questionnaires, newspaper articles, solicitation letters, U.S. census records, historical documents, and eyewitness accounts. The stories generated by these information sources provide glimpses into the lives of the people from whom we came, enabling us to gain strength and sustenance from their example. Other more recent stories provide additional examples, inspiring family members toward continued striving for higher levels of achievement.

Part One of I Come from Bowman Lane asks the question: “Why Write Your Family History?” and follows with a discussion of five reasons from which you can choose your own justification. The reasons are based on themes I have developed through research and reflection. Depending upon your background and interest, at least one of the reasons/themes should provide a rationale for your family history project. The themes are addressed in the five chapters of Part One. Each theme is developed through epigraphs, research studies and/or background information, and one or more illustrative family stories. The chapter themes are as follows:
Chapter 1: Future generations deserve a tangible record of their family history.
Chapter 2: Family stories should be told and captured before it is too late.
Chapter 3: Stories from ordinary people often reflect universal values and experiences.
Chapter 4: Too many stories from diverse and marginalized groups remain untold.
Chapter 5: Knowledge of family history helps build resilience.

Part Two formally introduces the Ford Family – our ancestral couple, Charles Ford and Rebecca Small Ford, and their seven children: LUCY, ROBERT, FORTUNE, DIANNA, ADAM, BINA & TOM, my maternal grandfather. Part Two places Charles & Rebecca in the historical context of Emancipation and Reconstruction and attempts to determine the place of their former enslavement as well as how the ancestral land was acquired. Part Two also highlights the on-going relationships between and among the seven families descended from Charles & Rebecca, a bond formalized 25 years ago with the first Ford Family Reunion. In essence, Part Two shows how the descendants of Charles Ford and Rebecca Small Ford have “lived and breathed and suffered and triumphed.”

Everyday ordinary families like mine have stories begging to be told. Hopefully, reading about the Ford Family will convince you that now is the time to move from considering writing, to doing writing about your family. In the words of librarian Carmen Nigro: “You should cease pondering and start writing.”
“If you want to go quickly, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” –African proverb

Chapter 1
The Gift of Family History

“If we keep all our memories in our heads, if we don't take them out to examine them, give them shape and substance, and record them, they will be lost to our families and to future generations.” –James Birren

Theme: Future generations deserve a tangible record of their family history.

Gift-giving is a time-honored tradition. It touches communities and cultures across the globe. Some say the tradition began as early as Biblical times when the Magi brought gifts to the Baby Jesus. But why give gifts? Sociologists believe we give gifts to form connections with others. If this is true, in giving the gift of family history, we confirm and re-affirm current family connections, while simultaneously establishing connections with generations of family yet to come.

So, what is family history? The terms “family history” and “genealogy” are often used interchangeably, but British genealogist Nick Barratt says they are not the same:
We use genealogy and family history as though they are one and the same thing, but of course they are not. Genealogy is a purer search for historical connectivity between generations – building a family tree or pedigree, if you like – whereas family history is a broader piece of research into their lives and activities.
In other words, genealogy reveals who begat whom and results in a family tree with names, dates, and places. Family history digs more deeply into the lives of people named on the family tree and uncovers stories about their activities, interests, and experiences.

Nowadays there are many ways of being a family. Therefore, any definition of family must be as inclusive as possible and should include at least the following: Children who have been formally adopted; long-term foster children; children who are reared by family members other than their birth parents; children who are unofficially enfolded into a family other than their birth family; and even adults who identify with a family other than their family of origin. Given these (and other) possible family scenarios, I have formulated the following definition of family history:
Family history is stories about the lives of people connected either by bloodline or marriage or by acceptance and socialization into a group that is connected by bloodline or marriage.

Writer William Zinsser says a family history can be a careful act of literary construction, or it can be informal, written to tell your children and grandchildren about the family they were born into and, according to my definition, the family with whom they are associated and connected.

This book, I Come from Bowman Lane: A Family History Memoir (Write Your Family History Now, Before It's Too Late!), is not a “how-to” book. In Chapter 10, however, I do provide examples of several strategies which have proven helpful in capturing my family story. In addition, there are many ways to present stories once they are collected. These include audio, video, or print options and cover formats such as CDs & DVDs; eBooks; audiobooks; heirloom books with thick glossy pages; PowerPoint presentations; print, video, and digital scrapbooks; internet cloud storage sites and, more recently, podcasts. A Google search will explain these and possibly uncover other options. The choices are many and the options are yours to explore. Just remember: Format follows content; that is, the stories you gather are far more important than how they are packaged. Regardless of format, years from now future generations will appreciate and applaud your foresight and generosity in bequeathing them the gift of family history.

Stories about my family have been preserved in three unpublished print documents. Our documents were produced on a PC using Microsoft Word, then photo-copied and spiral-bound at a copy center. The look and feel of the documents is plain and unpretentious. While our format may not be pretty, the content is beautiful, and the end-product is affordable. Most important of all, these tangible records of our family story can be easily reproduced and gifted to future generations.

The first document is our family history book, “From Whence We Came: The Ford Family of Walterboro (Colleton County), South Carolina.” “From Whence We Came” is the focus of Chapter 10 and covers the activities, interests, and experiences of the seven families descended from Charles and Rebecca Ford. The second document is the 2013 memoir written by my mother, Nettie Mariah Ford Gethers aka Mother Dear. The memoir, titled “The Whole Armor of God: Recollections of a Proud Poor Mother,” shows that ordinary people — like my pants presser laundry worker mother, for example – have compelling stories to tell. The third document is an interview I conducted with Mother Dear in 2015. The interview, titled “Work, Pray, Live: Reflections of a Wise Woman,” covers a wide range of topics including family relations, school days, and life on a farm during the Great Depression and World War II.

As I worked at editing Mother Dear's memoir, I realized I was uncovering a family history gold mine. Furthermore, the gold mine deserved to be shared with an audience larger than Mother Dear's children and grandchildren – the audience for whom the book was originally intended. At this point, I sent a flyer announcing: “A forthcoming book by one of our own.” Family and friends were invited to pre-order a copy. Forty (40) friends and family members purchased the book. In December 2013 at her annual Christmas Eve breakfast, Mother Dear happily signed copies of “The Whole Armor of God,” her Christmas gift of family history.

Jacquelyn “Jackie” Ford Williams was so impressed with her Aunt Nettie's book, she posted a picture of the front cover on Facebook and described the emotions she felt while reading the book. My longtime friend and confidante Liticia “Tish” Whitten called to say that as she read, she could picture the book as a movie. Tish even described the opening scene! Leah Meisel, my niece Billi's (Billi Maria Ford Taylor) mentor, sent the following note after reading her copy:
Dear Ms. Nettie,

I wanted to let you know how very much I enjoyed your stories. I feel so honored to have been given that special glimpse into your and your family's history. I loved it and can tell where my dear friend Billi (and Anna) get their strength. Amazing women! Amazing family!

Anyway, thank you for allowing me in. I truly appreciate it.
Sincerely,
Leah

Mother Dear's youngest brother, Lawrence Alexander Ford, had a different response; he had a score to settle.

As an Army veteran, Lawrence frequented the VFW club in his adopted hometown of Colorado Springs, Colorado. He often told stories about the South Carolina “dirt farm” where he grew up. One day he talked about Bob, the family's stubborn mule. One of his VFW buddies dismissed the Bob stories saying, “I don't believe you. Who ever heard of a mule named Bob?”
Upon receiving his copy of Mother Dear's memoir, Lawrence took the book to the VFW club. While his naysayer friend and others listened, he read-aloud from the chapter titled, “Early Farm Years: Bob (The Mule), CCC Camp, and WWII.” When Lawrence finished reading, the naysayer friend looked at him and said: “So, there really was a mule named Bob.”

Most people think their family story is too uninteresting for others to want to read. After all, who wants to read about a mule named Bob? Still, everyone yearns to know who they are, and from whence they come. When you offer the gift of family history, chances are it will be gratefully and graciously accepted. William Zinsser believes that however flawed the effort, family members will give you their blessing, and will thank you for taking on the job. As the response to Mother Dear's memoir shows, if you write it, they will come.

“If you don't recount your family history, it will be lost… The tales may not seem very important, but they are what binds families and makes each of us who we are.” –Madeleine L'Engle

Bio: Margaret Ann Gethers Scott has a doctorate in Library and Information Studies from Florida State University. She worked in the fields of education and librarianship for thirty-nine years. She has served as Ford Family historian since 1996 and enjoys speaking to audiences about the importance (and urgency) of preserving family stories.

Margaret received her “legally blind” diagnosis in 2016 on her 70th birthday. She is currently experiencing end-stage glaucoma. Margaret lives alone in the South Carolina lowcountry on land acquired by her formerly enslaved maternal great-grandparents, Charles and Rebecca Ford, during the early years of Reconstruction.

Visit her website at: https://www.dldbooks.com/MGScott/

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CONTEST ALERT

We will be holding contests in the areas of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry for the Spring/Summer edition of Magnets and Ladders. All submissions will be entered into the contest. Cash prizes of $30 and $20 will be awarded to the first and second place winners.

Please note: Funds for contest prizes are provided by Behind Our Eyes. Checks for prize winning entries not cashed within 6 months of the issue date are void and considered a donation back to Behind Our Eyes. No additional payments will be made to replace the uncashed check. If you intend your prize winnings to be a donation, please let us know upon winning so we can send you a donation receipt letter.

Remember, the deadline for submissions is February 15, so be sure to get your entries in on time.

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Poem and Prayer, poetry
by Ria Meade

If God always listens when I write
then I regard each poem as a prayer.

I am hoping a confession of any guarded issue
will erupt from these keys.
Not sure how this spillage
of my heart's pain may be judged.
Can't be confident honesty will prevail.
My editor may no doubt question,
who are you talking to?

My fingers explore for words
to reflect inner stirrings.
But deny me the ability to disclose the ache;
I won't hear what I can't say out loud.
It feels like I'm praying. Why, God?
Why won't my fingers touch those keys that reveal.
I derail my efforts.
Convince myself I'm safe from those fears.
My failure to go there is my weakness.

But sentiments I do share
are both poem and a prayer.

---

Margins and Mindfulness, nonfiction
by Nancy Scott

Note: The authors quoted in this piece have authorized the use of their work.

Last summer several authors from the anthology, Not an Able-Bodied White Man published by Parisian Phoenix with Money attended a disability event at our local Penn State campus. To create interest and accessibility for the book, Angel placed several author quotes in small frames and asked me to Braille them. We used clear plastic cards.

I thought some of the quotes might provide writing prompts for nonfiction, poetry, or as responses for fictional characters. Some quotes could be considered by people with and without disabilities. My quote relates to siblings but could also apply to spouses or close relatives.

(Check the Parisian Phoenix web site for author bios and book availability.)

If you prefer fun over philosophy, one of the swag pieces I brought home from Disability Pride PA was a pair of lens-less green glasses with various levels of steady and blinking lights. I wore them to dinner that first night in my senior living facility and got many laughs. I also wore them as my Halloween costume. Imagine, I put on the goofy glasses and became a goofy person. What do you suppose the glasses were really for? How easily can we disguise ourselves? Are the glasses funnier because I am a blind person?

Okay, back to serious stuff. How do the following statements make you or your character feel? Do you agree or disagree? I bet many of us have wondered, on bad days, how “messed up” we might be, but that is never all that we are. When should we not rely on our own beliefs? How and when do we express our frustrations? How do we express coping, courage, and comedy?

Angel Ackerman: “I got the vibe that people felt sorry for me.” and “Movement is not a natural event for me… It involves far more than my fair share of falling down.”

Tiffani Burnett-Velez: “I believe in my own gut feelings about my health.”

Thurston D. Gill Jr.: “The more I get to know me, the more I realize how messed up I really am.”

Darrell Parry: “Perhaps the flawed part of me might fit just right in other people's lives.”

Eva Parry: “How many people can't afford the things that keep them alive?”

Nancy Scott: “Have you forgiven the universe for making you the able-bodied sibling?”

We move among others in so many ways. Happy explorations and writing.

Parisian Phoenix is an independent publisher http://ParisianPhoenix.com. Last summer, several authors from the press's anthology Not an Able-Bodied

Bio: Nancy Scott’s over 950 essays and poems have appeared in magazines, literary journals, anthologies, newspapers, and as audio commentaries. Her latest chapbook The Almost Abecedarian, appears on Amazon. She won First Prize in the 2009 International Onkyo Braille Essay Contest. Her recent work appears in 82 Review,Black Fox Literary Magazine, Braille Forum, Chrysanthemum, Kaleidoscope, One Sentence Poems, Shark Reef, Wordgathering,and The Mightywhich regularly publishes to Yahoo News.

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In 1982, twenty-five-year-old Angie Boggs, pregnant with her second child, was brutally murdered, along with her husband and infant son. Ill equipped for the horror of that violence and the enormity of her loss, Angie's sister Ona, a college sophomore, felt numb. She also felt deeply ashamed of her inability to grieve.

But shame, like her sister's absence, was something Ona knew well. For as long as she could remember, she'd felt ashamed of being their parents' blatantly favored child. The disabled daughter they'd coddled and protected while they alternately punished and neglected Angie and finally sent her away.

It wasn't until thirty years after the murders, both their parents gone and Ona nearly twice the age Angie was allowed to reach, that she developed the courage and a detective's compulsion to learn all she could about her sister's turbulent life and unthinkable death. The result is Everywhere I Look, a beautifully rendered memoir of sisterhood, longing, true crime, and family secrets. A profoundly moving reckoning and love letter.

©2024 Ona Gritz (P)2024 Ona Gritz

To read more about Everywhere I Look: A Memoir and to get your copy go to: https://a.co/d/6RQXJBL

---

Abandon, poetry
by Lisa Busch

Every morning springs full of questions:
Will I rise to greet the blank page before me with gratitude
while my husband lies deep in the ground?
Will I snatch hours away from the day brooding over answers I won’t find?

Someone in this world needs a poem,
a whisper of a sunset glow,
a warm blanket of words to rest in.

Only God can sift through the rubble of sorrow,
holding out a cane to help me lean on Him.
Only then can the questions drift to a background drone.
Only then can I write one letter at a time,
abandoning the crush of walking alone.

---

Donation Request

Do you enjoy reading Magnets and Ladders? Consider making a donation to Behind Our Eyes, a 501C3 nonprofit organization of writers with disabilities. Behind Our Eyes provides funding to support all Magnets and Ladders activities and all Magnets and Ladders editorial and technical staff members are Behind Our Eyes Members.

You may make a contribution using the PayPal button on our website https://www.behindoureyes.org.

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Ink on One Side, Color on the Other: An Inspired Collaboration, nonfiction
by Marilyn Brandt Smith

On July 21, 2024, Behind Our Eyes, writers with disabilities, hosted a presentation by two long-time members who networked for a unique journey. They read poems from the seventh day of each month this year, and described the art that accompanies their poetry. The mail carriers between Michigan and Pennsylvania can make or break this project. Here is their story.

Lynda painted and explored art for decades until she lost her vision. Then she stopped. She could still write poetry. Now she knows she can still paint.

Carol specialized in fabric art and photography. She continued these pursuits as her vision diminished and her hearing was unreliable. Poetry was a way to stimulate her self-expression and share reflections. Now she’s learning that painting by feeling is possible. By careful methodology, she works to make it happen.

Carol Farnsworth and Lynda McKinney Lambert met as poets and memoirists through Behind Our Eyes. They shared creations, networked with others, gained new perspectives, and addressed challenges with other writers with disabilities. They are both published authors. Lynda has been publishing for several years. She held a tenured teaching position at Geneva College, and led study groups in Europe for several Summers.

In the Fall of 2023 Carol and Lynda participated in a workshop with other Behind Our Eyes writers. Cindy Bousquet Harris was the workshop presenter. She is the editor of Spirit Fire Review, one of Carol’s favorite places to publish. One discussion focused on a book by Ted Kooser and Jim Harrison, Braided Creek: A Conversation in Poetry. These well-known modern poets undertook writing to each other for a year. They compiled their one-sentence correspondences into a delightful book.

During one meeting, Carol suddenly said, “Would you do a project like that with me, Lynda?”

Lynda said, “Yes, of course,” wondering what she had just agreed to do. She was retired, minding her garden and her pets and writing every day. Over the last two years she had purchased small and large canvases for painting without really understanding why she bought them. Now she had an idea. Her ophthalmologist told her she would paint again one day, just differently. She assumed he was just being nice, but maybe she could make it happen.

“I would love to do this,” she told Carol later, “but there’s one stipulation. We will paint as we write!”

Carol had some unspent energy, and was up for a new challenge, but painting? Both women had worked with fiber art, and of course Lynda had painted. They had often submitted work for a contest sponsored for visually impaired people by the American Printing House for the Blind. They’d won some awards, and attended the special ceremony in Louisville, Kentucky. Beading, felting, and weaving were some of their skills.

Lynda guided Carol through experiments with various forms of painting. Carol enjoyed finger painting, but said it was awfully messy. She settled on working with acrylics. If she layered just right, she could come close to the texture of leather on the 4 by 6 postcards they mailed each other six days a week. They would do this for a year, and see what came of it.

For some of her creative work, Carol went back to an old favorite hobby of photography. She found that the iPhone would correct her focus and give her directions. When there was an animal whose image she just had to capture, she depended on her husband for assistance because there’s no predicting an animal’s movements.

Lynda uses closed circuit television and magnifiers. Carol depends on her memory and her sense of touch to get the paint where she wants it on the card. Carol uses a hearing aid. They talk almost every day by phone. Lynda’s dog always has something to say.

They always write about something they’ve found. It might be something in Lynda’s garden, a clump of foil in the sink, or a nugget of chocolate. Lynda is a very abstract poet. Layers in words and in art are her form of expression. Carol finds that she’s reaching beyond her limits in art and in poetry—playing with longer poems, even dabbling in rhyme.

“Art is the process of creating words or images on paper. As soon as you make a mark on a page, there is content,” Lynda explained.

The question and answer period was very stimulating. Audience members had questions about their continuing enthusiasm and spirit for the work. They were fascinated to know a blind person could paint without seeing. Carol explained that she stays committed to three-color presentations which match the theme of her poetry. Lynda assured us that the concepts one uses to produce art come from the mind, not the eyes. Carol’s art relates directly to her poetry—Lynda’s does not.

Yes, they had some “lost in the mail” instances, and therefore lost some of their valuable contributions. Lynda’s computer had to be replaced early on, so she wasn’t able to scan her work at first. She saved all her poems. Both women keep the cards they receive from each other in binders which they share with friends and family.

A magazine in which they frequently are published is doing a special issue about their work. They have been reaching out, and people have come to them for more information and possible recognition through presentations and publishing. These motivated ladies also have experience, and know how to get a book published. Watch for news about their collaboration.

This special Sunday night meant they were halfway through their commitment. If you’d like to hear their story; their performance of several poems; and the techniques they used on their postcards, visit Http://www.behindoureyes.org and click “Special Events.” It should be the most recent listing.

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, 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 anthology, as well as Magnets and Ladders from 2011 through 2013. She enjoys college basketball, barbershop harmony, and adventure books. Visit her website: http://www.marilynspages.com.

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Part V. Natural Wonders and Seasonal Delights

Garden Gloaming, poetry
by Shawn Jacobson

You sit on the swing as night comes.
In the gloaming, you see the flowers.
Day Lillies, Hibiscus and other blooms
flowers who's names you do not know.
You wish you'd learned them now.
This is a golden evening cool and dry
unlike common sweaty heat of summer.
Mosquitos are silent leaving you in peace
the friendly breeze comes to call and cool.
And your spirit savors this restful time.

The one is present here as you ponder
the strong father who nurtures as a mother.
His gentle strength speaks of quiet power
greater than Zeus or Thor, he needs no storm
to manifest his presence, calm quiet kingship.
This reign of beauty you gladly acknowledge.

And you remember the distance traveled
the highway miles that cross the great plains
the pilgrimage you made to reach this place
to experience this peculiar verdant beauty
and you are thankful to the one for home.

---

Remembering the Rhythm of the Rain, poetry
by Karen Lewellen

Remembering the rhythm of the rain.
That pitter patter,
leading to chatter
from those speckled sparkles sprinkling on the pane.

The tinkling voicing,
of drops rejoicing
at the prospect and the wonder
that is rumble tumble thunder

adding cadence to the rhythm of the rain.

Remembering the rhythm of the rain.
The splishy splashing
of droplets dashing.
Painting pretty patterned prisms on the pane.

Their fancy prancing.
And water dancing.
To the sweet symphonic splendor
that is rumble tumble thunder

Adding cadence to the rhythm of the rain.

Remembering the rhythm of the rain.
That happy clapping,
and rap tap tapping,
of liquid lap lap lapping at the pane.

A joyous jingling
of fluid mingling
with the music and the plunder
that is rumble tumble thunder.

Adding cadence to the rhythm of the rain.

Bio: Karen Lewellen is a weaver of words. In songs and stories, in radio and print journalism pieces, for consulting clients in the social impact and nonprofit sector. She is also a defender of definitions. Especially her choice to redefine in each moment and breath what experiencing blindness and auditory processing disorder means in her daily life.

A native of Arkansas, Karen keeps her looms in New York City and
Toronto Ontario. Discover her tapestries of story and song at https://www.karenlewellen.com or https://www.commongroundmedia.ca.

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Owl Hoot in the Graveyard, poetry
by Leonard Tuchyner

On Hallow’s Eve I hold my head.
On this morose brisk October night,
a crescent moon peeks warily
behind depressing hiding clouds.
I am seen but barely there
in guise of wispy sapient shape.
Owl hoots from specter trees, “Who are you?”
Blackbird screams, “He's carrying his head,”
then flies away with cackling caw.
Night sooths my spine with icy fingers.
The leaves lie dying upon the ground,
my head under arm facing down,
a good way to store my bluish blood.
Night of mischief going to Hell.

---

Haiku, poetry
by Terri Winaught

He slapped me so hard
That I was taken aback!
Winter's brutal winds.

Bio: Terri Winaught grew up in Philadelphia, PA where she attended the Overbrook School for the Blind from 1958 till her high school graduation in 1972. As a third-grader, Terri wrote her first poem entitled, “Love Is Like a Flower,” and has loved writing ever since.

In August, 1972, Terri moved to Pittsburgh, PA where she currently resides. In addition to writing, Terri's passions include: performing community service, reaching out to loved ones on holidays to extend well wishes, singing, and watching Catholic Mass on EWTN especially when she is unable to go to church.

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Thanksgiving Thoughts, nonfiction
by Kate Chamberlin

Well, the evening air was perfect for all the little trick-or-treaters, but, by golly, there's frost on the pumpkin now! The air is definitely autumnal with a nip on your nose and a fragrance of wood-stoves and ripening grapes. It's Thanksgiving time.

The crops, for better or worse, are harvested and, before we batten down the shutters for a long winter, it's time to gather our family and friends.

Most of us are familiar with the stories of the first Thanksgiving, but what about our own personal traditions? Does Thanksgiving have as much meaning for us now as it did in the Pilgrims' time? Or even 50 years ago?

I asked a man of nearly 90 what was it like when he was a boy. At first he told me he was too young to remember, but then he confessed: We always had chicken instead of turkey for Thanksgiving. I always felt badly about that. However, now that I've been having turkey for more years than I can count, I find I don't like turkey!

Most people I asked said they'd had the usual large family gathering of 25 to 30 aunts, uncles, cousins and tag-alongs. Dinner would be of chicken or turkey with squashes, dressings, gravy, vegetables and a variety of pies. One Italian octogenarian said she'd fixed all those plus lasagna and numerous other Italian dishes for her family of 35 members.

In my youth, Thanksgiving meant I wouldn't get to sleep in my own bed! If we went to my grandmother's in Fairfield, CT near Long Island Sound, I'd have to sleep on a bed in the cold back bedroom. For some reason, that bed always had beach sand in-between the sheet–even in winter!

If everyone came to my mother's house, I'd have to sleep on a cot down in the basement near the oil furnace, so my mother's sister and her husband could sleep in my double bed. My cousins got the couches in the den.

My happiest memory of Thanksgiving occurred when I was an adult with teenage children. The evening before Thanksgiving, we were all in the kitchen baking. Will made the caramelized flan, Paul made the pecan pie and Marion made the pumpkin pie. I participated by chopping, stirring and kibitzing. The next day, Dave did the turkey and I made the gravy. We all did the dishes!

I really like what Sue Rooney and her family does. She, along with her husband and children ages 13 and 9, volunteer Thanksgiving Day at a Shelter for Homeless. They bake and serve almost all day and return to their own home extremely tired and much more appreciative of what they have.

I also like the annual tradition the Walworth Methodist Church has. They invite members of our community that don't have family in the area or aren't able to cook for themselves, or are just alone and want company for the holiday to join them in the Fellowship Room for Thanksgiving dinner.

Even in the bleakest of times, there is always something to be thankful for. Some years you might have to look a little (or a lot) deeper than other years, but when people reach out to others, we all can be thankful.

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Winter Watch, poetry
by Joan McNerney

Tangled…one ragged
leaf clings to the bough.

All day my windows
chatter like nervous teeth.

Stopping to see the
shape of a snowflake.

Came home just in time
for the first dizzy dance
of December flurries.

Crystals spin together in
joyful pirouette…a cool ballet.

Bio: Joan McNerney has recited her work at the National Arts Club, New York City, State University of New York, Oneonta, McNay Art Institute, San Antonio and the University of Houston, Texas. Published worldwide in over thirty five countries, her work has appeared in numerous literary publications. She has been awarded four Best of the Net nominations. Her books, The Muse in Miniature, Love Poems for Michael and At Work are available on Amazon.com. A new release entitled Light & Shadow* explores the recent historic COVID pandemic.

Joan was born with both a dislocated hip and hammer toes. She later developed emphysema after an industrial accident.

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Snow Angels, poetry
by Carol Farnsworth

Flakes fly
all night long.
Wind driven
gradually, drifts grow,
from fresh falling snow.
Blanketing the ground.
Silencing all sounds.
Wide eyed children
stare out across sheets of white
fluffy, cold,
dropped in the dark…
Wrapped children
tumble out to play.
Good packing
cupping into balls Taking aim
they target each other
tossing spears of slush,
falling back
raising arms
sweeping upwards
kicking out legs.
Sugar dusted, they slowly rise.
admiring each other’s creations.
Chilled
they leave the angels behind
seeking out mugs of steaming coco
a soft breeze lifts the snow.
scattering angel’s blessings

“Snow Angels” was previously published in the winter 2023 issue of Avocet.

Bio: As a poet, blogger and family historian, Carol Farnsworth relates stories with a humorous twist. Born with a congenital eye disease that slowly caused her blindness. She strives to see the light side of life. With her daughter Ruth and husband John, She has traveled by bike, car and plane discovering the natural world. Her writings have appeared in on line magazines and publications. Her books include Leaf Memories, a chapbook of nature from a tandem bike. She contributed to Strange Weather Anthology, True Quirks of Nature by Marlene Mesot.
Visit her WordPress blog at https://blindontheliteside.com

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Winter Season, Sestina, poetry
by Marlene Mesot

Now clean, fluffy and white new snow,
pristine, perfect, blanket, brilliant,
soon to become dirty as coal,
with the drudgery of winter.
Yet snow glistens, cheery, festive,
brightening festive holidays.

True winter season holidays
would not be the same without snow.
Winter's charm would not seem festive,
without splendor white and brilliant.
Together snow, white and winter,
heating with wood, gas, oil or coal.

Powdered snow, light as dust of coal,
subject for songs of holidays,
characteristic of winter.
Let it show, blow, and let it snow.
Twinkle tree lights sparkle brilliant.
Eat and drink. Be zestive, festive.

Helping others keeps us festive.
No one wants dirty lump of coal.
Present yourself kindly, brilliant,
in the spirit of holidays.
Remember the blanket of snow,
falls on friend and foe in winter.

Season's shortest days in winter,
will not dampen spirits festive,
even though cold, heavy with snow
persevere like hard lumps of coal.
Every day some holidays
keep alive your spirits brilliant.

Resilient and festive, brilliant,
live on season, happy winter,
reason to have some holidays.
Celebrate the season festive.
Do not shed dirty lumps of coal,
over the clean, white, winter snow.

Holidays shine brilliant, festive,
traditional winter warmth coal.
Memorable holidays snow.

Bio: Marlene Mesot authors the 4 Elements of Mystery Series. Curiosity fuels her passion for writing contemporary mystery and other genres. She shares her love of God, family, friendships and animals with her readers. She is legally blind and moderately deaf due to nerve damage at premature birth. Marlene has loved writing since early childhood.

Visit her website at: http://www.marlsmenagerie.com

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Mission Mistletoe, acrostic poetry, fiction
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa

Magical moments, come my way!
Icicles, ice storms–be gone!
Snowflakes fly slowly, settle softly,
tenderly transform
landscape in the December moonlight
elegantly keeping clear the path–
trail of holiday hope and love.
Once-upon-a-winter’s-wish becomes sweet reality:
Enlisted, Sergeant, First Class, comes home for Christmas.

---

After recalling the New Year, Abecedarian poetry
by Lynda McKinney Lambert

After recalling the New Year
before breakfast today I
consider my feelings as I view the vacant gravel
driveway after holidays end and
everyone has departed for home.

First, I thought of those who
greeted the day before dawn to
hustle through heavy traffic on
Interstate 79 north, towards Pittsburgh,
just an hour away from our village.

Kentucky daughter and her family
lingered another day longer. Our
Maryland son left a day early after a
nerve-wracking shopping adventure.

Our roots are deep here in western
Pennsylvania's Allegheny mountain foothills
quality of life is abundant.

Remembering our dinner in
sea green dining room, grandma's
tablecloth of bottle-green linen
under her exquisite
vintage field of
white crochet lace flowers.

X-mas hemlock tree remains in the corner.
Years of family photos on tables and walls
zealously displayed year-round in our family menage.

---

Part VI. Looking Back

Philosophy for a Cool Water Daydream, poetry Honorable Mention
by Lynda McKinney Lambert

In 1929 our house was built on dreams
I invite you to visit my favorite place
walk up the stairway
turn left
luminous light flows through
stained-glass window
spectrum of colors shimmering
red – blue – crystal – green
shifting translucent planes
light scent of Eucalyptus

rustic white shelves display
remembrances of ancestors
Aunt Bettie's silent round silver powder
her music box wound too tight
Mom's vintage compact
one of her treasures
empty aqua tinted glass bottles
my favorite Cool Water perfume
one tiny marble pot of Patchouli oil.

Now, the main attraction takes the lead
curvaceous porcelain-clad bath tup
highlight on four clawed feet
relaxing – dreaming – praying
private prayers of comfort and healing
are spoken aloud
beneath the gentle abstract
acrylic painting on canvas
double framed in pink and mauve

plastered terracotta walls
ceiling of soft willow green
our favorite Puerto Rico hues
radiant tropical yellow doors
greenish blue towels give comfort
water streams over my bare feet
Cool Water on a sizzling summer day
gushing from the age-worn faucet
swirling soap bubbles soothe the soul
my philosophy for a cool water daydream

---

The Seasons of my Life, poetry
by Elizabeth Fiorite

Being born in the spring time of the Depression
brought sunny days and rainy days, and a baby brother!
Summer fun, family vacations
like no others.

School starting, chilly weather,
falling leaves, new shoes, came together.

So much to learn, so many friends, so many losses:
Grandma, Grandpa, brother, parents.

Then sight, agility, youth, ability.
Winter snows brought chilled bones
the memories of lost opportunities, angry words, spiteful actions
tempered by the memories of joy filled times, reunions, like attractions.
Too little time! So much left undone,
so much time and still yet not enough.
There's so much more to learn, to share
There's so much more to love, to bear!
Have I exhausted all my inner power, my creativity?
Must I accept diminishment as God's will for me?
I accept it all, with mustered dignity. This gift of time, joys and sorrows, of blessings undeserved
I return, today, and all my tomorrows, without reserve So let it be!

---

A Love Letter from Louis Braille's Mother, poetry, historical-fiction
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa

Author’s note: On February 15, 1819, Louis Braille and his father (Simon-Rene Braille) took the four-hour stagecoach ride to Paris so that Louis, at age ten, could be enrolled in the school for blind children. The following poem is from the perspective of the mother of Louis Braille-Monique Baron Braille, who was 49 years of age when Louis left his home village of Coupvray to attend the school in Paris, France.
Please imagine the poetic lines being recited in a French accent as I have attempted to do when I presented the following poem for three Zoom events.

Waving goodbye, waving goodbye-
Watching, watching the stagecoach until I could see it no more.

On the fifteenth day of February of 1819,
I-Monique Baron Braille, age 49-
watched my dear son Louis and his papa
leave our little village of Coupvray.

As my frail, but brilliant youngest child set off for the school in Paris at the age of ten,
I waved and waved my hand-
a hand he could not see,
a hand he did not ever remember seeing.
As he could not see the tears falling from my eyes,
he could not see how my heart was breaking-
breaking, breaking with each turn of the wheels of the stagecoach.

Suddenly, I realized I was trembling, trembling-
not from the cold, but from the loss of my precious son.
Then, upon my shoulder, I felt
the weary, but wise hand of the village schoolteacher
Monsieur Antoine Becheret
who said:
“You and Simon-Rene have made the best decision for Louis.
Madame Braille, I know You are doing what is right.”

“Oh, Monsieur Becheret, how can it be right for a mother to give up her young son
who is blind,
to send him forty kilometers away-
so far away?”

“You are giving him the opportunity to learn,
to live the best he can be.
You must believe
our Louis has more than the destination of the school at Paris.
God has a greater plan for your son.
Let your faith mend your heart, and believe in Louis' gifts.”

Again waving, waving my hand-I take heart
and believe in my son.

Throughout the next long, hard minutes, hours, days, months, years-
the words of Monsieur Becheret echoed and echoed in my head:
“With those little hands you have held and loved for ten years,
Louis Braille will learn to read.”

---

The Lost Chord, poetry
by Carol Farnsworth

A scratched worn blond piano waits patiently.
Black keys dull with dust.
Ivory peeling on the edges, waiting for
a tuning.
Music still in the bench.
Three brass pedals peek from underneath.
One to soften the tones.
A second to hold bass chords.
The third, to make notes ring.
Practicing scales, I grew bored.
Starting an old favorite, dad would come to join me.
We would sing duets.
“You Take the High Road”
“In the Gloaming”
“Nearer My God to Thee”
We sang, I played.
Now, I sit, fingering the keys.
I can still hear his bass voice.
But the music eludes me.
I have forgotten the tune.

---

Breezy Public Bench, poetry
by Daniel Alvarez

In a breezeway by The Chocolate Factory
A wooden bench invites passers-by.
But people pay it no mind,
Drawn more by the chocolaty smell inside.

I walk to this spot when I want to go back
To less lonelier times
And sit here, listening,
Feeling the breeze blow by.

On my way to here lies a leaf-strewn path
Where I enjoy the crunching underfoot.
The sound overtakes my mind.
Whenever I walk toward this bench
On a warm night just like then,
I am no longer alone.

I hear her chuckling,
Worried people will spot the small pizza box stuffed in her purse.
But I redirect her attention to the sound of the leaves
And her giggling gets worse.

On this path I always walk on lasting love,
Listening to leaves crackling for clumsy feet like hers.
They disintegrate beneath her weight.
It soothes my heart to hear
Her laugh the brittle cracks away like youth.

“I love the sound,” she says with glee.
I try to play along and crush a leaf,
But echoes of future grief and silence bounce
From trees along the path of lasting love.

I sit on the bench as she goes in.
The breeze overtakes me, mind, body, and soul.
The stream of people going in and out of The Chocolate Factory
Floats by like footless pilgrimaging clouds in the sky.

She is shaking me, calling my name.
I try to explain the breeze's effect on my brain.
“How can nobody notice this breeze?” I say.
She admits it was a hot day,
About a hundred degrees.

I have enough when the breeze feels too much like her hand in my hand,
Like her fingers squeezing my knee.
But I thank God for leading me here those many years ago,
For planting me where the breeze blows
With a seed that still grows.

When a memory is your holy site,
You can go to it day or night;
Even when, like The Chocolate Factory, they fall
To time and a wrecking ball.

Bio: Daniel Alvarez is currently a graduate student in the English MA program. He plans to publish collections of fiction and creative nonfiction short stories and a YA novel in verse. Daniel has been adventitiously blind for several years. He is a Christian, is grateful for his big family and few friends, and strives to live healthy and laugh every day.

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Long Memories, poetry
by Douglas G. Campbell

Legs planted upon a stone wall
I skip rocks across wide ice.
Each crazy unpiloted pebble
steers its noisy wake between oak leaves,
pointed outstretched fingers
imitate the fingers of summer's swimmers.
Oak hands strain to grasp the home tree
anchored within the frozen bank.
Each brown leaf sinks slowly
into its own leaf-shaped crater.
Even when the sky is lost in its own blue
the sun cannot melt the ice-caked wind;
it clatters through the emptiness
left hanging by January among the bone-grey trees.
Though my hands are embalmed
within a frozen-feathered breath
I see only a late summer sun
swimming among the flowers of your dark eyes.
Long months of lonely footprints
lie scattered upon the snow’s rug;
they cannot freeze the long memory of kisses
lost within the warm petals of your smile.

---

Part VII. Slices of Life

Hearing Voices, nonfiction Honorable Mention
by Marcia J. Wick

I used to listen to music on the radio – back when radios in cars were the thing, back when you pushed a button to choose a channel, back before cell phones or the internet demanded our attention.

In the privacy of my bedroom or car capsule, the volume blasting, I would sing along at the top of my lungs, harmonizing or, better yet, imagining myself as Linda Ronstadt, Karen Carpenter, Stevie Nicks, or – why not – Barbra.

Instead of singing along to songs on the radio these days, I'm hearing voices through all sorts of devices, interrupting the regular programming.

The voices seem to come at me from all directions. My laptop talks. My phone talks. My watch and my air fryer and my remote all talk.

Of all the spooky phenomenon, my audible book player transmits the voices of old women, teenagers, young lovers and murderers as if from the grave. The disembodied voices transport me to other places and times in history; I time travel with the random characters for hours on end every night.

My phone and laptop talk to me more subliminally. Their synthetic voices are hypnotic. Disguised as digitized robots, the influencers convince me to buy, try, cry, read, believe, or create an account. It's like being swept into a rip tide. No matter how hard I try to resist the current, I am compelled to subscribe to newsletters, register for webinars, and listen to recordings of more anonymous voices on Zoom presuming to tell me why, what, when, and wherefore.

Don't even get me started wondering about Alexa. “She who must not be named” Not only talks to me, but she listens to virtually everything I'm saying. No wonder why I feel like I'm losing my mind.

Although the voices follow me into every corner of my home, I want more. When will my microwave, coffee maker, washer and dryer, or oven talk to me? I know voices have been detected in some appliances out there, but they haven't broken through the barriers in my home yet.

I'm pleased to report that I've gained the upper hand on one or two of my talking devices. I've discovered how to program/manipulate some voices to suit my personal preferences. Although someone might tell me, “Your daughter is not in your contact list,” if a British gentleman delivers the misinformation instead of the know-it-all Siri, I'm more likely to bite my tongue. When I dictate messages, somehow, my words seem more Clever and whimsical echoed in a lilting British accent.

With all the electronic voices competing for my time and attention out there, it's no surprise that I don't recognize the songs of Taylor Swift or Beyoncé on the radio.

Bio: Marcia J. Wick is a blind, grey-haired grandmother retired from a professional writing career. She write freelance if it pays, for fun if not. Her work
has appeared in the Motherwell blog, Chicken Soup for the Soul, The Bark, Guide Dogs for the Blind Alumni News, and Magnets and Ladders. Her personal
essays reflect on parenting, caregiving, living with a disability, and adventures with her guide dog. When not reading or writing, Marcia volunteers with
Guide Dogs for the blind, advocates for public transit, and enjoys the outdoors with family and friends. Contact her at marciajwick@gmail.com.

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Downsizing, nonfiction
by Marilyn brandt Smith

Thirty-six years is a long time to live at the same address. Our children want to live in other locations, and the two stories—attic and basement—are filled with old memories, current necessities, things we shouldn’t have bought, things we should have thrown away, and future possibilities. It’s time for these two seniors to live smaller.

All my Braille recipes would probably be available in a modern form online, but still, I have spent two days in nostalgic kitchen bliss deciding which ones to discard because the Braille is squished, which ones to give away since they’re still in pretty good condition, and which ones to take with me so I can still browse through those pages from high school cooking class, working life, family-collected hurry-up Braille, and more. I still cook, but with premixes, microwaves, air fryers and such, many recipes have to be adjusted from those instructions that used to work just fine.

Records, VHS and yes-open reel tapes, even a few cassettes still demand to be heard again. Most of those are online too, so we really don’t have to carry them with us, not to mention all the appliances needed to play them. I pick the ones with some sentimental value—where did I get this one? What concert made me buy that one? Whose voice is this on a tape letter from the distant past?

I’ve thrown out clothes from the 1980’s if not before. Pots and pans and glassware—half will not make the trip. “Prioritize” takes on a completely new meaning when it’s you and your belongings—movers; boxing up; finding a storage unit. You can’t live with wall-to-wall cardboard and arrange furniture that’s going to a new place.

Have you been there? Then you know the last-minute things that could go wrong, and that you worry about until they do. For people with disabilities, you also know the challenges in finding enough help at the right time. We’re just moving within the state of Kentucky, but it’s as if we were moving from Indiana to Tennessee since we use many retailers and services from both places when we’re in each home location. Fortunately, we’ve had our southern Kentucky home for twenty-nine years. Unfortunately, it’s less than half the size of our Louisville home.

Our son Jay will want to keep his music keyboards with songs on magnetic cards that slide in. He’ll want his old Apple IIgs games one day when he gets in a mood. My husband Roger will take his ninety-pound Macintosh power amplifier and five-foot-tall Yamaha speakers, but he admits dreading to set it up, making all those connections. Fortunately Hank, his guide dog, loves both places, and doesn’t have to do a thing to get ready.

When the offer comes, something tells you it’s the right time because you still have a little energy and a lot of good health. It’s time to move on. New doctors, new phone numbers, but thank goodness no alarms for security. Only the coyotes and Bobwhites seek us out at the end of our road. We have a few neighbors—we can hear their dogs. Family is within a few miles. Believe it or not, there is some grocery and fast-food delivery. Since our driveway is 100 feet long, the mail people and trash pickup drive right up to our porch.

We have ninety days to get it done—wish us luck.

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Missing Pieces, poetry
by Marilyn Brandt Smith

Mystery pastry found in the freezer,
Orange triangles forming half a circle,
Memory bites, holiday fun, pumpkin pleasure.

Grabbing for glue and grout,
Glossy square in bathroom blue,
Dislodged by doorknob dings.

Plucked from Braille puzzle map at convention,
Purple rectangle, Dorothy’s home,
Someone bares the shame.

Query from a quilt in trouble,
“Crimson corduroy star sneaked out!
“Search or sew-save my self-respect.”

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Fat Don’ Act Like That, memoir
by Carol Farnsworth

When I was pregnant, I lived apart from my husband while I completed paperwork and updated my client’s files before my maternity leave.

Every weekend we would see each other. The standing joke was, “You’re not pregnant, just fat!” This was a joke for both of us because I had a difficult time gaining weight.

One weekend, I was telling my husband about an after work exercise class. I was positioned next to another woman as far along in her pregnancy as me. The exercise, leg lifts with the body balanced on two hands and one knee was difficult. Our babies shifted at the same time, mine to the left and hers to the right, causing us to fall into each other. We were laughing so hard, we didn’t hear the exercise teacher repeating, “Are you all right? Are you okay?” We were soon back to the routine.

When I told John the story, he made the same joke. “You’re not pregnant, just fat!”

The baby decided to take matters into her own hands. First, she stuck out an elbow on the right side of my belly. Then a foot on the left. Finally, her bottom moved as a wave across my stomach from left to right.

I looked at John’s startled face and calmly remarked, “Fat don’t act like tha”.

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My Lucky Day, nonfiction
by Abbie Johnson Taylor

On a September morning in 2016, I stepped out of the shower and was drying myself when I discovered something on my left breast. It felt like the moles on other parts of my skin the dermatologist said were nothing to worry about. I told myself I was making a mountain out of a mole, but the fact that it was on my left breast was worrisome.

I hurriedly dressed, called the women's clinic, and was able to get an appointment for later that morning. Since I couldn't drive due to my limited vision, I called the transit service to arrange a ride. The dispatcher said, “We'll get you there, but you'll have to be patient getting home.”

As I put my cell phone in my pocket, I thought that if I wasn't diagnosed with breast cancer, I would have all the time in the world. I then realized that the nurse-practitioner at the clinic probably wouldn't be able to tell if the spot was cancer by looking at it. A biopsy would need to be scheduled, and that would mean waiting and wondering.

I threw myself into my work, eating half a bagel and banana at my desk while checking email. I then started work on a blog post. Fifteen minutes before my scheduled pick-up time, I was ready. The bus was late.

It was about ten minutes before my scheduled appointment, and the driver said, “I've got a couple people to pick up before I can get you there. Sorry.”

Oh, great, I thought, and I removed my cell phone from my pocket. “Just tell them it's our fault,” the driver said. “We had a scheduling problem.”

The “scheduling problem” was my fault. The transit service usually preferred to book rides at least a day in advance. But I'd convinced the dispatcher it was urgent, and in situations like this, they did their best to be accommodating.

When I called the clinic a second time from the bus, the receptionist asked, “When do you think you'll be here?”

“I don't know,” I answered, exasperated. “I'll be there when I can. Just tell the nurse-practitioner I'm coming.”

As the bus bumped along, I reflected. I thought my life was going great until now. My new memoir was out, and a couple of promotion events were scheduled. Why did this have to happen now?

I remembered the time when my late husband Bill suffered his first stroke. We'd been married for three months and were happy, then boom! Was this thing on my breast another bomb about to drop? Why?

I alternated between these thoughts and telling myself again I was making a mountain out of a mole. I thought of my editor, Leonore Dvorkin, who fought her own battle with breast cancer years earlier and lived to write a memoir about it. While she was recovering from surgery, her husband David took care of her. I no longer had a husband. If I needed a lump or the whole breast removed, I would have to depend on the kindness of friends. My brother would probably want to fly in from Florida, but with a wife and five kids and working two jobs to make ends meet, he couldn't afford it.

When we finally arrived at the medical complex housing the women's clinic, I was surprised when my talking watch told me it was ten-forty-five, the actual time of the appointment. My white cane swinging in front of me, I dashed to the elevator and found the Braille-labeled button for the second floor.

“It's probably nothing,” I told Tracy, the nurse-practitioner moments later. “It could just be a mole, but I thought I should have it checked out.”

“Absolutely!” she said. Her calm voice and demeanor helped me relax.

I placed my index finger on the spot, and she examined it. “It looks like just a clogged pore.”

“You mean it's nothing to worry about?”

“It's nothing to worry about. It should clear up soon.”

“Yes! I don't have breast cancer. Life can go on,” I yelled, as I almost skipped down the deserted hall from the clinic to the elevator.

On the ground floor, I stood inside the entrance, having called the transit service to request a ride before leaving the clinic. I was prepared to “be patient,” but to my surprise and delight, a bus pulled up a few minutes later. This was my lucky day!

“My Lucky Day” was published on Abbie’s blog, My Corner in 2016.

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It's my Chair Now, fiction
by Trish Hubschman

Henry

Here's the scoop, Mom bought a new recliner. It's got massage, heat and It's super soft. It's great. Dad put it in her computer room. She wants to be able to sit in comfort while listening to books and music. She loves it, so do I. He hee.

It took me a few days to discover that the chair was there, but when I did and jumped into it, it was pure luxury. I deserve that. Mom and Dad didn't realize it right away that I was skulking to my new chair, but they found out soon enough. It happened one evening. The three of us were in the living room. I was jumping back and forth from sofa to loveseat to chair. I was sleepy and restless at the same time. I couldn't get comfortable. When the folks were deep in conversation about something and their heads were turned, I sneaked out of the living room and went into Mom's computer room and jumped onto my new recliner. Yes, now I could settle down and snooze.

I heard Mom ask Dad, “Where's Henry?” He didn't reply. I guess he didn't know where I was. Hee hee. “I bet he's in my room in my new chair,” Mom said. I think she was getting frantic.

Next thing I knew, they both were in Mom's computer room. Dad was roaring with laughter. “Yes, that's where he is,” Dad said.

Mom darted over to me. “Get out of my chair, Henry,” she demanded.

Nope, I would not. Finders' keepers. Squatter's rights. Whatever you want to call it. I wasn't budging.

She tried again. “Please get off my chair?” she asked.

Well, she asked in a nicer way, more polite, but still no way. I didn't move.

She got more stern. “Get off my chair now.”

No deal.

She turned to Dad. He couldn't stop laughing. “Do something,” she demanded. “He listens to you.”

“He does not,” Dad protested. “He's Henry. He does what he wants to do.”

I'm glad the folks realize that. I'm proud of it. Mom had steam coming out of her ears.

Dad took a deep breath, probably to calm his laughter down. “Get off the chair, boy. Come on.” He gestured for me to do that. I jumped off, but I wasn't happy about it. Mom scooted into the chair, put the footrest up and hit a button to turn on the massage. I was still in the room, staring at her. She looked at me too.

“Give me half an hour, Henry. You can have the chair back at 7:30.”

At twenty past the hour, Mom got out of the chair to go into the master bedroom to do something. I saw my chance. I jumped back up into my chair, settled down and closed my eyes. Mom came back into her computer room a few minutes later.

“Henry, you're in my chair,” she screeched. “This dog can tell time too.”

That I can. I'm Wonder Dog. This is my chair now.

Bio: Trish Hubschman is the author of the Tracy Gayle mystery series: Tidalwave, Stiff Competition, Ratings Game, Uneasy Tides, and Gayle's Tales. Trish is a graduate of Long Island University's Southampton Campus and has a Bachelor's degree in English-writing. She is deaf-blind and lives in South Carolina with her husband, author Kevin Hubschman, and their dog Henry.
Visit Trish on her Author Website here: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Trish-Hubschman/author/B0CM7P7YXF

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Mixed Up, nonfiction
by Marcia J. Wick

When my first guide dog retired after 10 years of service, I wanted to clone her. I asked the trainers for a female yellow Labrador named Viviane to replace her. What I got was the exact opposite, a male black Lab named Bowser.

Just like children, I learned, no two guide dogs are alike. Vivi is a little lover girl; Bowser is a big playboy. Black and white, young and old, boy and girl-at least I'll never mix them up…or so I thought.

I trained with Bowser during an atypically dry May in Oregon; the late spring weather in Colorado was unusually wet when we returned home. Despite the rainy weather, I was eager to walk with Bowser, but Viviane's petite yellow rain coat didn't begin to cover my taller, longer brute.

“He looks like a teenager wearing a toddler's jacket,” I giggled.

My husband wondered, “Why not walk him in the rain? He'll dry, right?”

“There's nothing worse than a wet dog that smells like…well, a wet dog,” I argued. “A rain coat will also help keep his fur coat clean,” I added.

My husband drove us through a downpour to the pet store so I could fit Bowser with new rain gear. Eager to please, Bowser tolerated the fuss while a clerk took his measure. I tugged a coat with a high collar over his head, wrapped its ample waist band around his middle, and secured long leg liners over his haunches. The clerk looked on in admiration.

Happy with our selection, we returned home to prepare for our first walk in the rain. My guide dog stood patiently once again in the kitchen while I tugged, adjusted, and secured the coat to cover most all but a curious head and wagging tail.

As soon as my task was complete, my husband returned to the kitchen and asked, “Why did you want to try the coat on Viviane?”

Had I mixed up my guide dogs, after all? Despite the difference in their size and color, I had dressed Viviane for our walk instead of Bowser. Both my well-trained guide dogs silently tolerate whatever I ask of them. By the time I figured out my mistake, with chagrin, I realized it had stopped raining.

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Sins of the Father, fiction
by Abbie Johnson Taylor

“Okay, Tim, where were you last night?” I asked my son, once we were settled at the kitchen table with coffee and store-bought cinnamon rolls. He'd shown up, unannounced, and I knew why.

He stared down into his coffee. “Like I told Carrie, I was at the hospital late with a patient. But she didn’t believe me. She let me slip into bed with her after I got home last night, but this morning, she kicked me out. She didn’t even fix me breakfast.”

I gave him my iciest stare. “Carrie called me at midnight, saying she couldn’t reach you on your cell. When she called the hospital, she was told you left at eleven. She was worried. I felt I had no choice but to tell her about your father.”

“Dad? What about Dad?”

“You’re just like him. So, who did you go to bed with last night instead of Carrie?”

He sighed. “Remember Jamie, that sixteen-year-old girl who had a heart transplant? I told you about her last week when we all had supper together.”

“You had sex with your sixteen-year-old heart patient?”

“No! Of course not! I'm not that stupid!”

He sighed. “Lydia was her nurse. We went out for a drink or two after Jamie died. One thing led to another and…” His voice broke, and he hung his head.

“Well, I’m sorry about your patient, but I’m not surprised at your behavior. It was the same way with your father when he lost a client.”

“What do you mean?”

“Years ago, he was defending a man convicted of murder and sentenced to death. He fought to stay the execution. At the end, a female paralegal was working with him on the case.”

“Really?”

“The night of the execution, your father came home very late. I figured he had to tie up some loose ends or something after the man died. But when he slipped into bed next to me at three in the morning, he smelled of booze and sex. Apparently, he hadn’t bothered to shower after the act. In the morning, when I confronted him, he told me the truth, and I forgave him.”

“This is the first time I've ever cheated on Carrie. I promised her it would never happen again, and I mean it. She's the only one for me.”

“The paralegal wasn't your father's only conquest. Things were fine for a while. Then, someone else came along, a secretary, another attorney. Once, it was a client’s wife. Each time, he confessed and said it would never happen again, that I was the only one for him. I didn't want to leave him because of you and Debbie. My own parents split up when I was eleven, and I vowed my children would never be in the same boat. But now that you both are grown with your own lives…”

We ate and drank in silence. Finally, I rose and took my empty plate and cup to the sink. As I rinsed them before putting them in the dishwasher, he said, “That explains why your suitcase and purse are here by the back door. I thought you were going to a writers’ conference.”

I slammed shut the dishwasher door and turned to him, hands on hips. “When Carrie called me last night, frantic because she didn’t know where you were, I invited her over, and we had a nice visit. We've gotten along so well since the two of you were married last year.”

“I know.”

“Your father had yet another late night, and Carrie was gone by the time he came home. Anyway, we decided to strike out on our own. For now, she’s invited me to move into your apartment with her.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Eventually, we’ll find a place where we can each have our own space. I've been saving money I made from book sales, and Carrie is removing, from your joint bank account, the income she’s made so far from her physical therapy job.”

Tim's face turned pale.

“That should be enough to support us for now, and my new book will come out next year.”

He sighed.

“Tim, I love you, but I’m extremely disappointed in you. I thought I’d raised you to be a better man than your father, but this sort of thing must be in the genes. I’m just thankful you haven’t had a chance to get Carrie pregnant yet.”

“She can’t get pregnant,” he blurted.

“That’s no excuse.”

At that moment, his father walked into the room. “Tim, what are you doing here? Leah, I don’t remember you saying you were going out of town.”

Turning to him, I said, “And where were you last night, Harry? No! Don't tell me. I already know. I don't need to hear for the umpteenth time that she means nothing, that I'm the only one for you. Well, if I were truly the only one for you, you wouldn't need any of those women.”

He looked aghast but said nothing.

“I'm sure Tim will be glad to explain why he's here. All I can say is like father like son.”

I picked up my suitcase and purse, marched out the back door into the garage, got in my car, and drove away, not looking back.

“Sins of the Father” was published on BeetleyPete’s blog at beetleypete.com in 2023.

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The Final Email From a Failed Love Story, fiction
by Brad Corallo

From: Henry Jackson Henry.Jackson151@ymail.com
To: ‘Janet Hobart’ Hobart.Janet176@vmail.com

Dear Janet,

I am sending this email in letter form, as I want you to know how I have felt about you for so long. Afterward, you won't hear from me again.

Nine years ago, we were both so filled with belief when we worked under Susanna as part of the management team. That was when I began seriously falling in love with you. You were so ebullient and on fire with enthusiasm and energy. When you entered a room, the world lit up and the air sparkled. The three of us believed so fervently then that we would fix all the wrongs of the company and make it like King Arthur and the round table.

And you, you were so beautiful. That incredible long blond hair, your expressive fiery blue eyes and your intoxicating scent were all so entrancing. I thought, to be loved by you would be the only thing that could change my life and put it back on its natural course.

As time passed, we began working more and more closely together and had many moments of triumph and laughter. All those lunches with wine, the day long training seminars we attended where we laughed at the ridiculous notion of a universal regulatory form that managers had to be trained for hours to use and no one really understood. The spontaneous hugs of delight we shared when we both recognized the same craziness after absurd staff meetings or when we developed a totally new initiative that we together brought successfully to fruition.

I knew that an intimate relationship while working so closely together in such a gossip pit would be dangerous, especially since you were married. I so wanted our relationship to expand to get togethers outside of work. You were reluctant and always had a reason not to in spite of all my suggestions. At the time, I just put it down to your virtuous nature. What a fool I was!

Time passed and I wrote poetry inspired by you though I never mentioned it or showed it to you. It was my first published writing.

Things began to go south in your life in terms of losses and health problems. I wanted so much to help. But the fiercely independent Yankee woman would have none of it; even though we shared similar family losses and could have been of great comfort to each other.

More time passed and your life got increasingly difficult and complex. Your husband went into a nursing facility after almost bankrupting you by his foolish spending and incredibly poor money management, not to mention his opiate addiction and deteriorating mental health. By that point you were completely outraged with him and were disgusted by being in such a loveless marriage. Your dog died and your senile mother almost burned down your house and the insurance company took forever to help with repairing the kitchen.

I was finally able to retire and believed that maybe now we could begin a mutually beneficial relationship where we could share healing love and support. We had lengthy telephone conversations but plans to get together would never pan out.

Though it took nine years, I finally got it through my thick head that you just don’t feel the same way that I did. I truly thought you did or could have. It didn't feel at all like I was deluding myself.

I will never understand the capricious nature of the human heart. Both of us immensely enjoyed each other's company, are essentially alone and are aging into our sixties and yet we can not build a relationship which it seems that we both badly need. What is it that makes it so hard for love to grow in such situations?

So, my cat and I are moving to California to hopefully begin a new life in our remaining days. I will always wish you well but cannot accept anything less than your true, freely given love!

With lasting sadness and regret,

Henry

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Looking for Olives, poetry
by Sally Rosenthal

Her hands in the refrigerator, trying to find olives
bought especially for this anticipated visit,
she heard her long-time friend and new lover ask
if she knew they were together for life.
Her heart should have skipped a beat.
Her breath should have caught in her throat.
Instead, she felt the warmth of last year's coat in a blizzard,
Tasted years of shared meals ahead,
and watched the past slip into the future.
With certainty born of contentment and deep love,
she turned, leaning into his embrace,
the search for olives abandoned.