

## Liphar Magazine Issue 4

LitArtMagazine

Copyright 2015 Liphar

Spangaloo –Smashwords Edition

Visit is to see the Online edition as well as to make comments.

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Contents

Editorial

Credits

Articles

The Teminator: Greatest Love Story Ever Told

The Big Lie

We Need to Create a Storm, America!

Edgar Cayce's Earliest Psychic Readings

The Power of Names

Together

Stories

Chasing a Lead

Nothing Man

The God Of The Donkeys

A Question Of Balance

The Orphan

Poisoned

Books Worth Reading

Editorial

It is a new year, involving new directions for the magazine. The fourth issue has been long awaited and has encountered setbacks but is finally here.

Participation is the key to any venture, and the magazine is no different. We need people to write articles, submit stories and read the magazine.

Over the coming months, we encourage everyone, to contact us and give us your thoughts.

Currently, it has been decided, to include more stories in the magazine. The fourth issue has done that. We will also be expanding the short story collections and hopefully have individual issues for individual genres.

There may also be subtle differences between the online version and the e-book version of the magazine. This is due to various distributors and what is allowed. Some of the e-book distributors do not allow mentioning of their competition. We do not have the same restriction on the online magazine.

There's been some major changes in the publishing world over the last year. We've had the price-fixing scandals, still unresolved. The Google fight with the MPAA, which is ongoing that includes the Sony scandal due to the hacking of their corporate servers. It has been a wild ride, leaving many authors and artists undecided on the best approach to using the World Wide Web.

Not to worry, everything stabilizes, it's a new year. You can focus on the bad, or you can focus on the good. More and more writers and authors are becoming known because of the web, and even though you can't protect yourself from everything, the benefit is definitely there.

Spangaloo is also made some impressive modifications towards the end of 2014. They are a small publisher who has now open up their doors to other authors to be able to distribute their work across many platforms. Of course, this is still in the infancy, and things need to be worked out and finalized, but it is there. We are part of Spangaloo, and they handle full distribution of everything we do.

Onwards and upwards will be our motto. We will strive to provide the absolute best magazine for the outstanding price of free. We encourage you to tell your friends, annoy your neighbours and gently have a good time with it. If you need to contact one of the authors published in the magazine make sure you get in contact with us so we can redirect it for you.

On a final note, we have finally acquired the domain name, LIPHAR.com and began utilizing it for the fourth issue. Submissions will be handled to the old site, LitArtMag.com as well tracking your submissions will become easier once we finalize everything on the old site.

Credits

**Editor:** Deuce Wylde

Staff Writers

*John Laval

*James Blanchette

*Theo Jansen

*Alvin Johnston

*Wilbur Hollinger

Contributors:

Matthew James Dodson

Graeme Stirling

Eden Langlands

Katie Mettner

Steven W. Wise

James Bryron Love

Doug Simpson

Rebecca L. Frencl

Malobi Sinha

M. El-Omaha

Lori Schafer

Malobi Sinha

**Cover Design** :

Spangaloo

http://Spangaloo.com

The Teminator: Greatest Love Story Ever Told.

By: Eden Langlands

Usually when you think of "The Terminator" film, the first thing that comes to mind is a metallic faced Arnie saying "I'll be back" and not of a deeply romantic love story. Kyle Reece falls in love with Sarah Connor just from stories he heard and the pictures of her he'd seen.

When the opportunity arrives to travel back in time to protect her; he jumps at the chance. Although, he know it is a one way trip and his survival with be for a limited time. It is unclear if John Connor knows the truth of Kyle being his father or not; but at that time Kyle has no idea of his important place in fate. All he knows is the woman he loves needs help. Selflessly he leaps into the unknown past. He doesn't even know if he will find be able to find Sarah, let alone, if she would even give him the time of day.

"John Connor gave me a picture of you once. I didn't know why at the time. It was very old-torn, faded. You were young as you are now. You seemed just a little sad. I used to always wonder what you were thinking at that moment. I memorized every line, every curve. I came across time for you Sarah. I love you, I always have."- Kyle Reese

I don't know about you but I just melted a bit. That is the most romantic thing I have ever heard. A man risking everything for the woman he loves, and she doesn't even know he is alive. Luckily for him, she falls under his spell for the rest of her life. Kyle remains the only man for her. It was love from the first words he spoke to her "Come with me if you want to live."

The Terminator has all the hallmarks of the perfect love story. There is conflict, peril, a love that conquerors all adversity, and homicidal robots. OK- maybe not the last one. It is an unforgettable timeless romance, and who could forget the first scenes when a very naked Michael Bien arrives. My ardour was quickly cooled by him going commando in a pair of vagrant trousers, but I am confident that he had time to shower before his first love scene with Sarah. Love must have been in the air on set because Linda Hamilton, the actress who played Sarah Connor, later married the director, James Cameron of Titanic fame. In many ways, The Terminator is the perfect date film. For him, mechanized carnage and Arnold Schwarzenegger and for her, romance and love. Either way, I guarantee you wont be able to look at the film in the same way again.

### Chasing a Lead

by Matthew James Dodson

Shadows draped across the sparse room as Fabian Cornish blended a tonic of bin Laden on a lustrous sheet of aluminum foil. He reclined on the cadaver of a recliner chair that was pure Archie Bunker and sipped a cup of Mexican cocoa. The mug he utilized each afternoon to sip his hot chocolate was stolen from a Waffle House on a drunken road trip across the South when he was younger.

Kitsch was an aesthetic that Cornish wore as a badge of honor. Neighbors commended him for the ceramic stag in his weed-studded yard. His Elvis tapestry was the centerpiece of the living room. The Waffle House mug was not kitsch, however, because it held symbolic value for him. It was the grail cup that he used to dispense water to a deer. It had hit going around a blind curve east of Athens. The mortally wounded buck snorted steam out of this distended nostrils and he comforted it as the warmth waned from its wounded body.

He dotted off for a moment and the narcotizing toxins motivated his mind to explore the texture of this popcorn ceiling and his face absently turned up to view the Diego Rivera print that was a morose depiction of a wedding party with a skull-topped bride. Death permeated every aspect of Cornish's life.

As an obituary writer for The Daily Tolstoy, he summarized the lives of plumbers and secretaries from the town who passed to the other side and left grieving or grateful family to note the end of a journey. He knew that his own death would someday be marked by a four column-inch piece in the paper, likely written by the managing editor who hated his guts and his passing neither grieved nor welcomed by his adopted town.

That did not bother Cornish. He wanted to experience life's pleasures to their fullest and was not particularly concerned with leaving behind a beautiful corpse or a pack of weeping mourners. He had severed all ties to his past and loneliness was an acceptable byproduct of his current life.

While he generally threw caution to the wind, Cornish had learned the hard way that following your passions could sometimes prove painful. His face pressed into the cotton throw pillow he had draped over his shoulders and he recalled a time many years earlier when he had discovered that it was not advisable to sleep with one's editor as a way to get the good assignments at a middling town's daily newspaper city desk. That incident was ten years earlier but it felt like yesterday.

It was particularly awkward when the Executive Editor entered the City Desk Editor's office to find her sprawled out on her desk with the hairy butt of a cub reporter bouncing away with abandon as she was about to orgasm. The cocaine compacted onto her exposed breast in symmetrical lines did not help assuage the old man's annoyance. Like any gentleman, Cornish had attempted to remove the offending evidence from his boss' body by snorting the cocaine off her breast.

After that incident, he washed up near Tolstoy on Artillery Beach like a bloated fishing float. He drove his car into town and surveyed the miserable demeanor of the residents. There were people as desolate as he was. My God, he thought, this place was full of people who could use a sense of humor. There was a counter-culture feel that was a direct descendant of The Summer of Love. The residents of Artillery Beach were embittered by hopes shot down in a hail of bullets, drug busts and minds frayed by THC. Instead of fighting a rear guard action to protect their beliefs or committing suicide in an act of existential resistance, these folks drove their Volkswagen vans and Volvo sedans down the centerline of Highway 101 to the detached escapism of the artist community and waited like post-spawning salmon to die.

The tie-died shirts and organic Swiss chard salads were a daily reminder of their lost utopia. Behind blood-shot eyes and diminished serotonin levels, they self-medicated themselves into fleeting manic states with cocaine and serial sexual encounters that ensured that any communicable disease on the pubes of a resident became a community-wide health issue. His arrival did not go unnoticed. He was a new piece of mutton. A bevy of bohemian women in peasant dresses and beret wearing beat poets with hard-ons circled like sharks in chum. It did not imply that he was unique in any way. He was simply a new diversion.

Their delusional nod to progressivism by inference to earth tone clothes and organic food gave them a feeling of righteous superiority over the suburban summer crowd. The accoutrements were just as plainly a jester's outfit as Cornish's mask of humorous relief.

He needed to find a place to live without a traceable address. He still was not sure whether some bloodhound lawyer had process servers on his trail after that workplace incident. The Morganthau's home in the lush Tolovana woods was perfect. They were spending a few months in Thailand and needed a responsible person to house sit. They had a fine collection of jazz albums and books. This was just what you needed for a cozy winter away from the hassle of button-down executive editors and deadlines.

Cornish was destitute and it was necessary to find some short-term employment. Print journalists were not generally known for having large paychecks and unemployed journalists are really one-step above released convicts. He was eager to find a job that required a minimum of hassle so he could really get to know the locals and immerse himself in the cultural life of the town. Maybe there was a feature story just waiting to be discovered.

As luck would have it, he landed a job stocking shelves at a local grocery store. He worked the produce section with his pal Bertrand from college. While coring iceberg heads and spritzing the spinach, they narrowed down the topics of discussion to a shared penchant for women, Bush-bashing and American movies. When the manager was out of the store, they snuck next door to chat with the attractive young women at the candy shop.

Bertrand was better with the women than Cornish. Just the previous evening, they were getting drunk while watching some French movies when Bertrand noticed that the virginal checkout clerk kept circling the block every five minutes in a peculiar attempt to attract his attention. He finally motioned for her to pull into the driveway. He watched a couple of sad-eyed French lovers smoke cigarettes on the screen while the lovebirds made out on the sofa.

Cornish preferred to keep his liaisons a bit more private. After the movies ended, he snuck over to Mrs. Feist's house. Her husband was out of town on business. She said there was an understanding between the two of them. Who was he to argue with such logic? He returned to the house in Tolovana around 2 a.m. with a lone squad car following him most of the way to ensure he did not run over someone's mailbox.

He spent the next morning stocking shelves by reviving the produce and discussing gossip and politics with the regulars. Mason stopped by to talk about the concert tickets he had purchased for a show at The Severed Ear in Portland. They discussed his time in Afghanistan as a kid when his father was in the Foreign Service.

Melissa stopped by to discuss her surfer boyfriend's interest in her ass. "Why does he always want to stick his dick in my ass?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," he responded. "I think guys just like butts because it's forbidden."

"I don't mind him sticking his finger up my ass but it seems he's not even interested in my vagina anymore," she lamented.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he offered.

"Anytime," she smiled as she shuffled off to the bakery.

The weather was blustery and cold and he was not looking forward to the two-mile walk back to the cabin. He planned to rack up a couple of jazz albums from the Morganthau's collection and spend the evening getting drunk followed by an attempt to practice some yoga asanas. He was not a purist.

After a lunch of prosciutto and provolone, he smoked a Lucky Strike in the backroom while discussing the absurdity of America's foreign policy in Latin America with Bertrand. Sharon interrupted their discussion. The assistant manager, who flailed her free arm and barked into the phone cupped on her shoulder. Her glamour rock hair appeared to move as a single piece in disagreement with her facial twitches as she urgently pleaded into the receiver.

At first, he thought she was having an argument with her boyfriend about his prodigious use of cocaine, which had single-handedly created a shortage in the spot market. He deliberated the possibility that she was actually a cross-dressing enforcer for the Corsican mob when she looked over at their giggling and gave them a look that cleared the smiles from their faces. Mitigating against your cocaine theory was the incompatibility of her reference to earthquakes, tsunamis and body bags. With lover's spats, such words are rarely used to discuss tarnished nasal passages and drug-induced diarrhea.

My God, he thought, the Hanford Nuclear Reservation must have blown its load. He visualized radioactive salmon spawning pink roe goblins and speed-freak motorcycle gangs shooting it out with New Age commandos for control of the last cans of French-cut green beans and blocks of surplus government cheese.

He was ready to run for cover when he heard that an earthquake of colossal scale had rocked the southern part of Alaska, setting into motion a tidal wave down the Pacific coast that was headed right for the unprotected beaches of Oregon.

He knew that, in 1964, an earthquake in Southeast Alaska had birthed a tidal wave that walloped down on the sleepy beach town like a tornado or a hurricane or something. It demolished the only bridge into town and left the town under several feet of water for days. In the ensuing months, the highway was routed away from the town and local businesses were forced to kick in for a massive public relations campaign to save the local economy. According to Sharon, this one threatened to be even more massive and destructive.

In the next hour, tense customers made a run on canned goods, batteries and soft-core porn magazines. Each new customer added to the story. By the time he closed up shop, he was led to believe an island off the coast of southern Alaska had burst apart in such cataclysmic intensity as to make Krakatoa look like a day at the fun fair.

Bertrand recommended that they regroup next door to spend their last hours in furtive groping with the women at the candy store. He suggested that the four of them find a way to cover the event for the embryonic local newspaper he had conjured up during backroom discussions. He enthusiastically agreed. Laura and Margaret were game. Comprehensive coverage of the town's destruction would make a brilliant step forward in their effort to revitalize the town.

He purchased several rolls of film and a few six-packs of beer. Local police and firefighters had started evacuation procedures and most residents seemed to be leaving in a barely contained panic. At the same time, there was a festive undertone, as if the circus was in town or some Joe had just been arrested for taking a hacksaw to his neighbors. Watching an uninhabited town disappear in a wall of churning brown water did not invoke the same distaste to his palate.

Shopkeepers were packing their wares in to car trunks and up into rafters. People with beachfront houses were boarding up windows with whatever they could find at the last minute, including plywood and floral vinyl tablecloths. It was difficult for him to imagine the force of a couple billion gallons of raging seawater turned back because a floral tabletop covering was stapled to a window, but he guessed people wanted to feel like they were doing something productive.

He would have been right there with them but had the more culturally important task of documenting a historical event. A large Coast Guard helicopter hovered over the city for a few minutes and then headed north as he headed to the Chum Tavern for a pint to steady his nerves.

He flashed photos of sullen knick-knack purveyors, who were hoofing their way to the mountains overlooking the town. There, he assumed they would enjoy an alfresco dinner and chilled Chardonnay as their livelihoods washed into the city's sewage. At the Chum, the tone was less somber.

Outside, a white Buick van with a logo for the Portland network affiliate pulled up. A waif of a reporter ordered the obese and walrus-mustached camera operator to get a wide shot of the downtown area while she prepared herself to interview the evacuees. She had a tough-as-nails attitude and a gaunt look that came from ephedrine cocktails and bulimia barfing rites that were ordered up by the station management.

While Bertrand, Margaret and Laura remained in the background pounding cans of Blitz-Weinhard Beer, Cornish moved in for a closer look. Caught off guard, the walrus pointed the camera at him and began to roll. He looked the part of a sympathetic tourist, albeit a speed-freak one, with a Hawaiian shirt, glazed look in his eyes and a reflexive habit of snapping photos at anything that moved.

My god, he thought, the town is about to disappear off the face of the earth and the amateurs cannot find anything more interesting to shoot than a rambling, drunken local with a camera. He made a mental note to draft a polite letter to the reporter, asking her to reassess her choice of careers.

"Hello there," the cameraman shouted, even though he stood only two feet from Cornish's face, with the camera threatening to enter one of his body cavities.

"Hi."

"How do you feel about this evacuation?" the reporter piped in.

"The authorities seem to be acting in an appropriate manner. I haven't seen this kind of discipline since I was embedded with a Syrian death squad on patrol."

"You're a journalist?"

"All very hush, hush. After my incarceration in Lompoc, I've received fewer assignments from the mainstream press. Unfortunately, our rigid, rule-based society chose to view some of my habits as distasteful and illegal. At least the judge felt that way. But in my heyday, you'd find me in all of the world's trouble spots."

"You're familiar with Beirut?"

"Yes, I've heard of Beirut."

"Well, when our boy got kidnapped by one of the militias and carted off to Tehran for interrogation, I was the only pony in town. I had CIA and special ops people calling on me for months. I suspect that one issue was the fact that I was the only Westerner crazy enough to stay in the city after the shit hit the..."

"Thank you, sir. What's your name by the way?"

"Nathaniel Hawthorne. Not the original one, of course. Haha. Actually, it is Cornish. Fabian Cornish. As I was saying, the Lebanese never bothered me. I simply walked around as if I owned the place and they left a wide berth. When things got dicey, I would just put on my Afghan pakol and start chanting songs, pornographic ones, in the Chitrali dialect. You'd be surprised how few militiamen will challenge you when you're caressing yourself on a public street."

"I think we need to get going," the reporter eyed her camera operator. "How old are you anyway?"

"Twenty-three. God, I feel like I've lived three lifetimes. By the way, I don't think I have to add that this is all background. Nothing for attribution, of course. But I can tell you are professionals. Never can tell about the new kids on the block, as it were."

"Thank you, Mr. Hawthorne, I mean Cornish. We'd really do need to get going," she said as they shut down the camera and ran for the main road, where a fire truck was blaring the evacuation orders.

"Bye. It is so nice to chat with my brothers and sisters in the news business."

For a few moments, he chased after his reporter friends, shooting his camera as Bertrand and the girls followed in disarray. He huffed after them for a block or so, but the surprisingly fast walrus and skeleton girl outpaced him and prevented him from getting the right shot. As they continued onto the main road, an idea was coalescing in his mind for a photo documentary of journalists in the pursuit of journalism. Finally, however, they outran him. He would have to seek out other angle. It was around this time that he realized that his friends had drunkenly failed to keep pace. He continued without them.

A group of city police officers and state troopers gathered by the gas station and appeared to be coordinating how to undertake the evacuations. He walked up to one of the officers and attempted to strike up a conversation. He smiled and indicated that the authorities still were not sure whether a wave was approaching or not. Then, he asked him whether he was with the Associated Press or the Oregonian. He did not have the time to explain to the cop the nuances of serious journalism and doubted that he would be amenable to Cornish's startup idea. He worked the sports angle instead.

Cornish told him that he was the special correspondent for Surfer magazine and was reporting on a gaggle of Albanian surfers who were allegedly planning to ride the big wave past City Hall. He explained that he hoped some kind of counter-espionage campaign be undertaken to prevent the communistic surfer dudes from stealing government secrets from City Hall while the officers were out saving lives. He offered to infiltrate the group. His Albanian language skills were a bit rusty but he felt that you could befriend the Illyrian interlopers and drop some LSD into their beers before they attempted to get any important information from the city vaults. The officer declined his offer.

He got less than two blocks before the local fire truck pulled up behind him and gave a thunderous blast from its air horn. A firefighter ordered him to leave town immediately because the tidal wave was on its way. A couple of blocks further, the truck returned, and the firefighter screamed.

"Get the hell out now," she said. "I'm talking to you buddy. This is your last warning."

He gave his best Hessian salute and headed towards Tolovana at a moderate cadence. He slipped into the south end of town and past the Sea Urchin, which was on high ground. From the information he had gathered, the south end would be able to make it through just about anything except the extreme Irwin Allen phantasmagoric disaster. He scrambled through the residential district to reach the well-maintained beachfront houses. A high concrete embankment stood between him and the surf. He pulled out a six-pack and drank the beers as he waited for all hell to break loose.

As he pondered his next move, Bertrand and Laura walked up and sat quietly next to him on the boardwalk.

"Margaret got tired and decided to go home and sleep," Bertrand said.

"My God, what is she going to do when the wave hits town?"

"Dude, the cops said they are going to call off the evacuation. I guess they determined that the wave is not going to hit town."

"Oh."

"Don't worry," Laura said and sat down clumsily beside him. "I'm proud of you for getting us all organized. Besides, you don't need a tidal wave to start a newspaper."

"Well, I guess you're right."

She leaned over and started kissing him. After sitting in silence for several minutes, they walked down the steps to the beach. As they strolled along the darkened beach, he thought that he detected that the waves were slightly rougher than normal. He saw the lights on at the Sea Urchin and walked in for a drink. Some of the local boys were playing Dylan renditions with their guitars, banjos and drums. They sat down and talked with the drunk and happy patrons who never left the bar.

### The Big Lie

by Christa Wojo

Originally published on My Sweet Delirium at http://christawojo.com/2014/03/19/of-human-bondage/

What makes a book, film, painting, or song an enduring masterpiece? It's one that awakens a slumbering memory, long forgotten, yet an integral part of one's personality and perspective on life.

Typical for Panama, the power went out for most of the day. I worked until I drained the batteries of all my computers and devices. With no more electronics to shake any information gratification out of, I turned to my dusty bookshelf where the title Of Human Bondage caught my eye. I found this book when my mother-in-law was moving a few years ago and it's been sitting there ever since. It's the first real paper book I've read in a long time.

The story, so far, is about a boy named Phillip who is born with a clubfoot. When he is nine, his mother dies and he is sent to live with his Uncle who is a vicar. The boy is lonely and friendless and finds his solace in books. Phillip resigns himself to a peaceful existence, reading all day and accompanying his uncle to church at night.

His life becomes miserable when he is sent to school where he is teased and bullied by the other kids. He never has a moment's peace as he limps around the campus. His classmates torment him wherever he goes. Phillip withdraws socially, trying to go unnoticed, and hides his deformed leg whenever he can. He turns to religion and studies it with fervor.

When he is home at the vicarage on break, he remembers a passage he read from the Bible:

"If ye have faith, and doubt not, you shall not only do this which is done to the fig tree, but also if you should say unto this mountain,

Be though removed, and be thou cast into the sea: it shall be done.

And all this, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing ye shall receive."

Phillip asks his aunt, and his uncle, the Vicar, if it is true. Can a person really move mountains with faith? Phillip's aunt tells him that if it says so in the Bible, it is so. His uncle confirms by saying, "By the grace of God."

Phillip is bursting with excitement. It wasn't like he was asking for a favor as grandiose as moving a mountain. God would surely cure his small deformity. He structured his days around praying for his foot to become normal, and set a date for the miracle to occur by the first day of school.

It's heartbreaking. As the reader, you very well know that his prayer won't be answered, and watching Phillip's innocent hope just makes you ache for him. You know he is in store for life altering disappointment.

It reminded me of the time my parents took my sister to one of those crazy faith healing churches. There were no rattlesnakes or fainting women, but it was much different than the solemn Catholic Church we had recently abandoned. My baby sister, Tia, was born with malformed eyes and could see very little. Like most parents who have a baby with a birth defect, mine would try anything to make it disappear.

The congregation prayed intensely over her. I watched for a light from heaven or a subtle cue from angels, but nothing happened. Before we left, the pastor blessed a white handkerchief and told Tia to sleep with it under her pillow at night. He said that we all must pray.

I expected to wake up and see my sister looking at me with two clear blue eyes, but of course, she is with her condition to this day–one eye having died completely and the other steadily deteriorating.

As a kid, I felt it was my fault. Even though I believed with all my heart that she could be cured, I knew there had been a speck of doubt hidden somewhere in the deepest part of my heart, or in my family's hearts, or even in some of the members of the congregation's hearts. This insidious speck prevented the miracle from happening.

I think most of us have that crisis when discovering the Bible, or any religious book, is not literal–or in a child's understanding, not real. The metaphors are lost on us as children and we feel we've been cheated into believing in what is nothing more than a grown-up's fairy tale.

The same disorientation follows when we find out there is no Santa Claus or Easter Bunny. I think that loss of faith, that big lie told to us by the adults, plants a seed of suspicion that makes us doubt forevermore. We doubt our faith, we doubt our gods, we doubt our abilities, and we doubt our loved ones. If it's too good to be true, it is... right?

Now, as I write about that memory with the faith healers and my poor sister, I'm wondering if that disappointment has not been my beef with The Big Guy all along.

As an adult I understand and appreciate the Bible's mythos and how it fits within the context of life, but there is still the little girl in me that's pissed when my baby sister strains to hold back her tears and says, "I don't remember what your face looks like anymore."

Of Human Bondage was written by W. Somerset Maugham. It's a semi-autobiographical novel that was published in 1915, but almost one hundred years later I can pick up this book and relate to its author in the most profound way. That is the magic of the greatest artists.

### Nothing Man

by Graeme Stirling

Autumn is coming. In the evening the temperature drops like a stone into an empty pond, the ripples gone by morning. He watches the three elm trees from his window and waits for the leaves to turn to colour of the liquid in his glass.

Often he worries that he might one day drown in the bottle. He's heard stories. His grandfather, whom he met once or twice as an oblivious infant, was a drinker. Drinker was the local term for an alcoholic. He died on his own in an Arran cottage. He might have been able to see the waves.

Wine never seems a dangerous thing. A glass with dinner is as respectable as anything else that can fill it. It is its purpose that worries him. It calms his nerves and, when he needs it to and drinks enough of it, sends him to sleep. This is the only rea-son he walks to the market with his passport tucked into a jacket pocket.

Today he walked in the other direction. The path that stretches beyond the trees and across a patch of empty parkland had been maddening him. The grass is al-ready stained with orange freckles and the children have disappeared with the day-light. The clouds and the light rain that often follows remind him of home. The wind is as unwelcome as it always was. He wore a coat that he didn't need; it reminds him of a winter spent hand in hand.

Parks are like jars of air with thousands of strangers' memories stuffed into them. Voices can be heard when no one is there, usually laughing. Sometimes the rat-tle of a dog chain or the heavy, irregular footsteps of a child. He only hears them when he is alone, and only sees them from behind the glass and tilted blinds.

They remind him of friends at home who smoke, how they stop and start to roll a cigarette or light it when they finish. Sometimes he thinks that he can smell to-bacco, and every time he thinks of buying a packet and carrying it in his winter coat. Instead he stuffs his hands into his pockets.

There was nothing at the far edge of the grass where the path had bent out of sight of his window – only an empty play park and the high back garden fences of a cluster of houses. He was disappointed when he turned back, his journey pointless and somehow humiliating. Someone could be watching him from the communal kitchen or from one of the flats above and below.

It was three weeks ago now that it caught his eye: a camel, dromedary or the other variety, whichever has two humps and looks even more ridiculous than its coun-terpart. He saw the first hump through the trees, followed by the other, and then the oddly-shaped head as it turned and flicked its tail mid-graze. Maybe that was when he began to worry about the drink.

He'd bought a bottle of Royal Canadian rye and had regretted it ever since. It was a stupid, impulsive decision – it was darker in colour than proper whisky and he wanted to know if it compared, or whether it was fiery swill akin to that distilled in Kentucky and Tennessee. He'd had one measure and choked on it, his eyes watering. When he'd turned to the window, the camel had been there.

A circus had come to town and a great twin-spire tent had been erected some-where beyond the park. After a week or two it was gone. He regretted not going. He regretted the second measure.

He regrets the engagement ring in the top drawer; not the purchase, but his purpose. She isn't here. When she is, he will be too afraid. He misses her.

### We Need to Create a Storm, America!

by Katie Mettner

It's time America! We must stand up and create storms against those who destroy our earth. In her book, Earth Sentinels: The Storm Creators, Elizabeth Herrera does just that. Earth Sentinels begins with the fallen angel Bechard somberly observing the world being destroyed by mankind's greed, corruption and indifference. Realizing drastic measures are needed; Bechard begins searching the globe for people who might join his quest to save the planet.

It doesn't take long for the fallen angel to find 17-year-old Zachary, whose family's organic farm is being ruined by fracking; Haruto, living in Fukushima, Japan, where the nuclear meltdown is raging out of control; Mahakanta, a cotton farmer in India, who used GMO seeds with devastating results; the

Amazonian tribe members, Conchita and her father, Pahtia, fighting against intruders illegally tearing down their rainforest; and the Bear Claw First Nation Tribe who are dealing with an unstoppable oil spill that is ruining their traditional hunting grounds. Intriguing blue doors and ethereal mists beckon the characters to the spirit realm where they finally meet the mastermind Bechard to form an alliance.

Excitement builds when the world's Governments are faced with the Earth Sentinels' demands, sent on behalf of Mother Earth who cannot speak for herself. As events unfurl and countries retaliate, the readers ride a roller coaster through the supernatural!

The book takes a very real problem we are facing not just in our country, but in the world, and takes a fictional solution to it that makes you think about how much longer we can go on with our current sins against Mother Nature. Being a victim of fracking and huge oil companies, I too say ENOUGH! We must stand up and make as much noise as we can, so we can take the earth back for our kids and grandkids.

BOOK DESCRIPTION:

A fallen angel somberly observes the world being destroyed by mankind's greed, corruption and indifference. Realizing drastic measures are needed, he begins searching the globe for people who might join his quest to save the planet. He finds 17-year-old Zachary, whose family's organic farm is being ruined by fracking; Haruto, living in Fukushima, Japan, where the nuclear meltdown is raging out of control; Mahakanta, a cotton farmer in India, who used GMO seeds with devastating results; the Amazonian tribe members, Conchita and her father, Pahtia, fighting against intruders illegally tearing down their rainforest; and the Bear Claw First Nation Tribe who are dealing with an unstoppable oil spill that is ruining their traditional hunting grounds. Using supernatural powers, the Earth Sentinels grab the world's attention, but as the events unfold and countries retaliate, the characters are forced to question their motives and listen to their hearts.

My Review:

Earth Sentinels: The Storm Creators was not the kind of book I would normally read. However, the premise of the story drew me in because of my own real life experience with fracing in Wisconsin. I recently lost my home to the big oil companies and sand fracing companies who don't care about the earth, clean drinking water or the people in the communities they destroy.

The book begins with several different points of view from all over the world of native tribes, shamans from countries who have experienced natural disasters and tribes from the rain forests. The author did an amazing job of keeping the many different points of view clear and concise and you never felt confused. She made you feel invested in each character before she moved you on to the next and when they all came together into the Earth Sentinels you knew exactly who everyone was and what their reasons and mission were.

The Earth Sentinels used the spirit world and their totem animals to help create storms to bring attention to the damage that these large oil companies, and various governments, were doing to our earth. They didn't demand power, or money, they only demanded that the heads of government wake up and begin to see the damage taking place to the place we live.

The governments of course saw these storms as attacks and decided to retaliate with a war against the native tribes. I won't give spoilers, but the ending was fantastic!

This book raised a lot of questions in my mind as I was reading. Can we condone the acts of few to benefit many when their intentions are good and pure? Can we save our earth and make it a better place for our children and grandchildren? Are our hands tied by the big companies who have all the money and we are therefore left to our own devices in order to continue to live the dream of farming, organic farming and the like? Will we ever be able to recover our earth from the nightmare that is fracing or will our children and grandchildren have nothing but polluted lakes and unsafe drinking water because of what our governments are allowing to happen today?

I can answer a few of these questions from my own personal experience. Secretly, I wish there were Earth Sentinels to help us save our planet and show the powers that be what they are doing to our environment. Since there aren't, it is clear we need to work on these issues ourselves because if enough people raise their voices to the sky eventually we will be heard.

I highly recommend this book to everyone and anyone, including young teens and young adults. It's essentially profanity free, it is sex free and though there is violence in the terms of the storms, there is nothing in this book I wouldn't let my 10 and 12 year old read. In fact, my 12 year old will start reading it today! Thank you Elizabeth for writing a story that draws attention to the very important issue facing all of us today.

INTERVIEW WITH ELIZABETH HERRERA

WHAT SPARKED THE IDEA FOR THIS BOOK?

The idea for Earth Sentinels began while having breakfast with my family. Everyone was quiet, so I thought I would liven things up with an impromptu story of how the earth's creatures were tired of mankind destroying the earth and planned to strike back. I created a story of big beasts sneaking up on people, then tearing them limb from limb. I expected my children to be appalled by the blood and gore, but instead their eyes were wide with fascination and my 14-year-old daughter, who is sweet and loving by nature, clenched her fist and exclaimed, "Yes!" It was then that I knew I was on to something. We are all troubled by the greed destroying our planet and want to someone, anyone, to do something.

WHAT WAS THE HARDEST PART IN WRITING THIS BOOK?

I shed a lot of tears while researching Earth Sentinels, because the planet is in much worse shape than I had imagined. It was a HUGE lesson in forgiveness.

IS ANYTHING IN YOUR BOOK BASED ON REAL-LIFE EXPERIENCES OR PURELY ALL IMAGINATION?

The supernatural events in my books may seem far-fetched, but many of them are true! The beauty of fiction is that readers don't know which parts are true or not. I'll leave it to the readers to decide. Of course, in my memoir all of the miracles are true.

WHAT MADE YOU QUALIFIED TO WRITE THIS?

I began practicing shamanism (Native American spirituality) 12 years ago, which has given me insights that can only be received experientially. For example, once you learn to communicate with the spirit realm, you are able to talk with the elements (storms, water, wind, earth). The fallen angel Bechard, Master of the Elements, is a reflection of my experiences. As they say, "truth is stranger than fiction." Although in this case, they might be equal.

About The Author:

Shaman Elizabeth Herrera is a healer and author who writes life-changing books. Her stories encourage people to stretch outside their comfort zones and reexamine their own beliefs. Elizabeth was raised in a Christian home, but lost her faith in her early twenties. For over a decade, she searched for something to fill the void, eventually discovering Native American spirituality (shamanism). Through this spiritual practice, she unexpectedly became a catalyst for healing and miracles. These events led her back to a belief in a higher power. Her great-grandfather was a full-blooded Apache, who raised her father. She was fortunate to know her great-grandfather. He smuggled sugar and flour from Mexico into Texas, exchanged gunfire with Texas Rangers and crossed paths with Pancho Villa. She is the author of Shaman Stone Soup, Dreams of Dying and Earth Sentinels. Born and raised in Michigan, she now lives in North Carolina with her family.

Contact Shaman Elizabeth Herrera:

info@ShamanElizabeth.com

ShamanElizabethHerrera.com

blog.ShamanElizabeth.com

Twitter @ShamanElizabeth

Facebook.com/ShamanElizabeth

### The God Of The Donkeys

by Steven W. Wise

All living creatures are a mystery, more so after they die.

The man steered his truck west off of the highway and drove slowly over the frozen gravel road, looked to his left across the barbed wire fence and into the snow-patched field, a ragged checkerboard that stretched to the woods line. But the man saw neither the field nor the woods, his gaze fixed thirty steps distant on the little donkey with the stubbly wisp of a mane and a thin tail that shifted to and fro at the whim of the icy wind that knifed from the north across the road and into the field. The animal's gray-dun coat was scruffy and thin, his ribs furrowed beneath the hide like the form of a boat hull under construction, yet with a wormy pot-belly sagging below. He appeared to stare straight ahead, as if there were an object worthy of donkey contemplation somewhere in the empty bleakness of late February. The muzzle and eye rings, once white, were filthy and crusted, the long pointed ears jutting forward like worn horns. His hooves were hidden in the dead grass, but the man suspected that they were curled upward, unclipped, perhaps with abscesses.

The man braked the new, black 1978 Chevrolet pickup truck, jammed the gear selector up into park. He looked back to the front, stared for long moments through the windshield at the low iron clouds scudding from north to south. He counted backwards, a winter at a time, settled on three as the accurate number over which, every two or three weeks, he had seen the donkey in the field, never more than a few feet from where it stood now, rooted in the harsh earth as surely as an unwanted scrub cedar or Osage Orange. The man's job dictated his present travel route mostly in winter, but he was certain that the warmer months were only marginally better for the pathetic, unloved creature. The man swung open the door, climbed out, straightened his lanky frame. He was thirty-one years old, carried no excess flesh, and squinted out of long habit. On the back of his left hand was a black tattoo of excellent design that read: 101st AIRBORNE, and under that, the head of a screaming eagle. From the pocket of his denim work shirt he fingered a Marlboro cigarette, tucked it between his lips, and then lit it with a Zippo bearing the same design as the tattoo. He smoked half in four long draws and then tossed the long stub into the snow filled ditch. He turned back to the open cab, bent forward at the waist, and reached under the seat. He grasped the holstered revolver in his left hand, and with his right withdrew the six-inch-barreled Smith and Wesson Model 29, tossed the holster in the seat. The nickel plating gleamed even in the low light. The cylinder was loaded with six .44 magnum cartridges, hand loaded, each bullet two hundred forty grains in weight and in a jacketed hollow point configuration. The cases contained twenty-three grains of high quality smokeless powder. With a quarter turn of his head to his left, he paused, looked and listened for approaching vehicles. There was only the wind in his ears. He took a two-handed hold on the black rubber grips as he placed his forearms across the top of the door, and then cocked the hammer with his left thumb. The front sight with the red insert settled into the square notch of the rear sight. His eyes focused on the insert, the top of which was now aligned with a point two inches behind the left eye of the donkey. As it always was when targets lived and breathed, the report of the gun did not come to the man's ears as a loud noise; rather, a fading echo wafting across the barren landscape. The donkey disappeared from his sight picture, and the man knew that there was no need to look down. He turned quickly, slid the revolver back into the holster, shoved it back under the seat. He settled back into the seat and drove a few yards forward before making a three-point turn back toward the paved road.

Eight hundred yards to the south, and hidden atop a wooded ridge, a frame house squatted in a copse of elm trees. Ensconced within the living room, a couple sat in green vinyl lounge chairs as they stared at the fuzzy images cast from an eighteen-inch black and white television set, the rabbit ears above it sagging and wrapped with clumps of aluminum foil. The man's hair was still thick, though greying around the edges; incrementally, one year slipping into the next, he had come to care less and less about its length. His wife's hair, in short tight curls, was more grey than black, but this fact caused her no more care than did the thirty pounds that had crept onto her frame over the past twenty years. The man's thick forearms rested in his lap, and on the right forearm was a faded tattoo peeking through the hair that read: 101st AIRBORNE, and under that, the image of a screaming eagle.

In the kitchen, another man sat at the small oval table, his wide face expressionless, rivulets of saliva cutting crookedly from both corners of his mouth. His hair was buzz-cut on the sides to a line just above his ears, and above the line it was only twice as long. He was twenty seven years old, did not tolerate the smelly fuel-oil heat in the living room any better than he tolerated people, including his parents. In wintertime he spent most of his hours in the drafty kitchen shirtless and barefoot, as he was now. The man was vaguely aware that the seasons of the year bore names, but he sensed with great clarity the fact that soon the last of the snow would melt, the sun would rise higher and warmer, and that he again would lead his donkey to the shade of the trees and wait with his silent friend until the breeze found them, and then he would feed him carrots from his hand. And the man knew that even today, in the cold and before darkness, he would make his daily trek down to the low field and lead his donkey back up the hill and into the shelter. Robot-like, he poked a kernel of corn through the wires of a bird cage sitting in the middle of the table. The cage contained a young fox squirrel that chattered as it approached the kernel. Two huge cats, a yellow and a grey, both with long fur, slinked with arched backs and stilted legs back and forth between his bare ankles. On the linoleum floor beside his chair, a tan colored mongrel lay curled, its dark eyes peering upward and locked on the noisy squirrel.

In the living room, the woman asked the man, "You hear that?"

"I did in fact."

"Gun?"

"Yes 'twas, but not a shotgun."

"On us?"

"Yes 'twas."

"What you reckon?"

"Somebody takin' a whack at a runnin' coyote comes to mind. They will make a trot through sometimes in the middle of the day...or dig for mice in the snow."

The man steered the Chevy pickup onto the paved road, but for only a hundred feet before he glanced into the rearview mirror, slammed the brakes and shifted into reverse. The tires squealed faintly to a halt at the intersection with the gravel road and then he turned back onto it, rolling slowly, past the still form of the donkey's body, and on for a quarter mile until he stopped at a mailbox. It was fashioned from an old black metal lunch pail, and mounted on top of a cedar post. Painted white in sturdy block lettering was a single name: G I S H. The man looked south down the narrow lane—a packed bed of two-inch rock, thin but serviceable—and followed its trace across the end of the field and up the long rise where it disappeared into the trees. He turned the truck down the lane and drove slowly as he lit a cigarette. The north wind caught the little cloud of smoke slipping from the driver's-side window and chased it ahead of the truck until it vanished.

He peered through the windshield as the truck topped the rise, and he spied the house, a far better vision than the one that had begun to form in his mind as he drove up the lane. It was old, to be sure, but the asbestos-clad walls were square, the asphalt-shingled roof sound and properly guttered, the window frames a reasonable shade of white. A small wooden porch, roofed and shingled, harbored a green front door with a brass knocker. The man braked to a halt, ground the cigarette stub in the console ashtray. Stacked one on top of the other at the corner of the porch sat two small, empty animal cages with trap doors for live catching. Behind the house was a metal shed that appeared even sturdier than the house, and from behind the shed the front half of a weathered, yellow bulldozer intruded into the grey light, its tall blade aligned with a goose-necked trailer. The front yard was no more than a forty-foot square, uncluttered with items either abandoned or neglected that the man had been certain he would see. A bird feeder was centered in one half of the yard, which was divided by a concrete walk, and centered in the other half was a twenty-foot flagpole with a three-foot by four-foot American flag rippling in the breeze.

The dog in the kitchen low-growled the presence of the truck in the driveway, but his master rubbed the toes of his right foot against the dog's ribs, silencing it, and then he looked into the living room as he heard the engine stop. He watched his mother push herself up from her chair and shuffle toward the door. The man let the corn kernels slip from his hand onto the table as he pushed the chair back and stood. He slipped to the open doorway to the living room, and then hid behind the wall.

She did not wait for the knock on the door before opening it a foot and poking out her head. The approaching man had a chiseled, handsome face and was wearing an unzipped camouflage hunting jacket. He stopped six paces from the porch. "Is this the Gish residence?"

She nodded, said, "Don't believe we've met."

"Do you own the field with the donkey?"

She nodded again, furrowed her brow. "What's that to you?"

The man shifted his weight, reset his boots in the grass, stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. "Is Mister Gish around?"

Her eyes did not move from the man. She was certain now, the dread rising in the space between them like a stench. "Vinis Gish, come forth!"

The door opened wide, the frame filled with the bulk of Vinis Gish, his broad, square hands thumb-hooked over the suspenders of his bib overalls. For several seconds, the two men studied each other's faces, probing, seeking clues. Gish said, "What's this here about?"

The man drew in a steady breath, released it slowly. "For years I've passed by that little donkey down in your field and wondered when somebody would ever take proper care of it." He paused, studied Gish's eyes for a reaction, saw a gear shift in the man's head as surely as if metal teeth were meshing.

"The gun shot was your'n?"

"It was."

The woman's voice, low and plaintive, wafted past her husband's shoulder. "Holy Jeeeeesus...Lil' Clem."

Gish said, "We have a terrible situation here."

"I could've just drove on away...started to, but it wouldn't have been right. I'm not that kind of man."

"So you come up here to tell me what kind of a sorry-ass man I am, that it?"

"No. I came so you'd know that it wasn't a vandal with no reason."

"Donkey just as dead though, ain't he?" Gish lowered his hands to his hips. "Who made you god of donkeys?"

The man's hands slipped from his pockets. "Look, Gish...I didn't come here to start a fight over this. I came as a point of honor, and if it helps, I'd be willing to pay you for your trouble if you want to dispose of the carcass."

"You got any kids?"

"Yes...boy and a girl."

"They normal?"

The man's brow crinkled. "Normal?"

"Of the mind, I mean."

The man swallowed, nodded, said nothing.

"That is a blessing you'll never really understand, mister god of donkeys."

Gish's eyes reddened as he stepped forward from the door and walked across the porch into the grass. He stopped three feet from the man. "Let me tell what you've done...and how much your goddamned honor's worth." He raised a fist and motioned over his shoulder toward the door. "In there is our boy who was born slow of the mind. He understands most everything, but he don't...or can't...no damn doctor knows for sure...say a word, never has. Sorta like the talkin' world is a mystery he don't care to participate in...which may make him smarter than all us talkers. He will live with us like a man-child till we're dead and then the state will have to keep him until he's dead. And the only things in this entire world he cares about are his animals...and that little donkey which woulda likely lived another twenty years...well, I reckon he loved that critter most of all. Speakin' of which, I just spent sixteen dollars and thirty-four cents on wormin' medicine which the vet claimed was gonna finally fix him. And further speakin' of which, a farrier that knows him by name comes regular and tends his hooves. And further speakin' of which, had a shelter just in the trees yonder which he could get in when he wanted...which wasn't often, I know not why...because most donkeys would...but not Lil' Clem."

Gish stopped for breath and knuckled a tear into his cheek, clenched his jaws. He lowered his head, and the man in front of him took it as a sign of gathering calm, and he too lowered his head. It was then when the blow loosed an explosion behind his left eye, and when he looked up the tree tops moved in sweeping circles, as if a wind storm had invaded his head. Time slowed, trickling now, the tree tops slowing too, and finally the man raised his hand, fingered the blood leaking from his the corner of his eye. He propped himself on one elbow, allowed the details of the preceding minutes to re-form in the returning chambers of his brain. He glanced up, saw that Gish had not moved, and then steadied himself on one knee before regaining his feet. From his hip pocket he pulled a red handkerchief and held it against his cheek for several seconds. The only sounds in the yard were the frettings of a brace of crows, high overhead and discordant with the soft whoosh of the wind. Gish raised his right hand, no longer a fist.

"You take your honorable self away from here and don't come back...ever."

"Reckon I had that comin'. I am sorry for all the trouble."

As the man turned toward his truck, a flicker of movement to his right and at the corner of the house invaded Gish's peripheral vision. He turned his head and saw the barrel of the shotgun, but before he could open his mouth to shout, the roar echoed past him, and when he jerked his head back to the front the man was coiled in agony, his boots churning in the colorless grass. As Gish ran to the stricken man, he heard his wife scream behind him. The man rolled onto his back, then struggled to a sitting position. He spread his jacket and ripped open his shirt, three white buttons popping into the air. He made no sound as he stared down at the seeping exit holes that formed a ragged pattern spread over six inches of his abdomen. Gish dropped to his knees, placed his left hand behind the man's head and carefully lowered him to the ground. He reached down with his right hand and found the bloody left hand and he squeezed it with a gentle pressure. From inside the house, the dog barked inquisitively and without pause, seeking his master's whereabouts.

Gish looked at the holes that he knew to be the result of a double ought buckshot load from a twelve gauge shell, and with the knowledge he knew that the man was doomed. "Goddammit all! Goddammit, man!" He shook his shaggy head from side to side.

The man's words wheezed upward, fading sounds, but Gish heard them. "Am I dead?"

Gish nodded, said, "Yes."

"Thought that." His eyelids sank halfway, then his eyeballs fixated in death.

Gish held onto the limp hand for a moment, then looked down as it slid free, the tattoo now in full view. The black numerals and letters and the image of the screaming eagle of the 101st Airborne burned a hole that reached into the middle of Gish's head, then down to his gut, and he gagged, swallowed against the nausea pooled at the base of his tongue. He planted one foot underneath his body, then the other, and pushed himself upright. He felt his wife's shoulder crowd against his, but he separated from her touch, could not deal with the trembling. From inside the house, the dog barking suddenly ceased.

The woman's voice was a loud whisper. "Lord God, Vinis...what we gonna do?"

Gish pressed his fingertips against his forehead, and then lowered his hands to his waist, locked his fingers. "Be still a minute, woman...got to think here."

She waited as long as she could stand the silence, a span of sixty seconds that she was certain had covered several minutes. "They'll carry him away, won't they?... pen him up somewhere where he can't have his animals...Lord God..."

"No...ain't nobody gonna carry him away." He unlocked his fingers, raised his head, straightened his arms, then spoke in an even tone, like a man talking into a mirror, delivering a statement of great import to himself. "The only one that acted outside his bounds here was a man that shoulda' known better." He shook his head, slowly, steadily. "Our family will not pay for his mistake...in any manner." Gish looked straight up into the low clouds for a moment, then back level, considered it appropriate to the occasion that the sun was not visible. "I will take down our flag to tie around him and then we will load him into his truck and I will drive it down behind this hill to the open glade where the rock won't be shelved in the ground. I will take the tractor and go drag Lil' Clem to the same place. Then I'll fire up the dozer and go down there and dig a hole ten feet deep and thirty feet wide. Into that hole I will put and mash down to near nothin' the truck, which will be the man's casket, and I will put Lil' Clem beside it, and then I will fill the hole and brush it over and make it look like it has been that way for a long time. All the while, you will tend the boy inside the house and be sure his mind is on his critters. It will be over before nightfall. It will be days, more likely weeks, before any laws might poke around after a missing man who traveled the blacktop road. They might never come. But if they do, I will be the one to talk."

He turned to his wife, made her red-rimmed, weepy eyes hold his until he was certain that she wouldn't look away. He said, "Can you live with that arrangement, woman...now and forever?"

Her chin quivered, her hands a white knot of bone, thinly covered with flesh. "I'll have to." She swallowed thickly, sucked in a quick breath. "I saw his tattoo, Vinis. Can you?"

Great tears rolled down his cheeks, and he stifled a sob that racked his barrel chest. He steadied himself, said. "In time....I'll have to."

At a quarter past four o-clock in the afternoon, on a Saturday that marked the end of the second week of March, a Moniteau County Sheriff's patrol car rolled slowly to a halt in front of the Gish house. When the deputy stepped from his vehicle, he looked down the path toward the metal shed and watched as Vinis Gish ambled toward him. When he was twenty feet from the deputy, Gish hailed the younger man with a toss of his right hand and said, "Howdy there, young fella, what can I do for ya?"

"Well, sir...Mr. Gish, I take it?" Gish nodded in affirmation. "I'm helping with a search effort regarding a missing person that you might've heard about."

Gish nodded. "Seems like I heard somethin' about it on the news two or three weeks ago maybe. Somebody from down around Springfield, they say?"

"Yes, a man named Worth Strother, thirty-one, dark hair, six-two, around two hundred pounds...most likely wearing a camo jacket. Last seen in a new black Chevy pickup. He travelled regular between Columbia and Springfield, most often over on Highway 63 down through Lake Ozarks, but his wife said he liked to get off the beaten path every so often." The deputy flapped his hands as if in apology. "The Highway Patrol, County Sheriffs all around, City Police...you name it...we've been near about everywhere by now I reckon. But you never know when you might run into somebody who saw something, heard something." He flapped his hands again, and then reset his Smokey Bear hat. "Anyway...we're pretty much stumped by it all...heckuva mystery, I'll say. Sorry for the bother."

"No bother a'tal."

The deputy swung the car door open, swept his gaze back over the house and the surrounding trees. "Nice place you got here, quiet and private, up on this hill. Like to have a place like this myself someday." He paused, flipped a hand. "Oh...and for what it's worth, he had a tattoo on the back of his left hand. 101st Airborne thing, had the screaming eagle head under it."

What Vinis Gish then did was something that he would never fully comprehend; he would only remember that he had no control over the rising of his right arm, or over his left hand as it unbuttoned the shirt sleeve and peeled it back to his elbow, or over his voice. "Like this most likely."

The deputy squinted and then stepped towards Gish, looked closely. "Well, I'll be danged...you too, huh?"

"World War Two. Place called Bastogne is what we're remembered for most, I reckon."

The deputy took off his hat, extended his hand. "Well, I'll be...you were one of the Battered Bastards of Bastogne?"

Gish shook his hand, said, "Still am."

"This is an honor, Mr. Gish...to be sure."

"Oh, I 'spect not as much as you think. We were just scared boys...tryin' to make it to the next day...same thing everybody tries to do in this life."

"Well, you'd be interested to know that Strother took a Silver Star in Vietnam...place called A...something...valley, I think."

"A Shau Valley...that would be the place." Gish paused, closed his eyes for a second. "This makes him a double sad story for me."

The deputy looked up at the flag, said, "I'm sure it does. I might've known you were a vet. Not many folks fly flags that nice. Looks near new."

Gish nodded, looked up at it with the deputy. "It is. I put a new one up every spring...retired the old one a little early this year."

"Well, I better get on my way. Couple more stops before I get off."

"So long, son."

Gish watched as the deputy backed the patrol car away from the yard, braked, and then began to drive forward down the lane. Gish raised his right arm in a final farewell.

The wind calmed as the cold of twilight seeped up the hill and found Vinis Gish, who sat on the edge of the front porch. He wore his Army fatigue jacket over his coveralls, and on his feet were worn but sturdy combat boots. His head cover was his Army overseas cap, now a half size too small because he no longer took regular haircuts. Leaning on the porch beside him was a wooden-handled garden spade. In the right pocket of his jacket was a ring box that had not held a ring for over thirty years. After a time, Gish stood, waited for the stiffness to smooth out, and then began to walk south. He passed the shed and proceeded down a path that was roughly defined in grass still dead to the cling of winter. He thought ahead, two months into spring, to the time when he would walk in the bright of day, swing his Kaiser blade through green grass and more precisely define the path.

The moon a was halved orb, clean and gleaming, casting freely its white light, the precise shade of which Gish had never seen replicated by the hand of man anywhere on the earth that he had trod for fifty-six years. He stopped at the edge of the glade, waited for the light to settle on the quarter-ton Chert boulder that he had bladed into place over the bodies of Worth Strother and Lil' Clem. He walked to the boulder and sat down on it, propped the spade against the stone. He leaned back, braced his upper body with his arms, felt the gritty cold of the Chert under his palms and fingers. Since the day of the burial, Vinis Gish had accomplished more hours of contemplation on realms both high and low than he had in the aggregate of his life before that day. The fact that he had already lived the majority of his days no longer pricked at him with a single, clawed finger as it once did. The reality of death within a rapidly decreasing span of years was nearly, but not quite yet, a comfort. What had been foreboding doom—seldom thought of and quickly chased away when it did slip past his guard—had been transformed into what he hoped was a spiritual foretaste of the higher realm. But it was only a hope, wispy and ephemeral, for no man could be certain of such things. And so it was that now he contemplated the layers of iron and organic matter—fragments of the low realm of earth—that had been compressed over eons unfathomable into the Chert marker. Beneath the boulder, the bodies of both man and animal had begun the process that would in mere decades—eye blinks in eternity— compress their matter, return the cells of flesh and bone to the earth from whence they came. Airy hope on high, stony reality down low; Vinis Gish was certain that he would be tugged back and forth between the two realms until they were sorted out and made clear to him in a place beyond Death, or until Death reigned in a vast black void.

He rocked his weight forward, stood, picked up the spade. At the base of the boulder he dug a hole, a foot wide and three feet deep. He stabbed the spade into the ground and reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the box, opened it. He looped the ball chain over the tip of his right finger and lifted it until his dog tags rose to eye level, where they rotated in the moonlight for several seconds before he released them back into the box and replaced the lid. He knelt and reached into the hole as far as he could, then opened his fingers, freed the box. With the point of the spade, Gish drug chunks of soil and small stones into the hole, pausing every half foot to tamp the fill solid. He rested the handle of the spade across his right shoulder and began to retrace his path through the grass and up the hill. On a bluff top a half mile distant, coyotes began to howl and yip, and the man stood still, listened until the last of the haunting notes faded away, and then he wondered for a time if the sounds were heard in the high realm or if they died in the tree tops of the low realm. He looked up the hill before him, saw the yellow rectangles of light from the house, and then he began to walk toward them.

The man wearing a bright red St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap watched from the edge of the glade as the operator of the yellow Caterpillar high-lift maneuvered expertly, the great bucket gouging and digging into the pliable ground. The man stood with his left hand resting on the top of a two-by-four driven into the ground, and stapled to the board was a building permit issued by The County of Moniteau, Missouri, dated: April 10, 2008. A Chert boulder lay in temporary repose on the low side of the glade, having been shoved there by the high-lift operator, who knew that the landowner would covet the stone as a jewel for the landscaping that would adorn the yard of the splendid, brick home that would soon rise from the ground, as now were the awakening blossoms of purple Henbit and white clover, and the Honeysuckle, its inimitable perfume delicate on the breeze. The big engine throttled low, then into idle, and finally chugged to a halt. The operator climbed down from the cab, and when his boots hit the ground he hailed the man in the cap with the sweep of his arm.

The operator—sixtyish, wiry, and clad in a blaze orange hunting jacket—waited until the man stood beside him in front of the toothed-bucket. They looked down at the mud-caked clump of twisted metal that was only slightly larger than a refrigerator crate. The operator tilted back his head and took a long swig from a plastic bottle of Mountain Spring water, then asked, "Know what that is?"

The man studied the unnatural object for a few seconds. "Shit...looks like a vehicle...or parts of one."

"That it would be."

"Why here I wonder?"

"Not many rocks. Same reason your house is going here. Must've come from the old Gish place that was up there on the hill. Old Vinis ran a dozer in those days...my dad knew him some, but nobody ever knew him too well." He took another swig of water. "You'd be surprised how many old cars I've dug up over the years. House foundations, pasture terraces, digging ponds...lakes. I drained an old pond once, and not a big one, that had three of these in the bottom." He paused, peered at the newfound problem. "Never saw one crunched down like that though."

"Humm...well, I suppose that it's an issue, you know, with..."

"Yeah, I know where you're going, and the answer is maybe."

"I'm listening."

"If we go by DNR regs, things get way more complicated...and expensive...than they ought to be."

"And if we don't?"

"If that was to take place, it would mean that just you, me, the crows and squirrels and some coyote that's likely watching us from somewhere, and the like, will be the only ones who know that the new burial ground will be over there at the base of the berm to your new fish pond...which I can go commence right now...and then come back here and finish with your foundation hole."

"I can keep a secret with the animals."

"Figured that."

"Story goes that nobody ever figured out how the house burned with them all in it."

"My dad says there was a hassle between Gish's brother and the insurance company about how the fire got started. Don't know how that turned out...been what, fifteen years now?"

"That sounds about right."

"Well, anyhow, Dad claims that their boy...bad retarded, living with 'em...was in the middle of it all. Nuttier'n a damn fruitcake towards the end. Dad says he took to standing out in that low field that borders the road...rain, cold...didn't matter...they couldn't do thing with him. Dad saw him a couple times. Damndest deal."

"Man, that's sad."

"Sure as hell is."

The operator turned and climbed back into his seat, fired the engine and edged forward. The teeth of the bucket slid easily underneath the burden. With a hydraulic whine, the bucket rose from the ground and the machine clanked away. The man walked forward and idly toed his boot over the damp soil, and on a hand-sized clump of mud he spied a patch of material in a faded pattern. He bent down, peeled the patch from the clump. He placed it in the palm of his hand, smoothed it with a fingertip. There was no doubt that once it had been part of a camouflage garment, probably a part of something totally worn out even before it had been left in the vehicle. Or, he thought, it could have been a blunder of forgetfulness, or maybe it had belonged to Gish's crazy son, meaning that it wasn't a blunder at all, but just the odd way of some things. He turned his hand over, released the patch. He said aloud, "Oh well...all things dust to dust." From the edge of the woods, two piercing caws hung in the air, then faded away, and the man reckoned that a crow had affirmed his benediction, and that the creature was as qualified to do so as most of the people he knew, or had ever known.

### Edgar Cayce's Earliest Psychic Readings

by Doug Simpson

Edgar Cayce, the Edgar Cayce who was destined to become America's legendary mystic, began attending Sunday School classes around the age of ten. The lesson being taught on that first day was the story of creation from the book of Genesis. Edgar was mesmerized. He asked his father for a book with the entire story of creation in it, and soon received a gift of his own personal Bible. Edgar's life-long love of, and expertise in, the contents of the scriptures had commenced. Edgar quickly vowed to read the entire Bible at least once each year for the rest of his life, a promise he faithfully kept. But, at age ten he considered himself ten readings in arrears. Edgar was fourteen years old when he completed his fourteenth complete reading of the Bible. He was quickly regarded as the local Biblical expert and began teaching adult Bible classes while still a teenager.

Edgar was fourteen when he experienced his first vision. One night, as Edgar was almost asleep, his room suddenly lit up like the sun peeking through a crack in a cloud-covered sky. Standing at the end of his bed he noticed the figure of a woman and in his semi-conscious state assumed it was his mother and called out to her. The light and the figure of the woman disappeared. Edgar hopped out of bed and went into his mothers room to see what she had wanted, and was advised that she had not been in his room and to go back to bed. Edgar was not snuggled back in bed for long when the bright light and the lady reappeared. Edgar assumed it was an angel, and never forgot the words that the lady-in-the-light said to him: "Thy prayers are heard. You will have your wish. Remain faithful. Be true to yourself. Help the sick, the afflicted."

The next day in school, all Edgar could think about was the visit from the angel, and when he was called upon to spell the word 'cabin', he spit out an incorrect spelling. Edgar was sentenced to remain after school and write out the word cabin five hundred times on the blackboard. This was only the beginning of his problems! One of the volunteer teachers at the school that day was his uncle Lucian Cayce, and the tale of his spelling incompetence arrived home before he did. His father declared: "You will certainly know that lesson before you go to bed this night." Hours later after much studying and numerous swats from his increasingly irritated father, Edgar could hardly keep his eyes open but still could not remember the spelling lesson. Edgar begged his father for a five minute nap, and his frustrated father agreed, and left the room.

Edgar had a plan. In his head he had heard "Rely on the Promise." and assumed it was a message from his angel. Edgar also recalled an incident that occurred when he was five, but did not understand at all at the time. Edgar had fallen-asleep back then with his head on a storybook, and upon awakening he was able to recite the entire story word for word. Edgar took his five-minute nap with his head resting on his speller. Smart move! When his father returned, Edgar could spell every word in the speller and could tell his father the page number and the location of the word on the page. After a few more good swats from his father, Edgar was sent to bed. From that day on, Edgar had no further problems learning his lessons.

The next remarkable event in Edgar Cayce's most unusual life started at school one day at recess, not too long after the episode with the speller. The students were playing a ball game they called old sower. Edgar was hit by the ball along his spine or the back of his neck and remembered none of the events that took place from that point on until he awoke the next morning. It was reported that during the remainder of the school day, Edgar's behavior was totally out of character, his sister had to lead him home from school, and at the dinner table his behavior was so disruptive that he was sent to bed immediately. A little later, in bed, Edgar volunteered what could be considered as his first psychic reading. He gave instructions that a poultice should be made up and that it be applied to the back of his head near the base of his brain. The delirious Edgar advised those in the room that he was suffering from shock, and that he would be fine in the morning if the poultice was applied as instructed. The family, now well aware of Edgar's unexplainable talents, was wise enough to heed these instructions and the poultice was applied as directed. Edgar's night was far from restful, but he awoke the next morning perfectly normal, just somewhat bewildered to find his room crowded with concerned relatives and neighbors.

In 1900, at the age of twenty-three, Edgar lost his voice, and for over a year could only speak in a whisper. The doctors called it aphonia, and the suspected cause was an unusual reaction to a drug he had been given for recurring migraine headaches. A hypnosis stage entertainer, in town for some performances, claimed that he could cure the ailment if Edgar would allow himself to be hypnotized. The experiment was attempted in front of a group of witnesses, and it worked fine, sort of. Edgar, while under hypnosis spoke normally, but after he was brought out of the trance, his voice was gone again. A second attempt brought an identical result. These hypnotic experiments with Edgar were covered by a reporter for the local newspaper, and news of Edgar's rare ailment managed to make its way to a noted physician in New York. The physician, a Dr. Quackenboss, who had never personally witnessed Edgar's rare medical condition, made a trip to Hopkinsville, Kentucky, to see Edgar. He hypnotized Edgar, but could not cure the problem either. Dr. Quackenboss then questioned Edgar about the other unusual incidents that had occurred in his lifetime, and took special interest in the story about how Edgar learned his lessons by napping on his books.

Careful study of his notes back in New York caused Dr. Quackenboss to suspect that Edgar was what the medical books referred to as a auto-hypnotist, and suggested, in a letter, that his annoying condition might be removed by putting himself to sleep as he did while studying, and to have someone make the suggestion: "You see yourself, tell us what is the trouble and what to do about it." This experiment took place in the Cayce home in 1901, and was Edgar Cayce's first psychic reading in his self-induced, self-hypnotic trance state, and it was a success. After being instructed to wake up, Edgar could once again speak normally. His mother wept, openly. Of course, no record of this first reading was made that day, but for the rest of Edgar Cayce's life he would periodically lose his voice again and needed to go through a similar revitalizing process. The first reading that was taken for Edgar Cayce himself that was also recorded and kept in the readings files was one such voice restoration process, nine years later.

TEXT OF READING 294-2 M 33

This psychic reading given by Edgar Cayce in Hopkinsville, Ky., this 1st day of December, 1910, in accordance with those in charge.

1. ACL [DS: He was Al Layne, a Hopkinsville hypnotist and unlicensed osteopath.]: You are now asleep and will be able to tell us what we want to know. You have before you the body of Edgar Cayce; he is before you now.

2. EC: Edgar Cayce, yes we have had him before. [No copy of earlier readings.]

3. (Q) Examine his throat and tell us what is the matter with it, if anything. (A) The muscles of the vocal cords here, you see, produce a partial paralysis to the vocal chord, especially to the left side of the vocal box. You see the chords here are taut from the box or sound here, as the air is expelled from the lungs and drove in and thrown out. We have a nervous effect of the nerves and muscles all over the whole body; we have a tightening or a sensation in the nerve force to contract it and of the muscles of the vocal chord or box here.

We have caused, all along in the front part of the body along the larynx to the vocal chord, to the right end here in front, as this muscle is taut then the voice sounds as if it is loose here or not contracted by the nerve forces and muscles; together this leaves one side that does not sound and produces a whispering sound. This comes from the same trouble we have had before from the pelvis.

4. (Q) What will we do to remove that now? (A) Just circulation here will remove it; that is the only thing that will do it. From suggestion to the body forces the circulation through it here and as the circulation passes along it takes that away; puts new life to it; makes the supply to the nerve force go, you see.

5. (Q) Increase the circulation and watch that and see the condition removed; that congested condition. Increase the circulation; is that removing now? (A) Circulation is beginning to increase.

6. (Q) Watch it increase now; watch that remove. All that congested condition will be removed away by the circulation. Passing off now, is it not? (A) Passing off now.

7. (Q) Watch it move clear on; it will become normal, will be in its normal condition. Watch it now and when that becomes perfectly normal tell us. (A) Have to remove the trouble first.

8. (Q) What is the trouble now? You see the trouble is away. Now the trouble is gone. Now the vocal chords are perfectly normal, are they not? (A) They are perfectly normal now.

Al Layne was most impressed with the results of their first reading together in 1901, not reading 294-2 above, and asked Edgar if he would do a reading to diagnose and remedy a stomach problem he had lived with for many years. A somewhat reluctant Edgar eventually agreed to return the favor to his new friend. There is no copy of this reading, but again it proved to be a success. A delighted Al Layne commenced a routine of requesting readings for some of his patients when their problems were not obvious to him. Word of Edgar's successes quickly spread around Hopkinsville and other requests for medical readings followed. Edgar was understandably concerned that his readings could result in injury or death to someone, and was usually hesitant to comply with most requests. On the other hand, Edgar never forgot his first vision in his bedroom a decade earlier and could not turn down a request for a reading for anyone in dire need.

Doug Simpson is a retired high school teacher who has turned his talents to writing. His first novel, a spiritual mystery titled Soul Awakening, was published in the United States in October of 2011, by Booklocker. It was reissued in October of 2012 by 5 Prince Publishing as Soul Awakening, Book I of the Dacque Chronicles. For further details visit them at http://5princebooks.com/. It is available in print and eBook format through most bookstores around the world. Soul Rescue, Book II of the Dacque Chronicles was published in November of 2012, Soul Mind, Book III of the Dacque Chronicles was published in January of 2013, and Soul Connections, Book IV of the Dacque Chronicles was published in April of 2013. Doug's first non-fiction book, titled The Soul of Jesus, was published by 5 Prince Publishing in January of 2014. In March of 2014, it earned recognition as a #1 Bestseller on Amazon, USA. His magazine and website articles have been published in 2010 to 2014 in Australia, Canada, France, India, South Africa, the United Kingdom, and the United States. His articles can be accessed through his website at http://dousimp.mnsi.net.

© Doug Simpson 2014.

Edgar Cayce Readings © 1971, 1993-2009 by the Edgar Cayce Foundation. Used by Permission, All Rights Reserved.

### A Question Of Balance

By James Bryron Love

Tom sat uncomfortably, staring down the expanse of the opulent long table. On each side of the massive table loomed scientists and bureaucrats, sitting in no particular order, discussing minor details of their specific professions. At the far end of the table, where no one had claimed a seat, a large map hung on the wall, displaying the single landmass that was his world. He looked at each face with disgust. The moron convention was beginning.

He eased back in his chair, slowly closing his eyes to the perceived nightmare around him. "Life never used to be this difficult "he thought. "These wars have gone on too long."

He thought of his brother Ted, probably sitting in a room just like this one with the same frustrations. Twenty five years these wars had ranged, in the brief moments between, nothing worthwhile accomplished. Yes, everybody wanted land, more space to contain their populations. Making the arm's manufacturers rich seemed like the real goal. He coughed out loud, unaware that, that particular gesture drew everyone's attention to him. He opened his eyes see everybody staring in his direction.

"Tom," Samuel said, "I think we're already to begin. The material is extensive and time short, can you bring this meeting in order?"

"What's the point Sam? You idiots have already made up your minds. This meeting merely a formality, everyone knows it. I've objected for months now. No one has truly heard what I have said. It's really simple, there is no winning, there is no solution. We are the dancing doomed. You all have your head so far up your ass that you're failing to look at the obvious. And then you have the nerve to force me to attend your stupid meetings. "

"It is not like that at all Tom; your input extremely valued. You are the Chairman; we couldn't function without you. I know you think it's all a waste of time, but we think that we have a real chance to win this time. We have modern weapons the other side doesn't have; we have new technologies and communications making us faster and better. We outshine the opposition in every aspect, how is it possible for them to win?"

"Sam, you don't understand the basics of the argument. Our debate is actually about, the cost to win? How many people are we going to sacrifice? How many dollars are we going to spend? Why is a diplomatic solution to you, so far-fetched? Is it perhaps because you and your family own several companies that build weapons?"

"It has nothing to do with that, and you know it; your own brother lives with the enemy. He migrated there shortly before the wars started, we're not holding that against you and..."

"My brother holds the same opinion as I do over these stupid wars. If we go to war again, he'll do his job the same as, I do mine. I don't have to like or agree with you to do that. I'm tired of the pretense and all the garbage, meeting after meeting, when it's already been decided." Tom shouted, stopping Sam from completing his sentence.

Sam immediately lowered his eyes and began to shuffle papers in front of him in an veiled attempt to avoid the wrath.

Tom looked up and down the table, his frustrations mounting. Most were now pretending to have something else to do, some important document that they needed scrutinization.

John looked up briefly and instantly regretted it. Ted's wandering gaze had settled firmly on him. He quickly looked down and tried to shuffle some papers, but to no avail.

"You have something to add John?" Ted asked with distain. "Weren't you the one to suggest the last time that we eradicate the entire planet? What new super weapon have you and your cohorts, thought up this time?"

"That wasn't my fault last time." John said very quietly. "It it it it it was all taken out of context." He stammered.

"Out of context! Are you serious? Would you like to view the minutes of the last meeting when you suggested that? You and your team came up with a weapon that would surely win the war. The only downside is that you would have wrecked the entire planet to do it. Your weapon would destroy all life on the planet. That's bad. What is worse is that the entire planet would be totally unusable for thousands upon thousands of years. We would have to go in even after that time to completely terra form the planet. That is providing we could figure a way to neutralize that level of radiation. What part of that, is out of context?

Wiping sweat from his brow, John furiously shuffled papers in front of him. Without looking up, he said as quietly as possible, "We we we have a better idea. Not not not as devastating but but will be beneficial in winn, wi winning the war. That's what we want isn't it?

"Has it occurred you John, that for the last thousand years or more, we've had a peaceful coexistence with that other planet. We've been trading goods back and forth damn near forever. Suddenly, over the last 25 years, they have become the enemy. Half the population is related to someone over there. We are the ones that set up the colonies that you now want to so unjustly destroy." Tom explained calmly.

"That all may very well be true, but we have the right to take it." Fred's squeaky voice emanated from the corner.

"And what gives us that right?" Ted stated venomously. "They never started this war; they seem to be more unwilling participants than anything else. Are you suggesting that we have the right because we force them to fight?"

"They have what we want, that's what makes it right." Phil stated emphatically in a shrill voice.

Tom stood up and stared down the length of the table, his clothes as disheveled as his mood. "How long have you been this stupid, exactly?"

Fred's facial expression was frozen in a grimace as he stared back in disbelief. He stood quickly, knocking over his chair and made a mad rush to the door, muttering obscenities under his breath.

"You can't be that rude to us Tom; you have to show some respect." Samuel stated defiantly.

"Respect? Like the respect that you show me? You all are painfully aware that I never asked for this job. You forced it on me. All I am trying to do is save this planet and apparently, from you. Let us cut all the crap right now, put it to a vote, all those in favor of going to war again, simply raise your hand now." Tom suggested.

The entire room went very quiet and slowly the hands began to raise. They looked at each other making sure they were making the right choice. With the exception of four, all hands were raised.

Tom looked around, revolted, as all the raised hands hovered as if in a breeze. "So the decision is, that once again, we go to war. I find that totally unacceptable, and I'm going to explain why. I'm going to state the arguments in a common logical manner." Tom began.

"My particular job is nothing more than a figurehead without any real power; however, I do have options. These are options you may have not considered. The diplomatic solution is the best solution for both sides. I do believe we can easily come to terms with our so-called enemy. A common project will suffice in the beginning to draw all of our people back together again."

"We have several moons that surround both planets. At least two of those can be terra formed and utilized. That will initially solve our issues with population. Further on that, scout ships have located several worlds that we can colonize. Once again, a joint venture makes more sense."

"As far as money is concerned, the money that we would waste on war, will easily cover the costs."

"Michael, is a reasonable man, I know this from many conversations with him. He does not want war, even though his population overcrowding is very similar to ours. Both of our faults; our governments' faults, stem from not recognizing the situation earlier. We have now introduced population controls."

"This is a far better concept than merely trying to take the land and destroy the other population. In the long run, all we would have succeeded in doing is put off the inevitable. Neither planet contains a large landmass. Who do we go to war with, after we very conquered that world and inevitably run out of space later? It's a very shortsighted solution. Ben can tell you about what our scout ships have found. I have no doubts that our enemy has also attained pertinent data about other worlds."

"Simon, sit your ass down, I'm not done." Tom stated with exasperation.

"It's because I'm a figurehead, does not mean I have no power. It is just extremely limited. For example, in this particular situation, the rules are wee bit muddy. It does allow me to take control of this situation."

"Rule 30 7B, subsection 9, clearly states that if the chairman determines a very real threat to the safety and security of the population, he or she, can enact whatever measures necessary to secure the safety and security of the population."

"This is what I propose, it's not necessary for you to agree to it; however, it would be a good show of faith in your government to do so. If this proposal is summerily rejected, I will dissolve the parliament and will publicly state why. This will guarantee, that you'll never be reelected again. My job however, is a lifetime job. I was never elected; I was selected. "

"These are the basic terms; you will now vote on this proposition." Tom stated in defiance of the earlier vote.

"That is never been done before, I don't think you're allowed. You can't just simply reverse our decision." Simon said sheepishly.

"I can; I will, and I have. Vote! That is the only option available right now. To accept my proposal, raise your hand."

The tension in the room mounted as all eyes seem to flow towards Samuel. His decision would influence the vote, and no one else was prepared to vote first.

Samuel let out an audible sigh; he knew he had never considered this as a possibility. It was too late to wish that he hadn't been instrumental in installing Tom in the position. Everything it seemed to go so well for the last five years, Tom always bending to the assembly. Yes, he had made some noise; he had challenged, but nothing like this.

Defeated, Samuel raised his hand and slowly the rest followed the example.

Tom stood and put his hands on the table," gentlemen; I do believe that concludes the meeting for today, it's been nice doing business with you. I will start setting up the meetings with Michael. You all will have full disclosure of everything discussed. You are still the ruling body and will be instrumental in hammering out the details."

Tom casually made his way to the door and opened it, suddenly aware of how fresh the air was instead of the staleness of the room.

Samuel took the opportunity to waive John over to his side, "we have things to discuss John." He said very softly.

"Michael, it's good to see you again." Tom said casually, as he strode confidently across the expanse of the room, wearing his best finery costume has protocol demanded, to shake Michael's hand.

"It's good to see you to Tom, and it seems the circumstances are far better than last time as well, do you really think we can hammer out a solution?" He said, extending his ring filled hand towards Tom. "Can we at least, lose the jackets to these ridiculous costumes, they force us to wear?"

"Yes it's a fine idea, and then we get down to some work." Tom said jovially.

"Michael, you can deny it if you must, but I won't. What has scared the hell out of me, over the last year, is this arms race. My scientists have come up with weapons that destroy everything. Basically, by everything, I mean the weapon will reduce the planet to ashes. Destruction would be absolute; therewould be nothing left to salvage and the planet would be unusable. What have your morons come up with?"

Looking down at the floor, Michael looked embarrassed. "We have similar weapons; I really don't understand what they are thinking. Their solution is useless. I have been fighting my counsel about this, probably for longer than you have Tom. My planet simply doesn't want to fight anymore, so to them, annihilating the enemy is a workable solution."

"It is as bad as I had feared." Tom said softly." I suppose that they think, if they get the first strike in, that will be the end of it. The sad truth is that whoever makes the first move, automation will make sure; our weapons go off and probably the same for yours."

"It's worse than that Tom; the new systems in place ensure that, for any reason a special encoded communication isn't sent regularly, every weapon we have, will launch straight to here. My biggest fear is that communications could break down for any reason, including technical glitches and cause that result. Most are buried so far underground that there is no way to destroy them."

Samuel looked up from his desk, as a worried looking John, entered and closed the door.

He adjusted his posture to a more comfortable position and said, "John take a seat, relax; we're all friends here. We all have the same agenda. Tell me all about your new weapon."

Fumbling with his folder, John slowly started to extract documents. "This is, a much better weapon than the last one I proposed. We worked out all the kinks and reduce the downside. This particular weapon, will only destroy humanoids and perhaps, possibly a few sub species of mammals. Everything else will be left intact. It is biologically-based and extremely fast acting. Within 24 hours, the planet will be ours. All will have to do is wait about a week for that biological strain to weaken and die off. I've done extensive laboratory tests, and I can state emphatically that it will work as projected."

Samuel looked up from the papers in John's hand, that he hads been trying to follow and smiled broadly." When will this be ready?"

"It's ready now. You can order the strike anytime you like. By the time they figure out something is wrong it would be too late to strike back, at least that's what we think. Our various organizations that collect data have suggested that they have nothing like this particular weapon. However, that could be in error."

Fiddling with something on his desk, Samuel grinned at John. "If it's ready now, do it. I want to start selling real estate in a few weeks, there will be plenty of money to spread around, and you, John, will be rewarded handsomely."

The Power of Names

by Rebecca L. Frencl

"That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." I teach Romeo and Juliet to rather reluctant 8th graders every year. I've collected enough materials to probably teach a college course on the play, but no matter what every year we pause at Juliet's words here and talk about the power of names. I ask them to think about it. How much of their personality is connected to their names? Is Juliet right? Can we simply change someone's name without it changing the person? My students and I don't think so.

Look deeply into any mythology, particularly the mythology involving the Norse and Celts and we see the power of names so clearly. The Fae of the Celtic mythos kept their true names secret for if anyone knew their names they could be commanded. In Ursula K. LeGuin's EarthSea series we see power tied to true names. Native Americans changed their names as they grew, preferring to refer to them as "use names" in some tribes. We too, in modern Western culture, change our names. How many of us cringe when we hear grandma call us by that nickname she gave us when we were little bits? I have a cousin who's over 30 who many in the family still call "Juice." Long story.

As authors, we know that the name of a character can be a very powerful characterization vehicle. Certain names have certain connotations. If we name a character Damien, there are certain images that go right along. Now, sometimes we like to throw those preconceptions for a loop, but we go into naming that character knowing he's going to be up against some interesting preconceived notions. Character names also have to be true to the genre and time period. There's nothing that throws me out of a book that a trendy modern name in a period piece. Above all, we need to like the name. If we don't like the name or we don't really see how the name fits the character, well then we can't make our readers see it either.

Naming a book too is an interesting and frustrating process. Just as a character's moniker is the reader's first impression of him or her, the title can very often make or break a sale. There are a lot of "rules" about titles. Many of them are contradictory. Titles should only have six or fewer syllables—the shorter the title the more intriguing. Now, I admit you don't want a title that scrolls across the entire book cover, but I don't personally see anything wrong with longer titles. That being said, could "The Fellowship of the Ring" have gotten a pass in today's marketing world? Or would Tolkien have been told to shorten it up or at least "punch it up?" I've heard that a lot lately too. "Punch up that title!" What in heaven's name does that actually mean? Make it shorter, catchier, or easier to remember?

I struggle with titles. My first novel Ribbons of Moonlight, a time travel romance was easy to name. It was inspired by a poem and the title was merely a rearranging of one of the common poetic images. That was a rare exception. When I'm writing to book, the file usually has some sort of single word working title. My next book, a fantasy, The Shattered Prism was much more difficult to title. It had originally been called Dark Rainbow's End, but I'd expanded the idea and it transformed from one novel into a trilogy. So, now, not only did I need three titles, I needed three titles that worked together and I already had one. I scribbled and scratched out about a dozen title ideas with rainbow or circle or star imagery in them. The book was finished, ready to be sent out, but I couldn't because I wasn't certain of the title! That's one of the most frustrating feelings for a writer.

Unlike Juliet's assertion that "Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, retain that dear perfection that he owes" naming characters and books can be tricky. Coming up with the idea of the story, the problems the characters need to face and the end of it all can sometimes be child's play compared to figuring out what to call the thing! Names and titles are a reader's first impression and we all know that you never get a second chance to make a good first impression.

Contact Info:

Ryvah1014@yahoo.com

Blog: http://rebeccalfrencl.blogspot.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Rebecca-L-Frencl/115163871892050

Twitter: @rlfrencl

Author of:

Ribbons of Moonlight, Best Romance 2012 Solstice Publishing

The Star Circle Trilogy, Solstice Publishing (The Shattered Prism, Walking With Shadows and Dark Rainbow's End—coming soon)

Ascent of the Fallen

The Orphan

By M. El-Omaha

The small dark figure jumped off the high brick wall and into the graveyard, stumbling a little as it hit the ground. It dusted itself off and crept along the graves in the dead of night, the wet grass squeaking under its tennis shoes. After running up a few rows of headstones, it stopped and looked around in the dark. It turned right, paused, then walked up a few rows before stopping at the headstone covered in moss and vines. The words on it were hard to decipher but the small figure knew it had found what it was looking for. It sat down and began to mumble, a sob escaping from deep inside its heart every few minutes.

After a while it stood up and tried to peel back the vines but its little, tender hands weren't strong enough. As the clouds crept away from the moon, the light fell onto the figure, exposing its true form; a young boy with a frail body and mousy brown hair. He was dressed in striped pajamas and a coat that was a little too big for him. He looked at his red hands, tears still dribbling down his face. He looked around and spotted a small daffodil growing amidst some weeds nearby. He plucked it and placed it on the grave and with a final sob he turned away and began to walk back to the wall he had climbed over.

He half-heartedly climbed on a headstone, then pulled himself up onto the tree next to him and finally over the wall. He sat on top of it, looking back towards the daffodil until he could bear it no longer. He turned his attention away from the flower and to the street that lay beneath his feet. Squinting up and down, he saw a light on in a distant house but his path wasn't towards it.

He jumped down and landed with a thud.

"Ahh!"he yelled. He landed on his feet without rolling like the older boys at the orphanage had taught him to do when jumping off a high wall. Another cry of pain escaped him and echoed down the street. He bent over and tried to massage the pain out of his legs before anyone arrived. Tears began to stream down his face as he lay on his side rubbing his legs.

A third cry escaped the child, but he managed to contain it this time. He stopped rubbing his legs and looked around him. There, by the moon's light was a man running towards him. Afraid of the on-coming stranger, he staggered up and leaned on the wall for support. He might be able to escape again if he tried. He put one foot in front of the other and fell, crying out in pain again.

He rolled around and saw the man squatting over him, his face inches from the child's. From it, the boy could see the old man's face had just begun to wrinkle and his eyes were small, like a parrots, and black. The man extended his hand towards the child but the boy shrank away.

"Don't touch me. Leave me alone. Don't hurt me. Please!" he cried out through his pain.

"It's alright, son. I'm here to help. Let me take a look at your foot," said the man in a rough but kind voice. He was dressed in a striped nightgown and a pair of worn shoes. "It's ok boy. I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated. "How much does it hurt?"

The child looked at the man with parrot eyes and eventually managed to stifle his sobs enough to say, "I can't walk," before the tears gushed out again.

"Come on then. Let's get you somewhere warmer. What are you doing out at this time of night in the first place? What's your name child?"

The boy hesitated but gave in once the man had lifted him into his arms. "Corbin," he said. Corbin began to cry into the man's neck as he was carried towards the lit house.

"Well Corbin, my name is Mr. Yibson. Would you like to tell me what you were doing? How did you hurt yourself?" he asked gently.

"I... I was just... I was running when I tripped," he lied. He pressed his face into Yibson's shoulder to hide his face.

"Come on, son. If you had tripped, you would have scraped your knee. What were you doing on that wall?" Corbin kept his head pressed against Yibson's shoulder and remained silent. "Very well child, let's just get you fixed up."

They reached the one-story house, a timid building compared to the neighboring houses which loomed over. It was wooden with the paint peeling off of it and a small, broken porch sitting in a dead garden. Only patches of weeds were to be seen and some useless garden tools. Yibson opened the small brown gate and walked up to the door.

"Now try to stay quiet son. My wife is sleeping." He opened the door and walked into the well-lit kitchen. Corbin peeled his head off the man's shoulder and looked around. A small table occupied most of the space in front of the sink and tiny refrigerator and some dirty dishes sat on the counter. They crossed into the living room where a humble sofa was perched among some wooden furniture - a coffee table, some drawers and a set of shelves that held a single picture frame with a young couple standing in wedding attire.

Yibson set Corbin down on the sofa and quickly put a pillow under the child's head.

"Now let's take a better look at your leg."

Corbin didn't dare look at his foot for fear it was broken. Who would mend it for him if it was? It's not like the grown-ups at the orphanage could afford his treatment. He was already going to get into trouble for sneaking out. What if they decided he deserved his punishment? What if they decided it wasn't enough?

The sofa he lay on faced a small room where a woman lay on a bed, motionless, staring at him. He was shocked to see her awake but he felt like she wasn't seeing him. He cringed as Yibson touched his foot and let out a muffled groan. Something about the woman quieted him though. He looked back at the blank eyes in the room nearby and felt petrified.

"You'll be alright son. It looks like it's just a sprained ankle. You'll be fine to walk around again in the morning." Yibson looked up and saw Corbin staring over his shoulder. He turned to see his wife slowly trying to move her arm. "Lay back, child, and rest. I'll be right back."

Yibson stood up and walked into the room where his wife lay and closed the door behind him. Silence. The lights from over head shone brightly down on Corbin, keeping his fear of the dark at bay, and along with his fatigue he slowly drifted off to sleep.

#

He awoke the next morning with a light knitted blanket on top of him. It took him a moment to remember where he was. The lights confused him; the grown-ups at the orphanage usually turned them off for him after he falls asleep and the window in his room at the orphanage was boarded shut. When he sat up and looked around, fear gripped his chest. He wasn't in the orphanage. What was the old man going to do now? He couldn't remember the man's name but he did remember those glossy eyes of his wife staring at him. He shuddered just thinking about them but thought they would still be asleep.

He slowly got up and tried to stand on his feet again. He stumbled a bit but managed to remain on his feet. Out of habit, he threw his arms back for his routine morning stretch but broke short as he remembered the old man was somewhere nearby. The sunlight, however, shone in through the window and eased Corbin's fear a little. At least he could make a scene if the man tried to hurt him. He hobbled over to the kitchen and saw Yibson sitting at the small table, a cup of coffee in his hands.

As Corbin entered, Yibson looked up and a warm smile jumped onto his face. "Good morning, Corbin. Come on in, son. Sit down. Let me get you something to eat." He rummaged around in the cupboards and pulled out a bowl and a small bag of cereal. From the refrigerator he withdrew a small milk bottle and poured out the last of the milk. "Here you go," he said as he set the bowl and a spoon on the table. "Don't be shy. Come sit down and eat up."

He sat back down and resumed sipping his coffee while looking out of the widow above the sink. He occasionally glanced over at Corbin who had slowly crept over and sat down and was now eating whole-heartedly. Corbin's eyes danced around the room and occasionally met Yibson's. He was glad to see they weren't black like he had imagined them the night before, but dark brown. They made him look more human and more welcoming.

When he had finished eating, Yibson turned and looked at him. "I see we had quite an appetite."

Corbin looked up, worried that he should have left some for Yibson but he was reassured when he saw the man smile at him warmly. "Thank you Mr... um..." he mumbled.

Yibson chuckled. "Forgot my name already have you? It's Yibson. You can call me Yibby, though. How's your foot?"

"It's better. Thank you for healing it Mr. Yibson," he quickly said. He felt awkward calling this older man Yibby but Yibson smiled.

"Now do you want to tell me what you were doing last night? Is it you that I've been seeing walk around the wall for the past few nights?"

Corbin hesitated then nodded.

"Come on now son, I'm not mad at you. I just want to know what you were doing."

"I... I was just..." he choked down a sob but his eyes still watered.

"It's ok, son," said Yibson solemnly as he watched Corbin try to master his emotions. "I understand. Where do you live Corbin? We need to get you home."

Corbin shook his head.

"Come on son, we have to get you home. Where do you live? You're too young to be out alone. How old are you?"

"I'm eleven. And I don't want to go back to the orphanage. Please. They will hurt me for sneaking out. You can't take me back." Corbin began to cry quietly.

"Alright Corbin. Take it easy, son." Yibson pulled his chair around the table and sat beside him. "Don't worry son. I heard about that place. I'll figure it out." He pulled Corbin into a hug. "I'll figure it out. I won't take you back there," he added, talking more to himself than to Corbin.

"Now come on. I need to go to the market to buy a few things for lunch. Do you own anything at the orphanage?" he asked as he pulled Corbin back.

Corbin's hand reached for his chest before a worried look jumped onto his face.

"What's the matter son? Oh, that's right. Don't start getting worried. I took it off of you last night so that it doesn't choke you." Yibson walked into the living room and returned a few seconds later with a small square locket on a bronze chain. "Here you go."

Corbin grabbed it and immediately put it back on, holding it tight against his chest.

#

Corbin stayed at the Yibson home for the next three days. He explored every room of the small house, all except the one where the woman lay. He wasn't allowed in there. Mr. Yibson told him that his wife was sick but never said anything more than that. Corbin would watch as Yibson takes the food into the room and closes the door. A while later he would emerge with the food only half eaten. Corbin tried to catch a glimpse of the woman when he could but he couldn't tell if she was getting better.

On the second day, Yibson's neighbor came to check on him and his wife. Corbin overheard the neighbor saying there was word that a child had run away from the orphanage. The neighbor and all the residents on the street were struck with anger at the lack of control the orphanage had. Rumors had already been circling that they were abusing children who misbehaved under the name of "discipline". There was an even stronger rumor that the orphanage was going to close soon and all the children there were going to be let loose, like birds flying out of their cages, with no one to ensure their safety. But those were rumors. How much of it could be true?

Mr. Yibson didn't think any of it was true until he saw the marks on Corbin's back when he got the bath ready for the child. When he asked Corbin why they did it to him, he said, "I took too long to scrub my bedroom floor in the morning. They wanted it done before nine every other morning. I woke up late and knew that they whipped us with thin sticks if we are late. So I quickly started but there was no way I could have finished it in 8 minutes. That is five lashes." The other lashes told more severe punishments for crimes of similar stature that made Yibson's eyes water.

#

Corbin tried to sneak off every night he stayed with the Yibsons without any success. Whenever he lay down on the sofa and pretended he was sleeping the couch would absorb him into a comfortable position. It was far more comfortable than the beds at the orphanage, and it would guide him into a peaceful, undisturbed sleep.

On the third day, Mr. Yibson journeyed alone to the orphanage to see what the process of adoption consisted of. The "teachers" as they liked to be called, told him that as long as he had a house and a job, they were willing to give him two children of his choosing. He was disgusted at how they spoke of the children like piglets that could be sold and squandered. There was nothing he could do though to fix the unbelievably horrid place. What was he- a clerk at a grocery store- going to do?

That evening, when Mr. Yibson returned, he summoned Corbin to the kitchen table. "There is a way for you to stay here if you would like to son," he told Corbin. "A way where you don't ever have to go back to that gawd-awful place." He paused for a moment looking Corbin over. "Would you like to be our adopted son?"

Corbin stared at Mr. Yibson, his eyes dilating. "Our?" It slipped out of him. He knew that Mr. Yibson was referring to himself and his wife but he didn't understand why he was never allowed to see Mrs. Yibson.

Mr. Yibson frowned. "Yes Corbin, our son." He sighed and scratched his head. "I guess you're right," he said at last. "You should probably meet my wife before you decide whether you want to be our son." He looked uneasy, shuffling his feet. He stared hard at Corbin, thinking about how well the child had behaved over the past few days. He had listened to Mr. Yibson when he told him to put his plate in the sink and he was very polite whenever Mr. Yibson gave him extra food off of his own plate. He also took out the trash without being asked and even put away the garden tools when Mr. Yibson was at work. And all the while he never bothered Mrs. Yibson. Or at least, if he did, she never came out to tell him to quiet down. Mr. Yibson never told him off after his feeding session with his wife either, even though he knew he had made a lot of ruckus one day when he accidentally dropped the pot while putting the dishes away.

Mr. Yibson stretched out his hand towards Corbin. "Come on son, let's go see Molly."

Corbin held Mr. Yibson's hand as he was led towards the bedroom. Corbin felt really nervous and Mr. Yibson noticed so he held on tighter to the young boy's sweating hand. He opened the door and they walked in.

She lay there, on her back looking up at the ceiling with her eyes open. She didn't look over at them. The lights were on and the window was open, letting in the cool air from outside along with the smell of the fumes from the automobiles passing by. Up close, Corbin stood shocked. With his eyes open wide, he pulled his hand out of Mr. Yibson's hand, pulled out the locket and opened it. The picture of the woman inside resembled the woman that lay there on the bed; a slim body with golden curly hair and a slightly long nose but the eyes in the picture were green and the mouth was smaller. The woman who lay before him had brown eyes and large lips.

He took a step back, the tears welling up in his eyes again.

"Come here son, it's ok. Molly dear, would you like to say hi to Corbin?" he added to his wife.

Mrs. Yibson turned her head towards Corbin and stared at him. He watched her chest move up high as she took a deep breath. She tried to move her arm but couldn't manage it; her frail body ignoring her mind's commands. But she did manage a smile to crawl onto her face and all the way up to her eyes; a warm and bright smile despite the sweaty curly hair that moved helplessly in the breeze from the open window.

Corbin felt the warmth from Mrs. Yibson's smile penetrate his skin and his fear evaporated as he nervously smiled back. "Hi Mrs. Yibby," he said. He walked over to her and put his hand on hers, all the while Mr. Yibson just stood there watching. Corbin stared into Mrs. Yibson's eyes for a few moments then finally leaned over and gave her a hug. She managed to lift her hand and put it on Corbin's back, tears rolling down her face. Mr. Yibson stood there as a single tear escaped his eye. After a minute he walked over and slowly removed Corbin from his wife's embrace. They smiled at each other once more then he walked out of the room. Mr. Yibson murmured something to his wife and she smiled.

He walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. He smiled brightly, "I'll take that as you want to be a Yibson?"

Corbin nodded with a tearful smile. "I do," he said with a little sob.

"Very well," said Mr. Yibson, "let's go to the orphanage and take care of the paperwork." He suddenly swept Corbin up into a tight embrace. Corbin was shocked at first as he hung limply in Mr. Yibson's arms but then hugged back.

It was a good minute before Mr. Yibson let him go. "My wife hasn't smiled in a long time. Thank you Corbin," he said holding back his tears.

Mr. Yibson went to the kitchen and quickly washed his face in the sink before grabbing the small stack of papers he had prepared to take with them to the orphanage. He called Corbin over and they left together.

They entered the orphanage and immediately two women came running up towards them. "Thank you sir," said one of the women, "you found our child!" She attempted to pry Corbin away from Mr. Yibson. Corbin screamed and try to hide behind Mr. Yibson.

"Let go of him!" bellowed Mr. Yibson. "Leave him be I say!"

The woman shrank back, afraid. The other in turn piped up. "Sir, we thank you for returning young Jacob here to us."

"What are you talking about? That's not his name! And I'm not returning him to your foul treatment. I'm here to adopt him."

The two women were shocked but the second immediately piped up again. "Sir, you kidnap a child and then think you can adopt him?"

"I did not kidnap him," he said angrily. "Everyone knows how children try to escape from this slave-port that you call an orphanage."

The yelling began to escalate until another teacher emerged from a nearby room and hurried over to resolve the issue.

"Ladies! Please!" he yelled over them all. "Go about with your business. I'll handle this," he added. The teacher turned to Mr. Yibson with a look of annoyance. "So you're here to adopt young Jake?"

"His name is Corbin!" bellowed Mr. Yibson. "How many times do I have to tell you! And who are you anyways?"

"I'm Mr. Wrench, the headmaster of this orphanage, sir. Now please will you contain your anger so that I can assist you?" he told Mr. Yibson. "Thank you," he added before Mr. Yibson could say anything. Corbin looked over at the headmaster, a greasy-haired skeleton of a man. But those shoes, he remembered them too well. He had been lazy about shining them one afternoon and so the headmaster had been lazy about easing Corbin punishment for it.

He hid his face in Mr. Yibson's back again.

"Follow me and we'll get these papers signed so that you and young... umm... our young boy here can be on your way home. Would you like that son?" he added to Corbin. Corbin kept his face plastered to Mr. Yibson's back.

They followed Mr. Wrench to a shabby room that had a single table enclosed by four wooden chairs and a filing cabinet. He offered them seats at the table as he opened the filing cabinet. His face then turned red as he turned around to ask, "what's the lad's name then?"

"It's Corbin."

"Corbin what?"

Mr. Yibson turned to Corbin who was seated on the chair beside him. "What's your last name son?"

"Putnam," he whispered.

"Putnam," Mr. Yibson told Mr. Wrench.

The headmaster found Corbin's file and they sat down. He began to ask Mr. Yibson question after question on where he found Corbin and why he wasn't returned immediately. Mr. Yibson told the headmaster everything that had happened since he heard Corbin cry out to the night. Mr. Wrench looked satisfied with the story so he proceeded to ask questions related to the adoption; what was Mr. Yibson's address and writing down his annual salary until he reached the twentieth question.

"Why do you want to adopt? And what makes you fit to be a parent?" asked Mr. Wrench.

Mr. Yibson choked on his words. He rubbed his hands nervously on his pants then looked at the headmaster. "My wife and I lost our son a few months ago," he said looking the headmaster straight in the eye. "He was only eight. We weren't ready for him to leave." He took a deep breath to try to steady himself as he continued. "Now my wife...she is bed ridden and hardly eats. But when she saw Corbin, she just couldn't believe we had a child in the house again. When I told her he was an orphan she asked me to adopt him. Since she saw him, she's been eating again and today...today she even managed to smile again. He's been a blessing in the few days we've had him. We want him to bless us for the rest of our lives."

Mr. Wrench was unfazed by Mr. Yibson's story. He quickly wrote down a brief answer to the question and stood up. "Very well, all I need is your signature and we're done. The child doesn't have any possessions so you may head straight home afterwards. I hope you treat this boy right and keep him happy Mr. Yibson. Congratulations," he added as Mr. Yibson handed him the signed papers while trying to hold his temper from bursting through again at the lack of sympathy he was showing. As soon as the paperwork was done they left without even shaking hands with the headmaster and headed home.

On their way, Mr. Yibson decided to take a detour through the cemetery. As they walked in, Mr. Yibson hurriedly walked up the path then stopped at a small grave that had a simple head stone. On it read May he rest in peace. Michael Yibson. 1756-1764.

He let go of Corbin's hand and began to cry silently. When he could regain his control he looked around but couldn't see Corbin. He walked around, searching frantically, until he found him. He was standing in front of the head stone buried in moss and vines. Mr. Yibson quickly pulled the clutter off and read what was written on the head stone. Here lies Patricia Putnam. A loving mother. 1734-1759. In Corbin's hand was the locket, opened. Corbin was staring at it and crying quietly. Mr. Yibson squatted down beside him and hugged him. Corbin hugged back and cried out loud into Yibson's chest. He cried and cried, holding the locket tighter in his hand. He had lost his mother but he was going to have that love again. He would have a mother that would read to him like his own did when he was so little and a father for the first time to take care of them both.

He hugged Mr. Yibson tightly then slowly began to quiet his sobs. He looked at the grave once more then turned to his father and asked, "can we go home now Yibby?"

Together

by Malobi Sinha

The world is coming together even as it seems that it will be torn apart. The ugly faces of racism, and religious fanaticism, are rearing their heads even as we unmask them, and try to put the demons to their final death-beds.

The supposed 'war on terror' is a paradox in itself. War itself is terror. So those practising it must be terrorists themselves, more politely put. It is the innocent, as always, who suffer.

Sometimes we could imagine that those who have passed out of this life are better off, as it were, to be out of the rat-race and the politically-motivated madness. And then, one stops to think; there is still the opportunity to make a difference with one's life, in positive ways. To help others, the needy, even those who think they are not that needy, with a gift here, a kind word there, a smile elsewhere.

We were all born into this world with a purpose. That purpose, although it may be unclear at times, is to serve ourselves by being good to ourselves. And we are good to ourselves when we have a sense of self-worth, which only comes from service to others; service to men and women, our fellow brothers and sisters. In serving others we serve, and do good, to ourselves.

There is much loneliness in many of us. This comes from the fact that we have lost touch with ourselves, and our true beliefs and wishes. It also arises from the fact that we are lacking companionship, and the ability to share our deepest dreams and wishes. It is time then to reach out to someone – whether they be friends, family, or a soul on the street. A smile does not cost a cent. Neither does a conversation, or the ability to share one's thoughts.

If we were all to reach out and share a thought, not only would we be helping ourselves, but also the one we reach out to, to brighten their day with some words and deeds. And, indeed, as we are all part of the same energy, so we are part of each other. And the only way we can help each other – is together.

### Poisoned

by Lori Schafer

"I'm sure you didn't mean anything by it," she whispered conspiratorially, clutching at the wires crisscrossing her torso as if they were lifelines. "You didn't really mean to hurt me, did you?"

I didn't answer. I had no answer for her.

She raised herself; bent her back up off the angled, starched-sheeted bed, the skull-flattened pillow. "You won't get into any trouble. I promise," she assured me in her most persuasive tone, leaning towards me as if greater nearness would bring her closer to the truth.

I glanced at my mother, ragged now from our endless day of blood tests and EKGs, pitiful with probes attached to her chest and hands. Then averted my eyes and stared instead at my own hands, knuckles white on the edges of the uncomfortable folding chair on which I perched by her bedside, and wondered if they were even capable of doing her harm. Thought that if they were, that surely they would have done it already.

She bent her face close to mine, the urgency in her voice betraying the calmness of her countenance. "Just tell them what you gave me, sweetheart," she pleaded.

Her breath stunk of metal fillings and stale cigarettes. I backed involuntarily away. Hasty and harrowed, to her my retreat conveyed confession and it prodded her on, encouraged her investigation.

"It was poison, wasn't it?" she whispered excitedly, almost hopefully, I thought. "Just tell me what kind!"

Why was she so obsessed with poison? I speculated, not yet comprehending that it was impossible to rationalize the irrational. She refused to eat at home anymore because the food might be poisoned; preferred the anonymity of restaurant fare. But then it was in my orange juice or her coffee, might have been sprinkled like salt on the eggs or buried deep in the butter, this mysterious killer toxin, by some even more mysterious killer who stalked us, who intended inexplicably to do us harm.

"It's not too late," she urged. "If you just tell them what it was, there might be an antidote. They could still save me!" She smiled at me kindly and conscientiously ran her hands over her scalp, smoothing down the short blonde hair she'd had colored and cut in fruitless disguise.

Sometimes I even considered the possibility that she herself was the poisoner she so terribly feared. If that was the real reason why she kept snatching my meals away at the last second, in an attack of conscience over attempting to murder her own daughter. Even I had begun to look suspiciously at my food; wondered whether I should refuse it, no matter how many meals I had lately missed. I was gradually absorbing her paranoia, cinching it to my core like the belt around my sagging jeans.

"It's not going to go well with you if something happens to me, you know," she snarled, all at once dropping her coy sweetness. "I've left evidence. They'll be able to prove it was you. You'll be locked up for good, I guarantee it."

I listened to the quiet bleeping of the machinery at her bedside and eyed the doctor staring curiously from the hall, the doctor who had been sent away after admitting they hadn't been able to find any physical cause for the searing pains in her chest, the shortness of breath. My co-conspirator, no doubt.

"And don't forget about Bellevue," she spat. "I'm your mother and I can still have you committed. Maybe it would be good for you," she concluded nastily, sneering her contempt of my supposed sanity.

It shivered through me, this worst of her threats, the familiar fear of the powerless pitted against the powerful. I imagined myself again, sealed into a strait-jacket, shrieking wildly in protest, proving my lunacy thereby. Being trundled into some dark hole and left there forever to rot, to die, while she roamed freely about, seeking, perhaps, another child, a youngster, a victim more susceptible to accepting her incomprehensible illusions.

"So are you going to tell me or not?" she snapped finally, whipping her head around as if seeking to startle me into the truth, her hands clasping the bed's guardrails, steadfastly refusing to misbehave in public, in front of witnesses. Hanging on to the cold steel as if afraid she might forget herself again, as she had lately made a habit of doing; bruise my wrists with her claw-like fingers, or box my ears with the flats of her palms.

I bowed my head as if in contemplation, perhaps in prayer. Gazed directly into the once-familiar mud-brown eyes, hollow now, as they had become in recent weeks, vague and empty and occupied elsewhere, in vast regions of runaway imagination that I couldn't see, couldn't possibly perceive.

I meditated whether I should try to explain it to her, the irrationality of her suspicion. How could I have poisoned her? I was sixteen, and the internet hadn't been invented yet. I wouldn't have known what kind of poison would work on a person, even if I'd had access to some. And how would I have bought it, with her watching me twenty-four hours a day, even while we slept?

I stared unwaveringly into them, the eyes so unlike my own, so nearly inhuman yet not animal either; alien eyes. And abandoned the hope of persuading them with my useless reasoning. Her world had an impenetrable logic all its own.

"I didn't give you anything, Mom," I said, turning away.

She cursed out loud. I didn't look back.

She surrendered. Accepted the doctor's discharge and took me home. But she eyed me mistrustfully as she ordered me into the king-sized bed we now shared.

"I can't force you to admit what you did," she conceded as she lay down, fully dressed, on top of the blankets. "But I still know you did it."

She clasped her hand hard to her chest and let out a gasp, as if in pain. And almost I wished I had relented and confessed to the uncommitted crime, I pitied her so.

***

Lori Schafer's flash fiction, short stories, and essays have appeared in numerous print and online publications, and she is currently at work on her third novel. Her memoir, On Hearing of My Mother's Death Six Years After It Happened: A Daughter's Memoir of Mental Illness, is being released in October 2014. "Poisoned," which is an excerpt from her memoir, received an Honorable Mention in Avalon Literary Review's Spring 2014 contest. You can learn more about Lori and her upcoming projects by visiting her website at http://lorilschafer.blogspot.com/ or by subscribing to her newsletter via MailChimp at http://eepurl.com/OYNDL.

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Defiant Heart

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Tory, an orphan at the age of ten is taken under the wing of a duchess as servant but the Duchess has her own motives.

Her teenage son, Lyndon Annicott protests and tries everything to make her runaway but Tory is just as strong willed.

Maybe she is the daughter of a Duke or perhaps a princess , after all an orphan has to dream.

Sometimes you find someone that truly loves you but it is rare for it to happen twice.

Years later, Tory has grown into a beautiful woman, who inherited everything that should have been his. Although bitter fighting erupts between them over the estate, Lyndon is attracted to Tory as she is to him.

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Interrogate SEO

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SEO from the Basics to Beyond.

SEO is either going to be, your nightmare, or your salvation. In order to make your website work correctly, your search engine optimization must be perfected so that it drives is absolutely as much organic traffic as you can get. We will strive to present the basics of SEO but also go beyond that by giving real-world examples and how to accomplish your goals. As a web designer, knowledge of SEO is critical and must be included in the very first steps while building a website. For the owners of the website, it is mandatory that they have at least a basic understanding of what it is and how it works.

Dr. James Blanchette has been around the computer industry since the very beginning and could be referred to as one of the original geeks. His programming skills extend to 22 different programming languages. He is also worked as a hardware technician for some of the largest companies in the world. He has in addition acted as the Head Programmer on many large-scale web developments.

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Fantasies From The Kitchen Sink

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After a wildly successful and scandalous career as a stripper, Fifi Lemott pens her memoirs and makes a fortune. She buys the house of her dreams in the quintessential town of Dorking, and embarks upon on a journey of adventure and mischief in the hope of finding love.

In her search for a new life of romance and respectability, Fifi finds her path crossing with sexually frustrated pensioners.

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Portraits and Landscapes

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Portraits and Landscapes is an eclectic collection of short stories about all of us. The first stories in the collection are about failed romance and how many of us constantly and painfully search for connection in our lives. Other stories take us across the globe, and speak in a variety of voices, which give us brief glimpses of individuals who struggle to make sense of our world. The human beings described in these stories will make you laugh, weep and sometimes they'll make you throw up your hands in utter disbelief.

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See you in the Next Issue

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