

On the Platform, Waiting:  
A Writer's Group Anthology

Introduction by Robert Brewer. © 2018 Robert Brewer.

"The Journey" by Kat McCormick. © 2018 Kat McCormick.

"Starts and Stops" by Amy Zlatic. © 2018 Amy Zlatic.

"The Boat" by Mona E. Mamoun. © 2018 Mona E. Mamoun.

"Ammee" by Majida Rashid. © 2018 Majida Rashid.

"Story of a Life" by James Stack. © 2018 James Stack.

"Sunset and Sunrise" by Hiba Hasan Gardezi. © 2018 Hiba Hasan Gardezi.

"The Unseen Views" by Traci Nathaniel Walker. © 2018 Traci Nathaniel Walker.

"Carbon" by Ariel. © 2018 Ariel.

"A Prayer for Dad" by Geralyn Hesslau Magrady. © 2018 Geralyn Hesslau Magrady.

"Journey to the Other Side" by DMG Byrnes. © 2018 DMG Byrnes.

"Connections" by Nancy J. Clark. © 2018 Nancy J. Clark.

"A Walk in the Park" by Geralyn Hesslau Magrady. © 2018 Geralyn Hesslau Magrady.

"After(words)" by Elizabeth Eisenhauer. © 2018 Elizabeth Eisenhauer.

"Truckin'" by James Stack. © 2018 James Stack.

"Un Jour à Neys" by Sean Callahan. © 2018 Sean Callahan.

"Jimmy McIntyre Returns from Abroad" by Robert Pipkin. © 2018 Robert Pipkin.

"Sorrow Stone" by Traci Nathaniel Walker. © 2018 Traci Nathaniel Walker.

"Jacob's Journey" by Patrick M. Charron. © 2018 Patrick M. Charron.

"The Long Ride Home" by A. Marie Silver. © 2018 A. Marie Silver.

"Journey from Eden" by Sean Callahan. © 2018 Sean Callahan.

"Flip Flops and Futures" by Charity Rau. © 2018 Charity Rau.

"In MRI Land" by Nancy J. Clark. © 2018 Nancy J. Clark.

"Jars of Light" by Kim Bailey Spradlin. © 2018 Kim Bailey Spradlin.

"Luck of the Paw" by Alyssa Mayley. © 2018 Alyssa Mayley.

"I'm Just a Girl Who Loved a Dog" by Karen Doll. © 2018 Karen Doll.

"Wild Horse Reborn" by Kim Bailey Spradlin. © 2018 Kim Bailey Spradlin.

"A Woman's Journey to a Thousand Cats" by Pam S. Manley. © 2018 Pam S. Manley.

"Just What She Was Looking For" by Marge Cutter. © 2018 Marge Cutter.

"Following Fish" by Ariel. © 2018 Ariel.

"Luxury Poem" by Elizabeth Eisenhauer. © 2018 Elizabeth Eisenhauer.

"Journey Not" by Donna Vieth. © 2018 Donna Vieth.

"Passive No More" by Eliza Winkler. © 2018 Eliza Winkler.

"Life's Journeys or Somehow, It Seems Important" by Marge Cutter. © 2018 Marge Cutter.

"Door to Anywhere" by Eliza Winkler. © 2018 Eliza Winkler.

To the many voices in our heads, thanks for the sleep deprivation.

## Table of Contents

Introduction – Robert Brewer

The Journey – Kat McCormick

Starts and Stops – Amy Zlatic

The Boat – Mona E. Mamoun

Ammee – Majida Rashid

Story of a Life – James Stack

Sunset and Sunrise – Hiba Hasan Gardezi

The Unseen Views – Traci Nathaniel Walker

Carbon – Ariel

A Prayer for Dad – Geralyn Hesslau Magrady

Journey to the Other Side – DMG Byrnes

Connections – Nancy J. Clark

A Walk in the Park – Geralyn Hesslau Magrady

After(words) – Elizabeth Eisenhauer

Truckin' – James Stack

Un Jour à Neys – Sean Callahan

Jimmy McIntyre Returns from Abroad – Robert Pipkin

Sorrow Stone – Traci Nathaniel Walker

Jacob's Journey – Patrick M. Charron

The Long Ride Home – A. Marie Silver

Journey from Eden – Sean Callahan

Flip Flops and Futures – Charity Rau

In MRI Land – Nancy J. Clark

Jars of Light – Kim Bailey Spradlin

Luck of the Paw – Alyssa Mayley

I'm Just a Girl Who Loved a Dog – Karen Doll

Wild Horse Reborn – Kim Bailey Spradlin

A Woman's Journey to a Thousand Cats – Pam S Manley

Just What She Was Looking For – Marge Cutter

Following Fish – Ariel

Luxury Poem – Elizabeth Eisenhauer

Journey Not – Donna Vieth

Passive No More – Eliza Winkler

Life's Journey or Somehow, It Seems Important – Marge Cutter

Door to Anywhere – Eliza Winkler

About the Authors

Acknowledgements

## Introduction

by Robert Brewer

As someone who's been writing and editing for more than 20 years, I can't help but think about structure, especially the structure of writing. For instance, most pieces of writing rely on three elements. Of course, writers can get as sophisticated as they wish, but all writing is basically a beginning, a middle, and an end.

It's the same with being alive: We're all born; we all live for a while; and then, we all die. Everyone gets the same deal, and in that way we all sort of travel the same path, right?

That's what Kat McCormick's opening poem to this anthology seems to ask, "if all paths are the same, why does any of it matter?" Big question, and a good question. But let's back up a bit.

This journeys themed anthology is the result of five volunteer editors, who gathered poems, stories, and essays from 24 contributors—many of whom share a common intersection of life: the 2015 October Platform Challenge. Before that, many (if not all) were strangers, and yet, they crossed paths and connected—and most importantly, they journeyed on together.

Those paths were similar in some aspects: These people were interested in writing. Further, they were interested in sharing their writing with others. But there are differences too, including topics, poetry versus prose, fiction versus nonfiction, geographic location, writing experience, age, and so on. Sure, the paths are similar, but the journeys have been different, even if shared.

Reader, prepare yourself to join them and be transported, because this anthology is as true to its name as it is to its theme. On the Platform, Waiting: A Writer's Group Anthology is filled with excursions, whether via trips that are physical, emotional, and/or psychological. And reader, these are trips worth pursuing, because you've now found your own intersection with these writers and their journeys. You are now part of this one.

And that's truly where the fun happens—in those moments between the beginning and the end, the birth and the death. Or in other words, this is where we answer that big and good question from earlier, the question of "why?"

Once you get started and read that first poem, you'll be on your way, and you'll know what McCormick knows: "the answer lies in the journey."

Let's see where this path leads.

## The Journey

by Kat McCormick

"The path up and down is one and the same."  
– Heraclitus

And yet I work the tip of my tongue against my teeth.

Up or down? Right or left?

I should leave behind my worry

about the best way, the right way

and simply fly.

Ignore the chaos that surrounds me,

rise above the petty world of unwashed clothes and unplanned kids.

Ignore the voices around me and in my head –

thirty-second promises of a better job, better thighs, better sex.

But fear slides into my pores,

fills my core and stops

me as the threat of a wrong choice

stabs its shank into my stomach

with a twisted promise of regret until I bleed doubt

and drip the question on the floor –

if all paths are the same, why does any of it matter?

When the sting of a blade on a youthful wrist

and the last breath from a sibilating shell are the same,

why choose?

In the dark, a sliver of light clears the dust motes

as understanding dawns with the growing day –

the answer lies in the journey.

## Starts and Stops

by Amy M. Zlatic

I sat alone in rush hour traffic, not minding that I had gone less than a mile in 20 minutes. My mother's appointment with the neurologist had taken so long that it was now dark, and the forecasted storm had just started to pepper rain. I let the drops scatter across my windshield, watching how they reflected the brake lights and headlights and building lights and stop lights. My radio was quiet. I use music to calm and soothe, or to pump and escalate, to celebrate, to mourn. But sometimes, there hasn't been music created yet that does what I need it to, and so I turn off the radio altogether. For a moment, I was distracted by the realization that with nearly a hundred high-definition stations in my city and almost a thousand more available via satellite, not to mention the hours of music stored on my phone, there was nothing that reflected how I was feeling except silence. Despite the thousands, maybe millions, of medications on the market, there was nothing that could truly help my mother. My brain felt overloaded, and shutting down one stimulation of the senses helped stabilize the chaos. Everyone eased forward a few feet. I lifted my foot from the brake, rolled, and stopped again.

My mother remembered at that appointment that she has two daughters, but she could only remember one daughter's name. She couldn't remember her first-born. She couldn't remember the name she had given me on the day she had given me to the world. It came to her a few minutes later, but only after I covered my shattered heart with a bright, encouraging face and told her she was fine. I knew she was nervous. I knew she already felt bad. My job was to make her feel better, not worse. My job was to help her move forward, not back.

The people in the cars around me were preoccupied, too. I watched drivers and passengers idly using their cell phones. Some sang along to music that matched their mood in their own automotive havens. Pedestrians hurried down the sidewalk, trying to beat the storm home. Drivers grew frustrated with the traffic and swung their cars in wide U-turns, choosing to go a longer way than sit with the masses. The rest of us crept forward, bit by bit.

My car was slowly taking me back to my regular world, the calm, safe one that Alzheimer's stubbornly interrupts with its unpredictable backfires. I inched along toward my husband, my own daughter, my job, my volunteer work, my writing, my photography, my book club. My reader friends were gathering later that night, all of us coming from different directions to converge in one place to discuss a book about loss. These things keep me busy and give me joy and solace, but at that moment I relished the time alone in the sanctuary of my car. I relaxed into a situation where I had very little control.

We had gathered at the memory diagnostic clinic, coming from three different directions in three different cars. We waited with all the other people there for the same abysmal reason, all of us steeping in a stew of anxiety, discomfort, and fear. Other people looked as out of place as I felt. My father looked around, leaned over, and loudly asked my sister if she was carrying her gun. I removed my heavy winter coat and my mother asked me if I had lost weight. After she went back for testing, my sister and I amused ourselves with photo filters on our cell phones, the laughter serving as a balm for the uncertainty. The whole appointment felt surreal. This whole disease feels surreal. After the appointment, we retreated to our three cars and drove away from each other.

The silence of my rolling retreat broke with two phone calls. My sister wished she had remembered to ask the doctor about rate of progression, and then answered her own question. "She can't tell us, can she?" I didn't know what to say, because no one seems to be able to tell us anything for sure with this disease. A few minutes later, when I called my husband, I still didn't know what to say. I told him I was on my way, and in heavy traffic. I didn't tell him how the appointment went. I didn't tell him that my mother had been prescribed Parkinson's disease medication for her new tremors. I didn't tell him that she had forgotten my name. We both sounded weary and preoccupied. The call lasted less than a minute. The blessed silence returned.

The reflected lights slowly gathered in ever larger drops on my windshield, finally becoming too heavy to resist gravity any longer. Pregnant jewels sparkled down, gathering smaller gems as they went, growing and leaving spidery trails in their wake. After the rain coated my windshield beyond comprehension, I tapped the wipers. The first pass blurred everything further. The lights skittered across the window. I liked watching this; it looked like a glowing Jackson Pollock painting coming to life right in front of me. When the cars around me moved again and I had to move again, I did not trust the gorgeous, distorted view. The wipers flew, the paint smeared. We had diagnosed my mother long before the doctors, the MRIs, the visual tests. When the gaps in memory ran together and became too heavy to resist any longer, we took her to the experts. They ran a battery of tests in various machines and showed her clocks that had hands but no numbers and gave her instructions to count backwards from one hundred by sevens. The machines showed atrophy. She couldn't tell the time. She couldn't count backwards. Everything smeared.

There was no cause for traffic. Just happened. There was no accident. Just volume. Too many people all trying to get somewhere at the same time. We are not a city known for mass transit. We are not carpoolers. We are independent Midwesterners, scrappy and fierce and skeptical. We need proof before we'll believe you. It's hard to fathom that the experts know nothing for sure about this diagnosis, and we grow impatient with the trials and errors.

There is no cause for this disease. Just happens. There was no accident. Just plaques and tangles. The diagnosis itself isn't even certain, for the only definitive label comes when it's too late, after the body is parked for good, the engine stopped. I had thought I would find comfort in the diagnosis, but I learned that with this diagnosis there is no comfort. There is no next step, no treatment, no plan. There is no map, no Global Positioning System. Even though thousands have this disease, no two roads are the same, and so we are all in our own cars. We are isolated from each other even while we creep towards the same destination.

I find a kind of pure satisfaction in driving. The grip of the steering wheel and a responsive engine. I am finely tuned to how my car sounds, how it is supposed to sound. I know if the alternator is wonky, if the starter might stop. I record every tank of gas, checking my miles per gallon because my father taught me that mileage is the first indication that something might be wrong with your engine. He also taught me how to change a tire, how to change the oil. If you take good care of your car, it will take good care of you. The body doesn't work like that. My mother's body is healthy. Or it was before the disease started ravaging it. She drank too much and she smoked when she was younger, but she beat cancer three times and she has a good, strong heart. Drinking and smoking don't cause Alzheimer's. Nobody knows what causes Alzheimer's. Could she tell when her miles per gallon started to falter? Could she tell that her engine had a slightly different pitch, that her steering wasn't as responsive? We could. She is our mother. His wife. We are finely tuned to her. The day we took away her car keys was almost worse than the day she learned she has Alzheimer's. Almost.

Horns honked around me. People were impatient to get on with their lives. Dinner needed to be made, bills paid, homework checked. Children needed baths and snuggles and bedtime stories. Flights needed to be booked and reservations made or confirmed. At first I raged that the world could be so ordinary, so predictable, when my own world was crashing. How could people sing along to their radios when my soul hurt so much that music couldn't express it? How could they play games on their phones while the fabric of my family is shredding?

And then I remembered that every person in every one of those cars is fighting his or her own battle. Marriages in distress, sick children, lost or stressful jobs. Their escape into their music, into their games, was just as valid as my escape into the silence. We each have our own roadmap, our own route to survival even while we are locked on this road together, a suffering communion of commuters. We drive in different directions. We all slowly roll forward together.

## The Boat

by Mona El Mamoun

I wear my life jacket like a badge of pride

I will come through on the other side

I am alive

I will thrive

Seeing my homeland fade in the distance

How will I survive the future?

They say there are rivers, valleys and mountains

In my new destination

The old beggar on the street corner

Offered me a sad farewell, a mourner

How did he know?

Will he also go?

Don't bother with a passport, they said

It's a waste of time

I travel without papers

Like a felon in the night

I wish I could return

My heart can only burn

Thinking of the lost world

I sigh with fingers curled

It could be three hundred, maybe more

Men, women and children aboard

Some balancing on the edge

Lurching up and down

I saw a young urchin fall in

No family to mourn him

He is captured by the waves

Perhaps it is God who saves

It is a starry twinkling night

Not a drop of water to drink

Throats are parched

An endless, endless night

I think of my lost world

No flag of my own to be unfurled

I have no home

I am alone

They don't want me here

They don't want me there

I wear my life jacket like a badge of shame

## Ammee

by Majida Rashid

"This is God's earth. He created humans and He created this earth. We can be born in one place and buried elsewhere," said Ammee when her youngest daughter asked her how she was adjusting to the new country.

Ammee's life journey started when she was born to affluent Muslim parents in British India. Her father was a police inspector; a position, at the time, rarely held by Indians. Her father's pay was good so he invested in real estate and a mango orchard, and revenue from them provided a comfortable lifestyle for the family.

After graduating from middle school, Ammee sat at home, and started preparing her dowry, as per the Indian tradition of the early 20th century. She looked forward to her trips to the bazaar where she bought red, blue, white, magenta, and so many more colors of silk threads to embroider linen. While she liked her trips to the bazaar, her most favorite activity was attending the annual horse show jumping competitions. Even decades later she told competitions' stories to her youngest daughter.

Once she said, "One year when the winner, of one of the competitions, went to get the prize and removed the hat, out came two beautiful long golden braids. The crowd cheered like they never did before. I felt so proud of the winner because this was the first time a female had participated and won."

Her visits to the bazaar and to the annual horse shows ended when, in her 18th year, her father married her off to a man in his 20s, who had just completed a law degree from the city where Ammee's family was living. As an Indian woman, born in the early 20th century, Ammee was indoctrinated with the idea that from her father's home she has to go to her husband's home until her death. This idea helped her embrace her husband whom she saw for the first time on their wedding night.

After the wedding Ammee's husband wanted to set up his law practice in the city where Ammee's family was living, but her father said, "Son, set up your practice with your own people. You will be successful."

Ammee's father gave the advice because Ammee's husband's hometown was 200 miles away and he didn't have social support in the city where he got his education.

Ammee's husband heeded the advice and decided to return to his hometown. So one day Ammee packed her expensive clothes and 22-karat gold jewelry that her parents had given her in her dowry, and with bittersweet emotions Ammee left her parents' home for the first time, with her husband. Ammee was apprehensive to begin with because she didn't know what her future entailed, but she completely trusted God and prayed for a good life. On her way to her in-laws' home she kept praying that her new family would accept her with open arms.

But to her dismay they were horrified to see her because their boy had gone to study and brought back a bride with him without consulting his family, as culture dictated. While Ammee's marriage to her husband was a huge let down for his family, she was overwhelmed with their ways. Her husband had learned Ammee's language, during his studies, but his family neither spoke nor understood her language. In their culture women were supposed to be neither seen, nor heard. They were not even allowed to go for shopping, or leave the house by themselves. A male servant brought clothes and other things if Ammee's sisters-in-law wanted to buy something. Her sisters-in-law were timid, and dared not speak their mind, while Ammee was bold with a loud voice, and spoke her mind openly, much to her in-laws' dislike.

However, Ammee was determined to have a successful life so she learned their dialect, adapted their lifestyle, and focused on helping her husband set up his law practice. She made a huge sacrifice and sold her gold jewelry, her only personal asset, and gave the money to her husband. After that she had nothing of her own, though her husband was happy to have such a supportive wife.

In the beginning of the marriage Ammee visited her parents and stayed for months in order to get respite from her new family and their culture. The visits dwindled over time when Ammee had five children.

By then Ammee's husband had worked hard and established himself as a successful and sought-after lawyer; as a result they became affluent. This increased Ammee's responsibilities because her husband's relatives flocked to their house, like flies to honey, as her husband had money. Even his sick relatives, and clients stayed with them while receiving treatment for tuberculosis, among other illnesses, and Ammee took care of them during their stay. Her husband wouldn't allow her to keep a maid, or other help inside the house, because he thought they might steal from them.

When Ammee's mother passed away, she went to attend her funeral and stayed for three months, returning home depressed with a heavy heart.

A few days after her return one of her husband's uncles jokingly told Ammee to ask Fatima's hand for her husband. Ammee refused and dismissed the idea. Fatima was the daughter of a neighborhood cleaning woman, Zakia.

To Ammee's dismay, a few days later, her husband asked her to permit him to marry Fatima. Ammee didn't know how to respond so she decided to keep quiet with the hope that the whole matter would go away. But her husband kept pestering her until she agreed. After getting her consent, Ammee's husband asked her to take the marriage proposal to Fatima's mother, Zakia.

Ammee assumed that no one in the right mind would marry their daughter off to a married man who already had five children. She also wondered what difference it would make whether she took the proposal or not because she knew her husband would marry Fatima anyway.

So Ammee went to Zakia and said, "I have brought the proposal of my husband's marriage to your daughter, Fatima."

Zakia agreed right away, and a little ceremony was held to celebrate Ammee's husband and Fatima's marriage. After the marriage Ammee's husband abandoned her, their children, and moved in with Zakia and Fatima.

Ammee's depression deepened, and she started getting anxiety attacks, but she didn't talk to anyone because she was a proud woman. Besides, she didn't have any confidante in the family because they had still not accepted her as their own.

For weeks Ammee moved around like a headless chicken during the day, not knowing what to do and how to get out of the situation. At night Ammee tossed and turned in her bed as if she was being dragged on thorns.

In between tossing and turning she would take out the prayer mat and pray for peace of mind. Then she would check on her children to see if they were safe as they were the most precious things in her life.

When Ammee's father heard about her situation he told her to get a divorce and come back. But Ammee wondered her husband would never let her take the children, and if they stayed behind Zakia and Fatima will treat them like their servants. Ammee also thought who would take care of her, and her children, after her father's death. So she decided to stay with her husband.

After her decision Ammee's father talked sense to Ammee's husband, as a result he started spending some days with Ammee, and some with Fatima. After a while, her husband, Zakia and Fatima moved in with her. Ammee told herself to bravely face whatever life brings, because she thought if she showed her emotions Zakia, and Fatima would exploit her weaknesses. So she put on a brave face for the sake of her children and protected them like a hungry tigress.

Ammee was grateful and happy when her husband resumed conjugal visits with her. She conceived a few times but ended up miscarrying because she said that Zakia would do something or the other. Once, Zakia asked Ammee, who was in her first trimester, to accompany her to a funeral. Ammee reluctantly complied because culturally she couldn't refuse. She had been to Zakia's village once and it was not far but that day it seemed very far and Zakia kept forgetting the way. Ammee kept telling Zakia that she wanted to go home but Zakia kept saying the house was just around the corner, and so they walked until it was dark. Ammee couldn't return home because a woman was not allowed to go out of the house by herself. That night when they came home Ammee started bleeding and lost the child.

Ammee's health deteriorated and, after a while, she contracted tuberculosis either from the emotional burden of seeing her husband sleep with another woman, or from taking care of her husband's sick clients and relatives. She underwent a surgery that resulted in the removal of her left lung and two ribs. When she returned home, after the surgery, she was too weak to cook for herself so Zakia continued cooking for the whole family, as she had been doing in Ammee's absence. One day Zakia gave Ammee cooked spinach and Roti, Pakistani bread, for lunch. When Ammee put a morsel of spinach and Roti in her mouth, it burned and got covered with blisters. She showed her mouth to Zakia who said, "I don't know. Everyone ate the same spinach."

"Well, then you must have put something in mine," said Ammee. She pushed the plate under the bed, and their cat ate some, got sick, and died a few days later.

Then both the mother and the daughter accused Ammee of having an affair with her sister-in-law's husband because they wanted Ammee's husband to divorce her. Ammee denied it but no one believed her. She was livid and anxious about her and her children's future. But she couldn't do anything other than asking God to give her strength to safely get through the ordeal.

Ammee's husband convened a meeting that was attended by him, two of his uncles, an aunt, and Ammee. She was asked to put her hand on the Qur'an and swear by it that she wasn't having any affair. It was believed that if someone lied while swearing on the Qur'an then something really bad would happen to the person. She did as she was told, to prove her innocence. That dismissed the accusation against her. But for decades Ammee was full of remorse for not saying that her accusers should also be punished for their lies, while she had her hand on the holy book.

Ammee didn't know if her husband said anything to Fatima but she was happy that he neither divorced her, nor stopped his visits.

Ammee got pregnant once again. This time she was resolved to protect her pregnancy because the child, she thought, would be a token of her husband's love, and the best revenge she could have. However, she was also afraid that if either Zakia or Fatima found out about her pregnancy they would do something to abort it. So she decided to hide her pregnancy, even from her husband.

Ammee started complaining about the cold weather, and avoided going near her husband. She covered herself with a shawl before getting out of bed, and removed it at night when no one was around. Fortunately Ammee didn't feel morning sickness, the telltale sign of a pregnancy.

Ammee also thought of covering herself from every angle because she knew both the mother, and the daughter were cunning, and they would find out about her pregnancy. So she kept track of her periods and every month for the next several months she diligently washed pieces of cloth and hung them on the clothesline in a way that it was not obvious but visible enough so that Zakia and Fatima didn't suspect anything.

Ammee exposed the pregnancy when she thought it was safe and her youngest daughter was born in a private maternity clinic. Ammee got tremendous satisfaction from the fact that her husband paid all the expenses which, to Ammee, indicated that her husband still loved her. The daughter filled Ammee with new hope and she focused her energies on her daughter.

A few years after her daughter's birth one household split into two; Ammee lived on one side with her six children, and her husband lived on the other side with Fatima, their children, and Zakia. Zakia took care of the house and Fatima's children, while Fatima spent all her time with her husband, in their bedroom, when he was at home.

Gradually Ammee's husband stopped visiting her, and they started arguing over money because Fatima gave her husband a hard time if he gave money to Ammee, or paid for her children's education.

As Ammee's children grew they started questioning their father's second marriage. To justify his second marriage, Ammee's husband and Fatima started brainwashing Ammee's children against her. Sometime, they said Ammee was hiding money or she was not educated. On other occasions they said Ammee's mouth smelled, she didn't take care of her husband's visitors, or her family was bad. And the list went on and on.

Ammee, on the other hand, never complained or bad-mouthed her husband to anyone, not even to her children. She busied herself with reading and keeping tab on worldly affairs. She continued to take pride in her cooking because everyone in her husband's family praised it. She kept her trust in God and diligently prayed to gain strength.

Despite her optimism the stress caught up with her and in her 40s she was diagnosed with diabetes. She faced it bravely and never once complained about her illness. Her husband refused to give her money even for medicine saying it was her sons' duty to take care of her, as they were now earning a living. Even though at the time her husband was so successful that he paid cash to educate Fatima's sons in America.

The family of two households moved from one city to another to be close to Ammee's husband's work. Their last move was to Islamabad, Pakistan, where Ammee lived on the third floor of the house, while Fatima, her husband, and their driver lived on the lower two floors. After a few years all of Ammee's children were married and Ammee was left alone in the house.

Even though Ammee was living by herself and not bothering Fatima or her husband, she became a thorn in Fatima's eyes, and after a little while Fatima wanted Ammee out of the house at any cost. So one day, for no reason, Fatima and her husband put Ammee's belongings on the street and told her to live with her sons.

She moved in with her oldest son but she became unhappy. The idea that a woman has to have a husband in order to survive was so ingrained in Ammee that she went into a deep depression. She felt worthless. Her youngest daughter took her to a psychiatrist and Ammee said, "I'm in my sixties and my husband kicked me out. I wanted to live under the roof of my husband until my death, even if he didn't care about me."

After a while, her youngest son brought her to America and, for the first time, Ammee realized that she was free. She no longer needed to live with her husband and his wife who, day after day, night after night, ignored her and treated her as if she was a worthless piece of furniture.

After coming to America it dawned on Ammee that her worth didn't depend on a man called "husband". She also recognized how her optimism, persistence, and deep trust in God gave her inner strength.

After a year when her youngest daughter asked her how she was adjusting to her new life, she said, "You know life is similar to a sports track. At times life is smooth like a relay race, but there are times when one has to take a leap of faith, like a long jump, in order to embrace new things in life, just the way I did when I got married, and accompanied your father to live among his people. Sometimes life is like a hurdle race, but no matter what happens, have trust that you will be taken care of by the Divine. Be strong, educate yourself, and be financially independent so that you can make your own decisions instead of depending on your husband."

Ammee went through a lot in life but her persistence in overcoming all hurdles on her emotional journey left a legacy of courage, bravery, and complete trust in God.

## Story of a Life

by James Stack

as composed

the story of a life resides in transitory

as well as enduring locations

the rift valley of East Africa

inhabits shards of bones

imprinted with narratives

containing the initiations of evolution

walls in caves display drawings

confirming a primal presence

the sparks of communal survival

activity of animals that sustained subsistence

and the ephemeral feature of our ancestors

from a prior period

recognition of worthy births

was carved in stone or

penned on papyrus

infants no longer born at home

commonplace deliveries

publically published

formerly via carrier pigeon or official proclamation

announcements discharged and delivered

categories of correspondence came in handy

each consecutive year when celebrating holidays or

invitations to events and revelries

postscripts endure as thank-you notes

infrequently inscribed nowadays

even by the socially conscious

enclosures for these dispatches

possessed a seal or

return address

where a being had dwelled

historically these missives were SWW

sealed with wax

in the recent past SWAK

sealed with a kiss

no longer requiring hierarchical hieroglyphics

ones existence materializes briefly on

abrasive blackboards

in wispy sketchpads

temporarily on a hand shoe clothing cast

for remembrances hearts names get wells

scribbles still etched on a wall as scrawl or

graffiti signifying an appearance

even snow offers

an opportunity to

acknowledge a passing in

an amusing buttery blotch

fleeting attendance plays out

on sidewalks in chalk

as initials materializing on

bark of sycamore and beech

if grasped before the incoming tide as

identities scratched in sand along the shore

Post-It-Notes provide

daily reminders

calendars contain

aids in organization

magnets on refrigerator doors

reflect recent memories

photos in albums or frames

keep a succession stationary in place and time

professions materialize

according to prodigy choice accident

talents express as strokes on a canvas or

screen or

blocking in a script

marks on wooden boards indicate where to hew

lines on blueprint designate wires pipes walls

designing a home

no longer a cave

for the return address

a room

in a home

may hold a computer wires support or

a laptop breeding wirelessly

software allows a tale to be told

beyond the secreting walls

where social media broadcasts verses

once held sway

there is presently the

everlasting method of texting

available universally

becoming a blight on the world

wide web

retaining extensive knowledge and minutiae of

every nanosecond

remaining eternally

like the shards of bones buried in the rift valley

lived but for a brief moment yet

filled with occasions cherished mundane private

if lucky to have been recorded in bone or stone

on papyrus or

the internet

these experiences stages passages episodes

like these words

will live well beyond the life

## Sunset and Sunrise

by Hiba Gardezi

My perceptions of a wearier future are so taut in relation to yours, my love. And if ever you feel the evil gaze of my predominance overshadowing your desires then (though I love you ever so passionately) forgive me not.

May I now begin to tell you, my darling, a lore so painstakingly weaved by both life and experiences? It will guard you, I hope, from what I remain unguarded – self doubt.

What do I mean to say? Well, I want to tell you a story, of course! A nice picture book. I made it myself. Now, come. Nuzzle up against your mummy as I tell you a tale of 'Sunset and Sunrise' by the fire on a night so generously lit by a myriad of dusty stars.

Presently, Sunset is a little girl from the Russian village of Gelendzhik. People know her by the name of Emma.

It's her first time dancing. Would you like to see?

Yes? Okay, turn the page.

Deep breaths.

Closed eyes.

Sea breeze.

Swooshhhh...swoosh...the wind is on his tiptoes.

Demi-Pointe. Now so is Sunset!

Hmm...it's like being a bird. Preparing yourself for flight.

Boundless.

Let go. Let go of the earth and her people. Off!

Shift your weight onto the tips of your toes. Off!

Sunset loves to dance. She loves the wind that taught her to dance.

Now, every day, she comes back to the little bubbling brook that lies to the far north of her village. The tiny piece of land that makes her feel cut off from everything that she is.

She is tired of this role.

She is tired of being a poor little town girl who can only dream big dreams.

She is tired of merely watching the balletic dancers letting their rhythm turn to art.

She longs to be longingly watched.

And that is the feeling that the 'Sashaying Brook' gives her.

Here she closes her eyes and paints a different picture as she lights a brush against the canvas of her imagination. She paints royal red curtains caressing a dark wood centre stage as lights fixate a million audience members on her elegant figure leaping and twirling across the background of a 'Swan Lake'.

She pirouettes to the delightful praise of spectators.

And in those dearly savored moments she is not a little town girl craving fame. She already has what she wants most.

What? Why am I closing the book? I already know this story by heart. Besides, there are no more illustrations.

Come; lay your head in my lap. I want you to understand this story.

Sunset's body a flawless silhouette against the palette of orange hues which was the sky, she was suddenly struck with an idea. Breaking free from an arabesque, she sat down on the boarded ground by the water as her imagination wrapped around her. She sat and sat by the brook as a mightier sea up above turned from orange to blue. Finally lit by what looked like a number of lanterns guiding a lost traveler home, the night sky forced Emma, unguided, home to dinner and a troublesome question.

"Mother, can I move to Moscow?"

No answer.

"Mother?"

"Moscow?" Her mother asked, eyebrows knit. "Don't be silly Emma. Look at you! Only twenty."

"I'm an adult, Mother." Emma told her, a pleading expression planted on her face.

"Why would you want to go there?"

"I want to dance." Her eyes were full of drama. "It gives me such pleasure!"

"You want to dance?"

"Yes. Oh! How I love it! Nothing gives me such freedom as ballet."

"Perhaps girls don't require freedom at such a young age."

"Don't be so commanding, Mother"

"Go to bed."

That night, in the wake of a starlit bedroom exposed to the outside by a huge glass window, Sunset's heart and mind leapt and rolled and danced while her body stayed still.

Mother will never let me go. No matter what! I'll be old and still stuck dancing by a little Russian brook.

But you see, my little one, she loved to dance! She could not part from it for parting from dancing would be like parting from her own soul: Ballet had become a part of her.

Now she faced a decision.

Did you ask a question, dear?

I believe you have been paying attention, then, my dear, because you wonder when I will mention Sunrise. I'm glad you asked. In fact, for this one moment I believe I do have an illustration.

Open the book. To page 6. Yes... look.

It's a glass....

Now look at it closely. It is half full. The part immersed in water shows an underwater scene and the part not in water shows the sea surface with little boats and mountains. Look, the sun is setting here. But as it sets on this part of the world, the part on the surface, it begins to fall into the underwater scene where it rises. You see, when the sun rises in one part of the world it sets somewhere else. When it rises on one part of a person's life it sets somewhere else.

And now I'll tell you that when Sunset snuck out of the house at sunrise, she had been transformed to Sunrise. Sunset and Sunrise were not different girls, just different aspects of the same one. You see, the existence of Sunset and Sunrise depended on Emma's decisions and now that she chose a life of fame and to embrace the sun rising over Moscow's mountains she killed Sunset who had prevailed for the former part of the story. As the sun set on Emma's life as a town girl it began to rise on the life of a struggling ballerina in Moscow.

To say that the journey to Moscow would be a short one or an easy one would be a beautiful lie. Well equipped with this knowledge, Emma began quickly to stuff some valuable items in a backpack. Four changes of clothes. Two pairs of ballet shoes...

When it came to gifts her parents had given her, she broke into tears.

"Mother!" She cried in a quiet voice lying across the floor. "Oh how I love you." Her face crumpled and tears slipped out of eyes, squeezed tight. Never in her life had she been close to making such a great decision. She almost decided to stay.

But no, I cannot give up on my dreams.

I could reason with Mother, perhaps. I cannot keep stalling like this. She is as stubborn as I am.

Finally, it was a temporarily dry-eyed Sunrise who crept out of her house in a hooded full length coat and a backpack as the sun began to break through the clouds, wishing her good luck.

She took the route through the forests behind her house and two hours later she found herself lost amidst the leafy dark seas of green.

If Mother was with me, she would know the way. Tears again made their way to her eyes. She walked. It was all she could do.

"Dreams," she sang kicking her skirt up, "are treacherous things. Dreams will make you selfless yet so selfish."

"Dreams." She heard a different voice. "Are what brought you here. And dreams led me to the forests, too."

"Who are you?" she mused, afraid.

"No one really," said the voice becoming comically heavier. "Just the president."

She burst into laughter. Whoever this was, he was harmless. "The president of Gelendzhik?" she asked.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Gelendzhik is a town, genius. Where are you hiding anyway?"

"BOO!"

Sunrise shouted as a hooded figure jumped at her from behind.

"Who are you now honestly?" She asked the brown eyed boy standing before her who, grinning and pulling down his hood to reveal no hair, almost made her scream again.

"I'm very frightening, I can tell you that."

She only gave him an exasperated look.

"Name's Charlie. Dreams brought me here." He sang, "I dream of going to Moscow to study at a college that won't make me fail at life. You see I'm bald. I shaved my head in protest because my parents didn't want me to go. They didn't listen so I ran away."

"You sing a lot."

"That's because I want to be a singer. I need to stay in practice."

She nodded her head, smirking.

"You've got a very bad voice"

"Really?"He asked touching his nose, looking sincerely hurt.

"I'm joking," She laughed." You scared me twice. I had a right!"

"You're not lying to not hurt my feelings, are you?"

"No, I'm not. You've got a great voice."

"Why thank you, Miss?"

"Emma"

"Why thank you, Miss Emma. And why do I find you weeping in the woods on so fine a winter morning?"

"I ran away, too. I'm going to Moscow."

"Duh," he said cleaning his teeth and looking into a little pocket mirror. "But why?"

"I want to be a ballerina."

He fell down, guffawing.

"What?"

"Can I borrow a tutu?"

"Huh?"

"I'm sorry, it's just so funny."

"Charlie!"

"Okay, okay, look. If we've both run away and if we're both headed for Moscow and if we're both getting kinda lonely, shouldn't we move together? What do you say we become run away buddies?"

"Yes"

He had a map and a watch and all kinds of things I should have brought, too.

Did you say something, dear? Oh yes, you're right. All kinds of things she should've brought, not all kinds of things I should have brought.

After walking all through the day, the two decided to camp by an old oak tree.

When the morning came Charlie said, "I know a place where we can get tickets for a boat from Taman to Zhdanov."

"I don't have any money, Charlie," Sunrise told him, biting her lip. "Do you?"

He snorted. "No."

"Then how will we—"

"You'll see."

"Char—"

"Charlie nothing. Now get up and get ready. Nine hours' walk to Taman."

"What time is it?"

"6am."

They tramped across the forests till early evening when they entered Taman.

"Let's get something to eat," said Sunrise. "We haven't eaten anything save biscuits since morning."

"Yeah, you're right. Wait a minute."

"What are you doing, Charlie?" she said as he ran to the centre of the square they had entered.

He opened up his guitar case and laid it beside him beginning to play music and sing songs.

"The quiet singer" was first.

"It was in the comfort of a warm, star filled night

That the quiet singer first came into sight

Yet he has no voice he sings with his eyes

Oh people! You come to the old Russian brook to hear his music"

Then came "In the mid of May"

"They meet every night in the mid of May

When the moon by the sea begins to betray

The sun which comes up with the promise of day

But never betraying, never forgetting, they meet every night

In the mid of May"

He even sang an original "I'm running away!"

He sang song after song. Everything, from contemporary music to classics long forgotten, was played in the time that he was seated at the middle of the square.

As he sang people kept throwing coins into his guitar case. Finally about an hour later, he walked back to Sunrise.

"We're rich!" Charlie said.

"Congrats!"

"I want to buy you some food."

"Please do."

Two hours later, boarding the ship, Charlie and Sunrise didn't have to spend a single penny. A rich theatre owner, it turned out, had listened to and loved Charlie's voice.

"Play and sing for my guests at Zhdanov and I'll pay for both you and the young lady to travel there by ship."

How could they refuse? Finally safe and comfortable, Sunrise and Charlie each got into their cabins to clean up. After a long hot shower Sunrise changed into fresh clothes—a pink lace dress and pink slippers. There was going to be a ball. She put away her stuff and met Charlie wearing a tuxedo at the railing near their rooms.

"Hello, Charlie."

"Hi, Emma," He smiled.

She moved towards the railing.

They talked for a while about how wonderful the ship was, how lucky they were to get onto it. Then there was talk of the delicious food and the fight between two of the chefs that Charlie had seen only five minutes ago. They had chased each other with frying pans Sunrise was told.

"You should have called me!" She said "I would have loved to see it."

They talked a little more about the day that was now coming to an end and about how much they had walked until neither had anything to say.

"Are you scared?" Charlie asked after a short pause, his eyes now fixed on the bright lights playing with the sea.

"Of what?"

"Of what you've done and of what you've left behind."

She took a deep breath in. "It does scare me, Charlie. It does. And though we've been so busy walking and what not, I can't help thinking of my mother and my father and of what they would think of me. Selfish. That I don't love them. I didn't even leave her a note, do you know that? I just thought of it a while ago. I didn't even leave a note."

"You know how I feel? Like a traitor. Whatever my parents did, they did it for my best. And I left, thankless, defying them. I didn't leave any notes either."

Sunrise began to sob and so did Charlie and on that night they had only one another as companions.

Both sinful.

Both guilty.

Both dreamers.

"Emma"

"Yes, Charlie?"

"We're writing letters tonight."

"To our parents?"

"Yes."

"That's a great idea."

Walking into the ball room both of them realized they didn't dance although he was a singer and she did ballet.

They found themselves in Sunrise's cabin, instead, writing to their parents.

"My dad lives in Latvia because he has work there," Sunrise explained, "so two separate letters for my parents."

"Alright," Charlie said giving her two sheets of paper. "Tell me if you need more."

Dear mother,

How funny it is that I, having run away, have the confidence to speak to you first. But of course I cannot expect you to approach me and my heart would break if I never saw you again. Now where am I going talking of the heart after having done something ever so heartless? But I was led to run by my heart I tell you, Mother. I was forced to leave for my passion. I could not part with ballet because I knew that when I left ballet I would leave it forever. I love ballet, Mother. Ballet does not love me. But with you, I love you and you love me. A mother's arms are always open, right? That's how selfishly I act. I still love you. I love you so much, Mother, but I needed to chase my dreams.

How are you? How are you, Mother? Are you still watching that show "Russian Momitics"? Has it wrapped up yet or is it going on? Did Ms Ann send you those muffins everyone talks about? Are they really that good? I hope that in my absence everything is going alright. I hope that you do not feel lonely. We will meet again, Mother. Please do not be sad if that is how you feel. Go around to tea parties. Watch ballets. I promise to return someday.

Not that this would concern you any longer but in case it does (and how very shameless I am ): I'm safe. I'll tell you that much. Please do not worry. I will send you a letter once I get to where I am going. Please forgive me, Mother. It breaks my heart that I had to run away like this.

Sincerely, shamelessly,

Your daughter,

Emma.

What is that, Child?

Am I? Am I really crying? Sorry. I guess it's just a very touching story.

You agree?

Then she wrote to her father.

Dear Father,

I believe Mother would have told you of my running away. I believe she would have cried and would have begun to hate me. And so would have you. I'm sorry. I have too much confidence for someone who has run away but, Father, I must tell you I love you both so much but I had to leave. I had to go away. My dreams of becoming a Ballerina can only be realized in Moscow and Mother thought I was too young to go. So I had to run away. I expect I broke both your hearts, I broke mine, too, but dreams are powerful things. You know that, Father. Your dreams took you to Latvia and made you live there. Please understand. You must forgive me.

Please, Father. Come back to Gelendzhik for a while. Check on Mother. Cheer her up. I'm afraid she is worried sick. I am safe. Tell her that. I will come back to both of you someday. I'm sorry for what we have all had to face but you must forgive me and you must lighten Mother's heart.

Please.

I must ask you also, how you are and how your art is going. Have you hung anything new since the last picture postcard you sent us?

An embarrassed daughter,

Emma.

When Sunrise looked up from her wet pages Charlie said, "Wow."

"What?" She smiled.

"That's a lot of writing. I can't think of anything." He showed her a blank page with only 'Dear Mother and Father' in curly writing. "Help?"

"Of course." She laughed.

The days passed in that boat and on the road. They'd earned some money by performing in the cities they crossed with Sunrise dancing and Charlie singing and playing his guitar. They'd even gotten enough to get an RV on rent. Sunrise and Charlie talked and played music by campfires each night. It seemed to Sunrise that Charlie was so much like her and that she had never found a better friend and perhaps she never would in all her life.

She felt, on some nights when she lay still in the darkness of the vehicle thinking of the greatness of her decisions, that Charlie really was very special to her. She feared a day when they would have to part and sometimes she would find her eyes moist. She felt that the bald headed, brown eyed boy, too felt a strong tie to her for on many occasions he would seem rather dim when they spoke of what would happen after they reached Moscow.

At Kharkov, after a performance one night, Charlie said to Sunrise," Do you ever feel like you left something behind?"

"Like what?" Sunrise asked, not understanding.

"Like a part of you"

"A part of me?"

"Yes"

She thought for a while. "I don't know, Charlie. I mean I left my parents, I left my town, I left so many of my belongings but not me—"

"No, see. You just said you left everything. You did leave you, Emma. When you leave your house and the people you love or know, you become different because they have been causing you to act in a particular way for so long. You lose contact with the things you did, the way you reacted and so, a part of yourself."

"Don't say that, Charlie. It sounds so sad."

"But it's true."

"It is not. You're still you. Still the person who acted in a particular way if something happened and when you meet the same people again you do the same things; you revive that part of you again."

"But you do it with a different perspective, Emma. Knowing you left those things and people for a while. It's not like before."

"I don't know. Stop being so philosophical, Charlie!"

"You're like the Sunrise, Emma. Looking forward. Thinking about new things. Rising on new lands. Teach me how to do that."

"There are many things you could teach me, too."

"Like what?"

"Like how to love people so much, to be so genuine that you cannot look forward. That's an art you know."

"And I'm an artist!"

"Emma," he said suddenly," we're so boring. You want to do something fun?"

"Yes. But what?"

"Get up. Give me a dress."

She obediently gave him one. Two minutes later, he stepped out of the car dressed in a light blue collared dress and flip flops, a cheap hat they'd bought a day before on his head.

"Aren't I gorgeous?" he asked as he twirled and giggled.

"The most beautiful lady I've ever seen!" said Sunrise who walked besides him in her regular clothes. "Let's go to a women's only place!"

"Like the salon?" Charlie batted his eyes. "I'll ask for a blow dry."

They high fived.

"Ouch!" Sunrise shouted.

"Ballerinas," he said, shaking his head.

The next day at eight at night they reached Moscow.

"The city of my dreams!" Charlie said.

"Dreams are treacherous things." Sunrise sang

"They make you selfless yet so selfish." Continued Charlie

"Dreams brought you here." She said kicking her skirt like before.

"And dreams brought me to Moscow, too." Her companion finished.

Two weeks later Sunrise and Charlie had each rented apartments. Charlie was enrolled in "Tchaikovsky Conservatory"—a music university—and Sunrise, having already picked up some fame by performing on the roads, was dancing most of her mornings away at classes and nights, at theaters.

On one evening when the two of them found themselves free Charlie said, "Help me. I think I'm going crazy. How do I propose to a Ballerina?"

A week later, the marriage took place and neither Sunrise nor Charlie could say it wasn't the best day of their lives. Happiness was all they faced, these two, Sunrise and Charlie. They loved each other. Never did they feel that the marriage was a mistake.

Sunrise was famous now. All the newspapers, all the shows featured her. She performed for the richest people all over the world. Finally, she was no longer an audience member. Rich, famous, loved by all, she was drunk on fame. So drunk that her love for material things dwarfed her love for people.

"Emma," Charlie said one day, "what do you think of going back to Gelendzhik?"

"No, Charlie. Why?"

"Please. I miss it. I bet you do too."

"But we're settled here now. You're going to a university. I have a dancing career. Why would we go back the way we came?"

"Because we love what we left behind."

"Don't we love our lives here?"

"Yes, but we're not actually people of Moscow, Emma. We are from Gelendzhik. I think once I'm done studying, we should go back."

"Maybe you should"

He left on a starless night, tears in his eyes with the words "I will love you forever" and he left with Sunrise the best gift he had ever given her, their daughter.

And that is how, my child, Emma (I am Emma) broke her promise of ever returning to her parents and her promise of love to Charlie who was and is your father. It is how insecurities and hate of being a little town girl prevented her from embracing her identity or ever fostering love.

Now I have no one but you.

Promise me you will not make the same mistakes.

What was that?

You think we should go back.

## The Unseen Views

by Traci Nathaniel Walker

There's a thick snow cover on Mt. McLoughlin now. We always say Mt. Pitt, also, if we're long-timers around here. Same mountain, different names and seasons and people.

I've never been to the top. I look at it every day from the valley; God speaks in valleys, too. I hear the view on top is good. Maybe it's full around like the one I saw in Colorado during my independence days of young adulthood. Sometimes people go to the top and then get lost coming back down. My neighbor is with search and rescue, and he says there's a misleading trail there that steers people wrong.

Today, a winter snow commands notice. Clear, bluebird sky around it; no cloud mask. Beckoning and being. I smile at it and then at my daughter who sees it, too.

Dad took us to Europe when I was a teen and there was no snow on Mt. Pitt. I was done looking at castles and clock towers the second week in, so I slept in the back seat of the Mercedes he'd picked up at the plant brand new. He blamed the disinterest on my being a teenager but I still sleep on drives sometimes even now.

We were there for my German mother. She was trying to find her biological father. I don't know if she ever found him. I don't know if anyone ever did. Dad said he would find him. I think my mother wanted Dad to find her. I don't know if he ever did. I don't know if anyone ever did.

We went up a mountain there in Germany and found snow. I don't remember seeing that mountain except on top, so I only remember seeing its snow under my feet. The Zugspitze. Tallest mountain in Germany. We went up, over the snow and the rocks, inside an aerial tram car. The gears whirred smooth in stretches, then creaked and clanked and threatened as they thumped and swayed us over each mechanical post. We hung on to cold handrails and the canyon's echoes. The old tram car was weathered and thin like the inside of a soup can left outdoors on a pile to rust. I wasn't scared because I had no choice. There were other people riding, also. A wrinkled woman with stern eyes was directly across from me not looking out the soup can windows, and she smiled at me. I smiled back. Dad was looking out a window and talking. He didn't see her. He didn't see me.

At the top of that mountain was a lodge where we ate in the hot beef warmth with strangers who were friends by the end of the meal. We left them and never saw them again because we were going to the very top, a spot on the highest point of the mountain where a flag whipped in the hard winds to mark the apex. Dad wanted to go to that very top. It was off limits that day so he didn't make it. We stood behind the rope together on the plateau, and he looked at the blocked trail while I looked at him. We were already on top, so I stood waiting beside him and turned a full circle to take in that mountain's view.

The other mountaintops you can see from that place are sharp and jagged like the flint edges of arrowheads. They rest heavy and hard on low and tender, green valleys. Brute protectors. Those jagged mountains make even God's sky and clouds look small and yielding. They make everything small, and they make everything yield.

When Dad was done looking down at the blocked trail we got back in the tram car with his disappointment and rode back down to the valley.

After that, Mom and Dad blamed each other for the view. I laid on my back to study the clouds, looking up, watching and listening, searching for shapes, then making shapes until I left the ground and fell into them and became them and was terrified. Mom and Dad left each other to keep going to the top. Then, when they didn't make it, they left me, too. I searched on my hands and knees for ground until I could stand up again and then I did. I saw the view on top of the ground was in the valley.

The distant mountaintops are sometimes glazed with a glitter-grey snow, under a deep and quiet, cloud-padded, bathtub sky. I see them through warm breath on the crisp air they send to meet my face -- fresh puffs dusting my view with each vaporous heartbeat. Right now. Right here.

I had a husband once who liked mountain views under his feet.

We have a stunning view of Mt. McLoughlin on our road, but you can't see it from the house. You have to look up while on the road, first seeing the neighbors and the valley floor around and ahead of you, before you can see the mountain come into view. Today, it has snow and the view of it is very good. He didn't see it when he was here, or if he did he never said so and it didn't matter. He left me and never saw me again because he was going to the top.

I don't know if he got there. I don't know if anyone ever does.

## Carbon

by Ariel

The world spins you at sixty-six thousand miles,

it wraps you around the sun from the moment of your birth.

You are traveling, my friend,

even standing still

you are flying amongst the stars

looming towards Lyra,

venturing out past Vega,

you are constant movement, the second of the Galactic clock;

a gear everything might hang on.

There was a reason you were born

there is a reason why you take water within,

feed on flesh and fruit,

why your lungs bring in oxygen

exhale a breath for the trees;

you are an essential part of the universe -

your mind directs the electrons, composes everything.

While you are standing there, archeologists are studying you

looking through future wormholes, like tapes on fast forward -

you are a will-o'-wisp! -

like a moon pulling on the sea;

you are a celestial pendulum

moving too too fast, wrapping the sun all up

and hurling a spiral arm around.

You spin the world at sixty-six thousand miles per hour -

a gear everything might hang on.

## A Prayer for Dad

by Geralyn Hesslau Magrady

"Dad's on his way to the hospital."

That was all I needed to hear when picking up the phone at 3:00 a.m. Panic set me in motion. Shoes, wallet, cell phone. Brush your teeth. Thank God Dunkin Donuts is open for coffee. Dear Lord, please be with him. Whatever is going on, we both know he's afraid. It took 30 minutes to get to the hospital where my mother and two of my brothers were seated in the ER waiting room. No one had been allowed to see Dad yet; the other two brothers were minutes away. When my out-of-state sister was contacted, she, too would be heading to Chicago.

When the paramedics took him from the house, Dad couldn't breathe.

Anyone who's ever been in ER can relate to the dread when first seeing a loved one hooked up to countless beeping machines, needles piercing bruised skin up and down the arms, and for us, cracked dried lips forced open to hold the tube that kept my father alive. His hair was plastered back, not in his usual side part, so his face became fully visible—his pale face. The uniform gown hung off his shoulders to reveal patches that attached his chest to monitors with numbers I didn't comprehend. His body, covered in a thin white sheet, appeared shorter than the strong man's vertical posture I knew as a child. And as Mom sat beside the bed in a chair, and Phil stroked her back, and Steve and Bob stood bravely by the curtain while Rich spoke to a nurse, I walked up to Dad and took his hand in mine, gently as to not disturb the reddened tape which secured the I.V. I had two rosaries with me. My St. Pope John Paul II beads dangled on the left of our clasped hands, and my grandma's beads dangled on the right. It was Grandma to whom I prayed with eyes closed. I began with a Memorare, followed by the routine Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be, and then started talking in my head to a woman I had never met. She was Dad's Mom, and old pictures showed that we shared the same cowlick. I spoke to her with an unconscious ease about motherhood, wondering what my dad was like when he was a kid, wondering about his journey before I entered the picture, and I asked her to hold his hand through mine because, having two boys of my own, I like to believe that every son feels safer when he's got his mom by his side. I prayed to Grandma to join me, as parents do, in supporting this stage of "life." I don't know how long the conversation lasted, but I remember that once in a while I felt myself smile as if I heard her response, and I remember feeling a calm come over me as if everything was going to be fine, no matter the result of this tragic night. I opened my eyes to find the blood pressure screen in clear view, as if no other machinery existed. I almost giggled, which might have seemed inappropriate for the circumstances, but my heart bounced at the sight of the numbers. She was listening. Those numbers were her way of assuring me that she was there, as she had been there when Dad entered this world, as she had been there when I entered this world, too.

"What does that say?" I asked out loud to whoever was behind and around me.

"130 over 68," one of my brothers replied.

"Say that again, please."

"He was near stroke levels when they brought him in. It's 130 over 68, and that's unbelievable," said another.

"Now say it without the word 'over'."

"Geralyn, it's been that way ever since you closed your eyes. It's a good reading."

"1-30-68," I whispered and smiled. "That's my birthdate."

Whether Dad was going home with my mom here on Earth or going home to his mom in Heaven, I was at peace because Grandma answered my prayers. Everything would be okay, and it is.

## Journey to the Other Side

by DMG Byrnes

Twisting purples,

Luminescent blue haze,

Whipping through wormholes

As consciousness fades,

Escaping from a body

Riddled with pain

Screams in the night

Fears of going insane.

Medicine pumping

Through bruised veins

The only relief

From crippling pains

Breaking with reality

Vitals in decline

Hovering in limbo

Waiting for a sign

Doctors rushing

There's reason to worry

Calls for the specialist

Hopes that he'll hurry

Slipping from bed

To hazy half-dreams

Not long for this world

Or so it seems

Falling away

Into darkness deep

Uncertain when

Awake or asleep

Blackness swirling

It reeks of Hell

Before frozen by

An unknown spell

Ascending fast

Into blinding light

Forgotten is pain

Gone is plight

Voices calling

Echoing in my ears

Comfort sealing away

All of my fears

Warm hands reaching

Heart filled with light

Back into a body

Still willing to fight

## Connections

by Nancy J. Clark

"Don't say I didn't warn you. He's changed. You probably won't even recognize him."

The words of her mother, Esther, echoed through Sandy's mind as she drove the short distance to the nursing home where her grandfather had lived for the past three years.

Not recognize her Gramps? He couldn't have changed that much in a year, even after his stroke. Gramps was her rock. Sure, he had slowed down a little since her mom had moved him to the nursing home. Couldn't garden anymore and his weak eyes kept him from reading his beloved Bible. But his mind was still sharp. On her visit last year, he had told her stories about his collection of Indian arrowheads. And they had played a game of checkers. He let her win, as he always had.

What could be so different now?

Yet she noticed Esther had sounded relieved when Sandy announced she was going to visit Gramps and offered to take the pile of his clean shirts to the nursing home. Maybe her mom was just preoccupied with baking pies for their Thanksgiving dinner later that afternoon. And Sandy needed to escape all of her mom's questions about life in New York City.

As she pulled open the heavy steel door to the nursing home, Sandy tried to imagine, as she did on every visit, how the building had looked when it was a private, family home—before the addition on the back and the elevator and the linoleum floor and the painted-over woodwork. This time she could almost hear the clatter of children running through the halls and their squeals of delight over the antics of the new puppy.

Pot roast or pumpkin pie would have smelled a whole lot better than this, she thought, as waves of last night's fish supper, disinfectant, body odor, and human waste assaulted her nose.

Sandy paused in the entrance hall to remove her knit poncho and took in the familiar sights. The same resident lay curled in her bed in a room off the hallway. Others pushed their wheelchairs back and forth in what was once a spacious living room or sat like melted stone along the wall.

Moving by memory, Sandy made her way down the hall to the elevator and pushed the number 2 button. Her grandfather's room was in the back on the second floor, with a nice view of the large yard surrounding the home.

"Hi, Gramps," Sandy called cheerfully as she came up to the doorway, then stopped abruptly. A large woman in a formless dress sat in a chair, staring blankly at the wall.

"Sorry," Sandy whispered. She made a hasty retreat to the end of the hall where she found an aide and asked where Joseph Betz was.

"He's been moved downstairs where the staff can keep a closer eye on him," the aide explained. "His room is No. 3, but I think right now he's sitting just outside the day room."

"Gramps, is that you?" Sandy cautiously approached the old man drooped over the tray on his chair. His bushy white hair was matted on one side, and his right hand twitched nervously where it lay on the tray. The left arm hung limp and still.

"Gramps, it's Sandy, your favorite granddaughter. You remember me, don't you? I'm home from New York and I've come to see you, just like I did last Thanksgiving."

Sandy laid the pile of shirts on a nearby table, pulled up a chair and reached for her grandfather's hand. It felt cool under her warm one. The skin, roughened by years of

farm work, was covered with brown spots and bulging veins. She patted it aimlessly, still trying to absorb the enormity of the change in her Gramps.

Joseph raised his head. His milky blue eyes looked to the left of Sandy's smiling face framed by her long brown hair. He raised his hand as if to brush away something in the air, then dropped his hand to the tray. His gnarled fingers began to trace small circles on the hard metal surface.

"Come here, come here, come here," he whispered as his fingers traced the circles. "Ida, Ida," as he quickly slapped the tray.

"You miss Grandma, don't you, Gramps? I do too. Do you remember how she used to pop corn in that funny little pan and we would sit on the porch and eat popcorn and watch the fireflies? You used to tease her about how she burned some of it once and you made her throw out the whole batch."

"Come here, come here come here . . . Ida, Ida."

On an impulse, Sandy reached for her purse, drew out a comb, and began combing Joseph's thick gray hair. Joseph flinched and pulled away.

"Sorry, Gramps, didn't mean to hurt you. Just wanted to fix your hair a little better before the Thanksgiving service starts. You look so handsome with it brushed back off your face. Like I remember you on Sunday mornings, with your starched shirt and your tie. Do you remember that tie I gave you, that brown one I painted your initials on? I was so proud of that tie, even though Mom said it didn't turn out very good."

When had her mom ever liked anything she had done? On a quick visit in July, they had spent the whole weekend arguing over Sandy's decision to change careers.

After two miserable years teaching in an elementary school in Toledo, Sandy had found the courage to apply for a job in a women's shelter in New York City. Her mother was furious.

"I'm not going back to my teaching job in the fall," Sandy had said as they sat in a restaurant in Toledo's Westgate Shopping Center. Sandy's coffee cup shook a little as she picked it up.

"You're what?" her mother said, then realizing that several customers had turned their heads to look at her, continued in a harsh whisper, "What do you mean you're not going back?"

"I've never liked teaching. I told you that when you insisted that I major in elementary education because teaching was a nice respectable career for a girl, and it would be a way to support myself if I had to make it on my own. I only stuck with it because Gramps kept urging me to. And because I wanted to be looked up to the way Gramps' students looked up to him. But these last two years have been unbearable. I just can't relate to little kids, with their messes and their whining and their endless questions. They never pay attention, and my attempts to teach them anything leave me totally exhausted."

She stared at her coffee cup, not wanting to see the quiet fury in her mother's eyes.

"And just what do you plan to do instead of teaching?"

Taking a deep breath, Sandy explained briefly about the job posting she saw for a counselor in a women's shelter in New York City. How she had applied, not at all sure she was qualified. How they asked her to come for an interview and how, by some miracle, she got the job. She had already found a place to stay and would be moving in two weeks.

"But New York City?" her mother interrupted. "It's not safe there. You'll be lost—a young girl in the midst of thieves and winos and . . . and even worse. And in a shelter for battered women, no less. New York City isn't Toledo, Sandra. What are you thinking?"

"I just know, Mother, that I'm happier now than I've been in a long time. I didn't think you'd understand. You haven't really understood who I am most of my life."

"What?" her mother gasped and raised her hand to her cheek as if she had been slapped.

Sandy cried inside. She longed to reach out with a reassuring touch but could not uncoil her fingers from around her coffee cup.

"It'll be all right," Sandy continued. "I'll be okay. I'm staying with a friend from college. She's been in the city awhile and can show me the ropes. It's my chance to help make a difference in someone's life, Mother, something I'm not sure I could ever do as a teacher."

The slapping of Joseph's hand on the tray brought Sandy out of her reverie.

"Come here, come here, come here... Ida, Ida. Where's John? Where is he?"

Joseph's eyes looked right through Sandy. His hand reached out to grab her arm.

"Where is he?"

"John? Who's John?" Sandy wondered out loud, then sighed with relief when the aides began to move other residents into the day room.

"Come on, Gramps, let's get a front row seat. You always like to sing the hymns, remember?"

Sandy pushed Joseph's chair to the front of the room, close to the table decorated with a cross, an open Bible, and a large arrangement of fall flowers.

"Here's your songbook, sir." A young girl handed Joseph some pages covered with large type and stapled in one corner. The edges were ragged and curling.

Joseph leaned forward in his chair and mumbled, "Esther, is that you, Esther? Where's John?"

The young girl looked quickly at Joseph, then at Sandy, and moved hurriedly down the row to the next wheelchair.

"Gramps, that girl wasn't Esther. Esther is my mother, remember? And she's not here. She's home cooking Thanksgiving dinner. We're having ten people over tonight. Some of them are Mom's old friends from the farm days. She didn't have time to visit you today, but she may come next week, or the next, she said."

Sandy's lip trembled as she remembered her mother's exact words: "I only go when it's absolutely necessary. He doesn't know me or anyone else anymore. Why should I waste my time in that place? Besides, the smell makes me sick to my stomach."

Sandy moved closer to her grandfather and straightened the songbook in his hand. "Okay, Gramps, the next song is No. 24, 'What a Friend We Have in Jesus.' You know this one, I'm sure."

"What a Friend" had been her grandmother's favorite hymn. Many nights Gram had rocked Sandy to sleep while humming that song. When they sang it at Gram's funeral, Sandy could hardly choke out the words.

Her mother had also wept, long and hard, until Joseph grabbed her arm and shook it. Sandy could see again her grandfather's cold stare willing Esther's tears to stop. What was there between them?

Moving in with her grandparents after Sandy's father died when she was nine had not been an easy decision. Her mother had desperately tried to make it on her own with several low-paying jobs, but when bills started piling up, she had to give in. Joseph had decided to give up farming at that point anyway and moved into town. The new house was big enough for all of them. What else could they do?

Days and weeks would go by in that house without a ripple. Then her mom would say one wrong word or mention some forbidden topic and her grandfather would explode. After the shouting and the banging of doors had stopped, Sandy would huddle under her covers and wonder what made her loving Gramps so angry.

As the music began, Joseph's glasses tilted slightly to the left on his large hooked nose. Eyes closed under bushy gray eyebrows, he leaned back in his chair and rocked slowly in time to the familiar hymn tune. His mouth formed every word.

When the young girl collected the songbooks at the end of the service, Sandy noticed she slid past Joseph as quickly as possible. But Joseph was quiet now, slouched in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the tray.

"Are you his granddaughter?" one of the aides asked as she guided another resident past Sandy. "It's so nice that he has company on Thanksgiving."

Room No. 3 had barely enough room for a bed, a dresser, and a metal wardrobe. Sandy left Joseph out in the hall while she put the clean shirts in one of the dresser drawers. The only decoration in the room was a paper turkey taped to the wardrobe door. What had happened to her high school graduation picture and the one of her grandparents at their 50th wedding anniversary party? In his old room he had been surrounded with family photos, his favorite rocking chair, and the afghan Ida had crocheted for him many years ago. Even the windowsill had been crowded with some of his Indian arrowheads.

"How could the rich, full life of a strong man like Gramps be reduced to one paper turkey?" she muttered.

Sandy could still feel his strong hands around her waist lifting her up to peer at the new calf in the barn. She remembered walking with her small hand in his large one into the white country church with a red roof. Sometimes her Gramps had read the Scripture lesson in his big booming voice. And he had built the swing set in the churchyard that generations of children enjoyed.

Visits to the farm when Sandy was small—before her dad died and everything changed—were full of delights: the barn with its sweet-smelling hay, the apple orchard, the tall windmill covered with vines. Even the small pond down the lane held the promise of hidden treasures. Her mother always dragged Sandy away too early with an excuse not to stay for supper because there was too much to do at home. Sandy sensed that her Gramps missed the farm as much as she did when they all moved into the house in Bowling Green and Gramps started teaching at the local technical school. The only time Sandy could remember ever having an argument with her Gramps happened not long after that move to town. And it was over something as silly as a splash party.

"Why can't I go?" Sandy remembered screaming in all her 10-year-old fury. "All my friends will be there. And Mom said I can go."

"It's at a pool, right, Esther?" her grandfather asked, his bushy eyebrows almost meeting in a scowl. "Why on earth did you tell her she could go?"

"I called the parents," said Esther. "They assured me they would be watching the pool the whole time. Life's got to move on, Dad."

"I can swim, if that's what you're worried about," Sandy added. "Mom made me take a bunch of swimming lessons at the Y a long time ago. What's the problem anyway? You're not being fair."

"You're not going and that's final. Now go to your room, young lady, and don't come out until you can talk in a civilized way to your elders."

Sandy had stomped to her room, slammed the door, and buried her hot face in the bed sheets. Why did Gramps, who gave her everything, refuse to let her go to this party? Her mom was usually the one to say no, and she finally said okay. What was wrong with him?

"Ida, Ida, where's John?"

Sandy startled at the sound of her Gramps' voice. She carefully pushed the wheelchair into the crowded room and sat on the bed.

"Who's John, Gramps?" she said softly, almost to herself.

"Johnny's supposed to help me feed the chickens. Where is that child?"

Child—Johnny. That was it! Sandy remembered sitting on her mother's bed one Christmas when she was in high school, looking through a box of old photographs and family mementos. Her English teacher had asked them to write about their family history, and Sandy wanted to find out more about her ancestors on her father's side. A faded photo had caught her eye. It was a young girl and a small boy standing in front of a door that looked familiar.

"Is this you," she had asked her mother, "in front of Gramps' church? Who's the little boy with you?"

Esther had grabbed the photo and stared at it.

"That's my brother, Johnny," she whispered. "It's the only photo we have of him. I forgot it was in there."

"Why didn't you ever tell me about him?" Sandy had asked.

"There's nothing to tell," her mother quickly replied as she stuffed the photo into the bottom of the box. The cold stare in Esther's eyes cut off any further questions.

And here he was again, after all these years. Johnny, her Uncle Johnny, slipping in and out of her grandfather's mind like dusty footprints from the past. Why had her mother never mentioned him again?

"I've got to go, Gramps," Sandy said suddenly as she rose to give him a kiss on the cheek and slipped her poncho over her head.

"It was great to see you again. I love you and I'll be back next year, same time, same place." It was a goodbye routine they had started when her visits had dwindled to once a year. But this time there was no cheerful echo from her Gramps of "same time, same place." Just a quiet slap of his hand on the tray as he repeated, "Ida, Ida."

It wasn't until later that evening when Sandy finally found herself alone with her mother. All the guests had finally left and the two women were finishing the last of the dishes in silence when Esther asked Sandy if she had delivered the clean shirts safely to the nursing home.

"Yes, I did," Sandy replied, and then, taking a deep breath, plunged ahead with the questions that had been burning in her mind all day.

"You were right, Mom. Gramps has changed—a lot. I'm not sure he even knew who I was. And why didn't you tell me he had been moved to a new room? What happened to all his photos and other stuff?"

"They're in the attic," her mother mumbled. "What difference does it make? He can't see them anymore."

"And he kept talking about someone named Johnny. It took me awhile to make the connection. Johnny was your brother, wasn't he? Why didn't you ever tell me anything more about him?"

Esther's hands squeezed the sponge tightly as she stared into the soapy water.

"I figured you'd ask eventually. Guess it's time you knew the whole story," she sighed.

"I had just turned ten that summer. It was a hot day and I was tired after picking strawberries all morning. Johnny had been pestering me to help him build a 'fort' in the woods—that's what he called it. He was crazy about Roy Rogers then and was always jumping out from behind trees pretending to shoot Indians with his toy bow and arrow.

"I finally convinced him to gather the eggs in the hen house like he was supposed to. But he wanted to stop at the pond first to check on some tadpoles he'd seen there. While we were standing there, the wind came up and blew his cowboy hat into the water.

"'Get it for me, Sissie,' he was crying. 'It's blowing away.'"

"'Get it yourself,' I remember yelling as I turned to walk down the lane to the barn. I was in a hurry to get out of the sun and wanted to play with the new kittens in the hayloft while he gathered the eggs."

Esther aimlessly wiped the sink with the sponge as the dishwater swirled down the drain.

"But I never saw Johnny go past the barn to the hen house. So much time went by that I really started to get mad at him. If he didn't bring the eggs home before supper, my dad would blame me because I was supposed to be watching him. And now he was late, all because of a stupid hat.

"Suddenly I was running back to the pond. My feet seemed to fly over the dirt path, like in a dream. I called his name as I ran, praying he would yell back. But he didn't. The wind had blown Johnny's hat into the middle of the pond. I could see it bobbing in the ripples. And right near it was Johnny's red shirt waving on the surface like a red water lily."

Esther leaned over the sink, sobbing. Sandy put her arm around her mother's thin shoulders and walked with her to the old kitchen table.

When they were seated and Sandy had brought her mother a glass of water and some tissues, Esther took a few deep breaths and continued.

"I never forgave myself for leaving Johnny like that. And Dad didn't forgive me either. Mom finally worked through her grief and got on with her life. But I can still see the hurt in Dad's eyes whenever he looks at me, even after all these years. And since his stroke, that's all he talks about."

"I'm sure he knows you didn't mean any harm. It was an accident, Mom, an accident."

"When a child dies," her mother sighed, "the ones left behind need to blame somebody—and I was it. Your grandfather is a stubborn old German farmer. Never very good at forgiving others, even though that's what he taught his Sunday School classes all those years. And I did walk away from my brother, didn't stay with him like I was supposed to. All because I wanted to get to the barn and play with those kittens. . . ."

Esther put her hands up over her eyes as if to shut out the memory. Sandy shivered a little in the heat of the kitchen and leaned forward in her chair.

"It's okay, Mom," she finally said. "Please don't keep punishing yourself for something that happened a long time ago and wasn't your fault. Maybe you should talk to Grandpa. People can change, you know. I've seen it happen at the women's shelter."

"I don't know. He's living so much in the past now, I'm not sure he even recognizes me anymore. What good would it do?"

"At least you could say that you tried, Mom. I'll go with you if you want me to. I love you both so much, I'd do anything to bring peace between you."

"Maybe tomorrow, honey. Maybe tomorrow."

Sandy reached for her mother's hand and squeezed it hard. Their eyes met, filled with light.

## A Walk in the Park

by Geralyn Hesslau Magrady

I walk.

She walks.

We walk

around the park; on converse paths so that

we meet two times with every lap we tread.

I walk

past baseball fields, where years ago

my son was on the mound and tipped his hat

at me, and with a beaming grin I clapped

so loud, so proud, but now that boy is dead.

She walks

past swings. I wonder if she has

fond memories, like me, of kids who sat

beneath the bench, a perfect spot for hide

and seek, before they spied his peeking head.

We walk

past gardens; yellow petals fill

the grass, and as we pass, I want to chat

but simply nod when she, with steady stride,

just smiles at me. I look away instead.

I walk

past swings and think of years ago,

when Daddy's hand he took to see the cat,

a stray we kept, a pet he named Meow.

If only I could change what lies ahead.

She walks

past baseball fields. I wonder if

she, too, had players there, to hear the bat

meet ball and crush it hard to clinch the win.

His foot hits home in dreams when I'm in bed.

We walk

the bridge; the murky water's still.

She says, "Hello." I find my voice, though flat,

and mumble "Hi" but cannot slow my pace,

for fear she might see tears I haven't shed.

I walk.

She walks.

We walk

around the park; on converse paths so that

we meet two times with every lap we tread.

## After (words)

by Elizabeth Eisenhauer

After the seed sprouts, and the shell is left

Hard and empty and waiting for

The next thing, does it know

There is no next thing?

In the great moment, you will think

This is how it is now. (You will think

this also in the terrible moment.)

You will be wrong both times.

After the great moment, and after

the terrible moment, comes just another moment.

Be glad that you are not the empty seed shell,

The casing, waiting, not knowing,

That after, after all,

Is not always

All it is cracked up to be.

## Truckin'

by James Stack

It came as a little, dyed dot on a strip of paper. Mine was red, my favorite color. Never having taken LSD before, I was apprehensive since I didn't know what to expect. Nor how long it would take to get off and how long we'd be tripping. But all of my college buddies were doing it, so I, too, put the tiny speck under my tongue and hoped for the best.

The guys who sold it called it microdot. It was supposedly some of the most powerful acid made, and far more stimulating than any of the other psychedelics we'd taken. We were told we could expect to see God. Well, I wasn't sure I wanted to see any of the myriad gods supposedly out there. All I wanted was to have a good trip and make it back in one piece—mentally that is.

It was the late autumn of our sophomore year, and we had all had a blast tripping on mescaline and peyote multiple times since the beginning of the semester. After those adventures my face would ache from having been smiling for something like eight straight hours. I particularly liked how mescaline and psilocybin, a synthetic form of peyote, enhanced all the colors as if the world were a comic strip or a Peter Max painting. The primary shades of red, yellow and blue were so vibrant and seemed to pulse or vibrate as if they were electrified.

Of course, there were the less than pleasurable experiences when the psychedelic had been cut with something that didn't make you feel too good, like strychnine. It also being a white powder made it an easy substitute to use when a dealer wanted to stretch the number of capsules he might be able to sell. Our muscles would twinge from the poison when we first started experiencing the effects of the hallucinogen. Yet the special effects of the drug would override those feelings quickly.

As for peyote, the mushrooms that grow in cow pies, we would steep them like tea. The water always tasted foul, like the shit in which they grew. We were often sick to our stomachs, but once that queasy feeling passed, usually after the first hour, the euphoria providing for a feeling of ecstasy made it easy to understand why the Native American Indians liked it so much. We did too.

So there I was, on an evening during Thanksgiving weekend in 1971, waiting with some friends to start tripping for the first time on LSD. We were in Columbia, South Carolina, at some dudes' home I'd never met. They weren't tripping, yet they were willing to provide us with a safe place for our journey into the unknown.

The TV was on, and a Western themed movie was in progress. It had begun at around eight PM and it was nearly nine PM when we took the microdot. I wasn't following the story because it started making no sense, so I went to look at the fish in a container on the other side of the room. The tank looked to be about five feet wide by three feet high by three feet deep. I thought it had been smaller when we arrived.

Reflected in the glass staring back at me was a boy of nineteen with hazel eyes, an aquiline nose beside high cheekbones, and a set of full lips surround by long, wavy strawberry-blond hair falling well beyond the shoulders. Swimming into and disturbing this reflection was an angelfish. I was intrigued having had a much smaller fish tank full of guppies when I was in junior high school; and I had once tried to breed Siamese fighting fish, to no avail.

The angelfish stopped and faced me. Its bulging eyes moved out from its sides and gazed pensively at me. A protruding lower jaw eventually opened and the fish began to speak. It asked me my name. I subliminally told it. And then, as if I was being impolite for staring, the fish asked what I was looking at. I was going to reply, but as soon as I opened my mouth I realized it was dry and I couldn't speak. When the fish saw my struggle, it rolled its eyes back into place and casually swam off, becoming elongated in the process such that its tail was still in front of me while the rest of it was nearly to the opposite end of the tank. I blinked. When I opened my eyes I saw that the tail had caught up.

Nervously, I turned to the room and saw that everyone was still watching TV. I wasn't sure if I should say anything or not. I didn't want them to think I was losing my mind. But then an opening in the ceiling drew me towards it. A fire had evidently burned through the hole, exposing charcoal stained wood from the floor of the attic. Suddenly, as if someone was above the opening with a huge vat of mercury, a rather large, silver globule started forming. I was afraid the drip was going to fall on top of my friends, so I looked in their direction and pointed with my mouth agape. I still couldn't speak, yet I needed to warn them that they were about to get soaked.

One of my friends calmly said to me, "That's LSD." It was then I noticed that the drop was no longer there. In response my lips expanded into an opened mouth grin that seemed to swallow the entire room. Holy shit, I thought, this is some outrageously funny stuff.

I dropped to the floor laughing and hugging myself, closing my eyes as I rolled around on the carpeting. Behind my eyelids I could see an explosion of fireworks. My skin was charged as it was embraced by my clothes and the fibers of the rug. My entire body seemed to be extra sensitive. Simply touching myself sent warm, stimulating feelings throughout as if radiating from each hair follicle.

Opening my eyes, the room took on a playhouse quality. When we had arrived the furniture looked worn and tired, but it now appeared as if it were new and belonged in a doll's house. Yes, that was where I had found myself, in my childhood neighbor's Barbie dollhouse. I wanted to tell everyone what had happened, but for some reason I was unable to communicate except with my eyes, which were so wide they appeared to have taken in the entire room even though I was smack-dab in the middle of it.

But it was my hands, which I kept sweeping from side to side and pointing, that became my most efficient means of communicating. I wanted everyone to see the rainbow glowing from the lamp, and the curtains which had become a cascading waterfall, and the wall paper with flowers that had become much more colorful and were three dimensional, having sprung off the wall and into the room. Every atom seemed to have become enhanced. I could feel the water as I ran my hands through it, yet my fingers were dry. I could smell the flowers and watch their stamens weaving, causing the anthers to pollenate the room. I plucked one of the flowers and put it in my hair behind my ear. Like me, everything was alive.

By this time it was obvious that we had gotten off on the micro-dot acid, for I wasn't the only one rolling around and swinging my arms like a tilting windmill in a storm. My hearing seemed to have lessened, which was odd since all my other senses were so heightened. The sounds in the room seemed to be coming at me as if from a funnel. Most of the sounds were laughter as each of us was experiencing our own newly found universe. And it was then I discovered that we were all together, holding on to one another, unable to even tell one another what was going on in our own little worlds.

All concept of time had been lost. We were now in a space that might have been considered strange had we not known it was being produced by our own imaginations. Yes, each of us was experiencing something different from the others, as it was our individual mind's renderings of past experiences that were being transmitted to our consciousness. It was obvious that we were each having the time of our lives. Yet in the back of my head I knew that the opposite could happen with the flick of a switch. I had to be diligent not to let anything negative impede on this experience.

After an indeterminate period of time, the idea of going outside and to a different home in the country bubbled up to the surface like a balloon and popped. I didn't remember walking out of the door, so somehow we must have climbed through the burned hole in the ceiling and through the attic into a whimsical world of playthings. I remembered walking through the autumn air as if I were floating down from off of the roof of the house. Although the air was cool, it felt warm and comfortable, the perfect temperature against my sensitive skin. The slight breeze that was blowing wrapped around me as if it were a sweater. My nose hairs tingled as I breathed in the fresh scents that only appear during the colder months of the year.

And then as I touched down on the ground I sneezed. My head seemed to explode into a zillion fragments, spinning off into the cosmos as if they were colorful M&M's. My first instinct was to try and reach out and grab everything and put it back. Yet it didn't hurt. It actually felt as if I had released some mysteriously built up pressure such as a volcano when it spews forth its suppressed magma. Everything suddenly appeared to take on a new quality I couldn't yet define. Images began repeating themselves as if a photo shutter speed had been set to repeat. I took the arm of the nearest person, and as we looked at one another we both laughed.

I was later told that it was after midnight when we had arrived at my car, so we'd been tripping for nearly three hours. Since I couldn't drive, one of the guys who wasn't tripping took the wheel. I sat in the front seat, and as I settled in I felt safe and secure as if I were an embryo snug in my mother's womb. I had an incredible advantage for viewing the exciting, new realm in which I found myself. We appeared to be moving as if on a magic carpet, gently swaying as if bobbing on the sea. The other cars on the road were made of brightly colored plastic, and the forms within them were tiny robots, programed to give the illusion of being in control. Yet none of the cars were actually being driven, as they were moving along on an invisible track controlled by an imperceptible pulse of electricity. And then even we were no longer floating on water, yet moving along without needing to actually be in control of the car. Perhaps I could have sat in the driver's seat after all.

We were someplace other than in the present, or even reality. Somehow I had grown much larger than the scene outside the car window, as if I had become a giant looking down on the spectacular sight. The streetlights were brilliant, twinkling decorations, hanging by what looked like translucent fishing wire from toothpicks that lined the streets. The stores were all plastic covered by colored paper, with doll people moving around inside as well as through their doors. The trees were straight out of a coloring book, with many scribbles having crossed the lines.

For the first time since getting off on the acid I found my voice. "We're in a make-believe world of toys," I said as if it were an announcement over a speaker system. It had come to me all at once that the earth was a playground, and here simply for our enjoyment. I had left my fear of having a bad acid trip far behind.

Having reached our destination, a place I had never been, I was advised that there were massive sandpits nearby, so I needed to be careful not to fall into one of them. After I asked where they were, I was led to one, yet had no depth perception. I was told there was a shear drop-off not a foot in front of me, yet to my eyes the ground appeared flat. When I moved my foot forward a few feet it continued to feel as if it were on solid ground. Still, I could vaguely hear some of my fellow pranksters' voices as if they were below me. Perhaps I could walk on air as I had done before.

Becoming distracted, I looked into the distance and saw four enormous dinosaurs bending over and devouring the shrubbery. I was fascinated by them, and wanted to try and remember what type they were, but the only dinosaur name I could recall was brontosaurus. I was informed that they were immense, metal, electrical towers with red lights on top, yet to me they were ancient relics with piercing red eyes, leftover from another time, still alive, bending over and ingesting the trees.

I was led, as I still felt as if I needed help getting about, into the house where there was a group of people, some I knew and others I had no idea who they might be. The one friend I did know, who owned the place, came up to me and smiled, saying, "I can tell you're having a great time." All I could do was try and expand the grin that was plastered to my face. I found a place to sit and partook in the marijuana that was being passed around. It was pungent pot, which relaxed me, as I had evidently been extremely tense without realizing the pressure had been building up ever since I had sneezed. Otherwise, the dope didn't seem to have any effect on me, the acid was powerfully overriding all other stimuli.

The turntable had a couple of albums stacked on it, which looked like a thinly layered chocolate cake. For the first time since dropping I was actually hungry. It had to have been the pot. But there wasn't anything to eat. As I continued to stare at the cake of records, I suddenly saw birthday candles on top of it with notes floating off of the flames. I recognized the song by the Grateful Dead, so I closed my eyes and swayed along to the music. I had no idea how long I stayed like that or remember what else happened while we were there.

Yet when I was told it was time to leave since the sun would shortly be coming up, I was shocked to think that we had been tripping all night. It seemed as if it had only been for a few minutes. We were all physically exhausted, yet our minds were still reeling as if they were a tape cassette set on high speed. As I rose to leave, it felt as if I had levitated instead of using any muscles. And on the drive home I was surprised to see that the world had begun to appear in its normal night-gray state. I knew then that I was coming down from the most delicious high on which I had ever been.

Later that morning after smoking some more marijuana, as the day began to rustle itself awake, I lay under several wool blankets on an enclosed porch unable to sleep. It had been a long night, tripping for nearly twelve hours. As usual, my jaw muscles were exhausted from having beamed all that time. And then it dawned on me: I would never be the same; that when I would finally fall asleep, the boy who woke would be different from the one who had risen the day before. I recognized that there was an exhaustively materialistic world in which we lived. The question I had to answer was what part I wanted to play in it. Since it was the late autumn of my sophomore year in college, I still had time to figure it out. My immediate need was to try and get some sleep.

Most everything had begun to return to their everyday, ordinary images. However, as I lay there wide-awake, I watched out the window as the tree limbs and twigs formed crossword puzzles without any clues. Order out of chaos. Every time I blinked, a new puzzler was formed, until finally I was able to close my eyes and leave them shut, with the impression of the riddle behind my lids. As I snuggled under the blankets, I felt myself slipping back through that burnt hole in the ceiling, returning to reality. What a long, strange, wonderful trip it had been.

## Un Jour à Neys

by Sean Callahan

Nein! This nightmare ends, now. I will not be a prisoner in this hell another year—The Franco bastard must die.

Rushing in unseen—even in the glare reflecting off the icy shore, I am invisible to him—I slash at my captor's jugular; spasms of light crackle in the frigid wind, slicing the logging spike through his fragile neck to silence the ranting.

Nothing. No visible damage, just more of that incessant mumbling. His breath reeks of decay, his natural end is nearing, I see it. He looks like shit, fading and weak. Every year he is worse; this game has been exacting its toll on both of us. I know he won't make it next time and then I will be stuck here forever. This is my last chance.

"Die Mörder!" I scream into Mortimer's oblivious face.

Lashing out again, the large iron cross pendant swinging from my chest as fist and spike pass through his body. Again. Again and again and again.

Nothing. Not a damned thing. Denied, just like every other time.

He just stands there with that faraway stare repeating the same old disgusting lies. Revenge or release, I don't care anymore. God, just give me a way out.

Damn you LaMère. One last pointless swing and I back off, letting loose a shrilling howl.

"N–e–i–n!"

The report echoes off the lichen-speckled rocks of Lake Superior's northern shore, dying in the stillness of the towering Red 'Boy Scout' Pines that stand silent watch over this long-forgotten part of Neys Provincial Park. Buried within that unnatural forest lies the place I was forced to call home. Prison Camp 100 is an abandoned ruin now and I am the only prisoner left for it to torture. The Camp swallows my cry like a cemetery devouring its dead.

I approach the old guard again and study him. Mortimer's solemn gaze stares straight through me. His cloudy vision distant, replaying a scene of his own making. The son-of-a-bitch does not even know I exist.

A sigh departs me.

I have despised him all these years for what he did to me. Yet, this spectre and his mourning still taunt me. What has come from my need for revenge? Nothing. Nothing but torment and misery.

"Nothing." I spit in his face, but could not care less.

Resolving myself to the futility of my predicament, I back up a few paces. I look up at the crystalline sky and fill my lungs to bursting. There's a sweet hint of butterwort and witches' broom thawing on the wintry air. My senses have long since attuned to the energy of this existence. I exhale, shoulders sagging, and close my eyes a moment letting my power regenerate.

During the war, Canada was hailed, even by the Motherland, as the best place for a captured German to end up. It was quite nice back then, barring the barbed wire, of course. The newspapers we were allowed to read dubbed us "The Happiest Prisoners of WWII." At that time, it was true. Our sporting teams had better equipment than my old school back in Bad Godesberg. We ran a perfectly suitable 45-piece orchestra, enjoyed daily white linen teatime, but my favorite was the fully stocked library. Some men even left incarceration with degrees. I had earned mine before the war started, in my father's choice of study, economics; so I chose to spend my sentence diving into my passion, botany. This area, though inhospitable to most species (especially Homo sapiens), is a treasure trove of unique vegetation—the beautiful survivors of the harsh Thunder Bay region. I wish I possessed their resolve. I am done with surviving.

"So, here we are again, old man." I study LaMère's weathered form. He is all bundled up in that old Veteran Guard's coat, ignoring me, as usual. If you cannot tell, I have come to loathe this ridiculous ritual.

I straighten my tattered Luftwaffe jacket. Once a source of pride, the uniform is a torturous reminder that I played the patsy for that Nazi bastard, and am now a prisoner to this miserable bastard—far too many bastards in this world for my taste. Mortimer just stands there, at the water's edge, a solemn parishioner to this unholy place, droning on. Thank God I cannot hear his pitiful whining.

I dust off and readjust my most prized possession, a simple pale armband. The cloth marks me as a "White," a trusted anti-Nazi convert. Whites were shown special favor in camp: extra postage to write home; fresh fruit and other delicious treats; and most importantly, a relaxed confinement. We could wander around, almost at will. Some guards took men out hunting with the Camp's excess of rifles (the guards certainly didn't need them), though I never participated in that inane butchery. Uniformly though, it was a good day's work that most Whites held dear.

Ahhh, to feel bone-tired after harvesting this great land of its gifts, that was a blessing. I must admit, Canada is truly beautiful, even now in its blanched state—a different kind of prison.

I glance toward the partially frozen riverbank, the chain and the logs are long gone. Only the large boom-hook boulder remains.

This is the very spot where it happened, all those years ago.

Here, on the verge of spring at the mouth of the Little Pic River, the ice pushes the floating saw logs on top of one another, threatening to break the entire boom free into the lake's vast abyss—disaster for the Pigeon Timber Company.

The Camp leased us out to local farmers and businesses for a small wage and a good meal. I enjoyed being near the shore and always volunteered to work with the logging teams.

Every year, upon the break of winter, the mill employed prisoners to fell and drive the valuable timber down the river, where it would be hauled across the mighty Superior and into the States.

On this morning back in '45, just months before I was scheduled to be released, I was out there on the boom, Peavey spike in hand. I was hooking and pushing the ice and wood when the whole boom shook. I lost my balance. Mort was standing guard, right where he stands today. I swear I saw him smile when he unclipped that chain and set the boom, and me, free.

Now, every year on this day—the day he let me go—Mortimer LaMère treks alone through the melting snow and pours out his bullshit rationalizations to no one.

I wish he would choke on them.

It is hard to believe now, but this man was a father to me. I trusted him. He protected me from the "Blacks"—the Nazi loyalists. They beat me bloody every chance they got simply because I was a sane person who realized Der Führer was a fucking madman. One day, a slot came up on a logging team and Mort got me reassigned. He told me I would be safe on the river. I was naïve, but most of us were back then.

Motion shakes me from my thoughts. Mort's soliloquy pauses; he raises a funeral bouquet, the same orchids he always brings. As he kisses the flowers, the sun glints off his wedding ring. Tears well in his eyes

I get close. I know what is coming.

"Why do you refuse to believe, you stupid man?" I whisper. "Please, Mort, listen..."

The old guard cannot hear me any more than I can hear him, which I have counted as a blessing most years. I cannot bear to hear his hate-filled reason for abandoning me; cannot bear to hear him break down like this, like he always does. Is it not enough that I am forced to watch it?

"I wasn't anywhere near Marseilles, I swear it. We were bombing to the north."

I just want to shake him.

"Schizer! I didn't kill her."

He draws the sign of the cross over his heart. Time is precious now. I begin to panic.

Yes, I have begged to see him suffer, relished the thought of finding a way to make him pay for what he did. But, if he really believed it—that I killed her—should I blame him? This is the logic I have refused to accept; this denial is my tether to this prison. But now, today, on this day, perhaps the last day, God, please, let him hear me.

"Mortimer, damn you! I know why you did it. You had your opportunity—you took it."

Air crackles with light around us. I want to startle him from his vision, to make him see me, something, anything.

He starts to mouth a silent prayer. I do not have much time.

I move in front of him and look him dead in the eyes. I see him, the man I love; I also see something else, something different. For the first time, I see that he too is a prisoner, a lost soul bound to this moment, just like me. Was I so blinded by my own torment that I failed to see that we are both doomed to repeat this moment, that we are both forsaken?

If I believed he murdered my beloved, would I not do the same? Could I forgive?

I cannot blame him.

I will not blame him.

Mort finishes his prayer and blesses himself for the last time.

"Nein! Don't leave me... Please, I see now—"

Mort bends forward, his tear-streamed face passes through mine. I turn, my body entwined in his, and watch him place the bouquet on the boom-chain boulder. Offerings past have long since vanished; the rock cleansed once again for this haunted ritual.

Wait—this is different too.

As he lays the flowers on the boulder, I see something: he's holding a strange piece of metal. I bend down and try to get a better look; he clenches his fist around it.

A glint of sunlight steals my attention. Something, just beyond, lies within the orchids.

Embedded in the rock, poking up through the petals, is the thick boom-chain hook, broken, snapped in two, half of it missing.

Mort closes his eyes, opens his fist, and kisses the other half of the chain hook. He holds it over the bed of orchids, beside its mate, and whispers something.

He lets go.

In this moment, I see it. Across his palm, a deep scar.

He did not let go? The smile, a grimace of pain? God, is this true?

We stand; I face him. My body shimmers.

"You... tried to hold on? To save me?"

He turns and walks through me, towards the pines, to leave again, to leave me, forever.

"All these years, what a fool I have been. I understand now. I was wrong." I fill with energy; it surges between us. "Please. Mort!"

He stops and tilts his head, then looks over his shoulder. His hollow eyes grow bright and wide, then they flood with terror. His strength leaves him, his heart not strong enough to bear the sight. His eyes roll back. Mortimer's frail body collapses.

I rush forward, unable to catch him with my useless limbs. I hover directly above his dying form. I can see his life force departing. I can feel it.

"I love you Mort." I try to touch his face, but my hand makes no connection.

His distant gaze, now peaceful, finds me again. He smiles at me.

"I love you too, son."

I watch, helpless, as Mortimer LaMère's eyes go blank.

Moments pass. A brilliant crackling light begins to lift from his body. I reach out and touch it, sending a radiating warmth through me. The light rises beyond my grasp, continuing its ascension until I can no long discern it amongst the heavens, now growing darker with the light's passing.

I look at the body laying beneath me. It is greying and fading from view. I feel my soul depleting with the oncoming darkness. Panic sets in. Still imprisoned in this hell, soon to be a black abyss of nothing, I grasp for familiar emotion, trying to summon rage, hate, anything to keep me tethered to this place, but my chain is broken; I am free.

A wave of total desolation washes over me. Deserted, abandoned, forsaken. Again.

No longer able to maintain it, I release the last of the negative energy—my prison, my captor, my revenge—and prepare to embrace the void that will remain. The siren's call of Camp

100 ceases to penetrate my new cell, my old tether broken.

Night envelops everything. And then...

Nothing.

Existing in an ocean of emptiness is, surprisingly, liberating. The silence of thought is immense.

Mort used to say to me: "Today is just one day—Un jour à Neys. Your journey is tomorrow, Son. When it comes for you, be ready."

Un jour à Neys; one day at Neys.

When I was alive, I had hoped he was talking about my freedom, my future. When I was dead, I was sure he had meant he would kill me one day—and then, did. I know now neither of those is true. Since my death, I have suffered and survived many jours á Neys, but was ready for none of them. Today, on this one day, I made peace with the past and now embrace whatever this future is. Today, I am truly free.

Out of the black comes a small speck of dust. It grows and expands in all directions, brilliantly white. I am drawn to it, compelled to enter. The blinding washout brings an immeasurable feeling of oneness with everything I have ever known. So all-encompassing is this feeling of unbounded unity that I can only describe it simply as: bliss. As I soar up through this wondrous new world, I comprehend the ultimate truth of Mort's wisdom: tomorrow is today, this journey is just beginning. And—

I am ready.

## Jimmy McIntyre Returns From Abroad

by Robert Pipkin

My name's Jimmy McIntyre. I grew up right here in the small town of High Point, North Carolina. Raised on Spam. I went away for a while and became a man of the world. I never expected to come back, but here I am. I couldn't be more terrified.

High Point's the furniture capital of the world. Boring. If you can't staple upholstery or flip burgers, there's probably no future for you here. I wanted out. When I was seventeen, I came across an ad for the Red Cross. I volunteered and started helping with blood drives. The girls hated needles and needed someone to hold their hands when they donated. They were nice to me when I brought them cookies and orange juice.

I stayed with it. Worked my way up. I ran blood drives, coordinated hurricane relief, and trained people in CPR and emergency response. I traveled all over the country, helping people and making a difference. Never ate Spam again.

I helped military families during the Persian Gulf War. I set up field hospitals and triage units adjacent to war zones in Afghanistan and Iraq. I learned Arabic and ate falafel, kebabs, and qeema made with chickpeas. That lead to liaison work for the International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies. I think this is why one day, when I was on my way to work at a children's hospital outside of Mosul, my car was rammed by a black SUV. Four men in black hoods got out, shot my driver, threw a burlap sack over my head, and threw me into their vehicle.

My guess is they held me for about two years. They never told me where I was and I didn't know who they were. They usually spoke Farsi, which uses some Arabic words, but I didn't know enough to fully understand them. They didn't speak to me much anyway. Most of the time my head was in that sack. Sometimes they beat me. They knocked me out a lot. They never told me their plans. They did make me wear an orange jumpsuit. Sometimes I can still taste that sack.

They held others besides me, and kept us from speaking to each other. I recognized American accents in their screams. Despite the hood and the restrictions, I could tell when some would leave and not come back. When you spend that much time listening to other people's screams, you learn to pick out differences.

One day, two hooded men drugged me and took me deep into the desert in a small pickup. They didn't put a hood on me, though they bound my feet and hands with zip cuffs. The drugs had made me too groggy to try to do anything. When we stopped, they got out and left me in the cab. One set up a video camera on a tripod. The other laid out an orange tarp in front of the camera and stood behind it with his hands clasped behind his back. The first man adjusted the camera.

Soon, the second man came and yanked me out of the truck. He made me kneel on the tarp in front of him, facing the camera. The first man worked the camera. The man behind me spoke in Arabic about a caliphate and the West. I was so scared and groggy I couldn't make out much of the details. As he spoke, he pointed a broad knife at the camera. I could see it over my right shoulder. It was very large. I knew what was coming, but my mind drifted to thoughts about how I would never get any Spam again.

He put his hand on my shoulder. The weight of that hand was a thousand tons of searing terror. Every cell of every nerve and muscle in my upper body screamed an awareness of that gigantic broad knife, wondering when and where it would bite. I remember feeling a slight breeze across my neck. It chilled my blood to ice.

The cameraman's phone rang. The man behind me screamed at him. The cameraman answered, then silently held the phone out to his partner. The man with the broad knife took the phone and spoke with the caller in clipped replies. He ended the call, handed the phone back to the cameraman, and slapped him on the back. He struck me in the temple with the butt of his knife.

I awoke in the back of a delivery truck. Night had fallen. I was in street clothes and zip cuffs. I slipped in and out of consciousness due to exhaustion, malnutrition, and probably a concussion. I had an unbelievable headache. My ears rang. I passed out.

Then I awoke in the hold of a ship. It smelled like gasoline, making my headache worse. Clearly the group that originally abducted me had sold me to another. We sailed for what might've been a week. I saw no one except for when they came to feed me pathetic scraps of their own meals. There was no bathroom.

We arrived at a port in Mogadishu, Somalia. My hood was gone and I saw that some of the signs were in English. This helped me feel a little less disoriented. They quickly moved me to another delivery truck, though they didn't seem to care if anyone there saw me. My guess is they were Al-Shabaab or Boko Haram, but I'm really not certain. As the truck made its way, I wondered why they hadn't killed me. I couldn't stop thinking about Spam.

A man with a Kalashnikov sat with me in the back of the truck. I could see through the cab's window that we had entered the jungle. The ride was rough.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked, surprised at the weakness of my voice. I sounded sick. I didn't bother to clear my throat.

He smirked and lit a cigarette. "Jamame."

After a few hours, we stopped. The driver let us out. We were in a jungle. Aside from trees, vines, leaves, and the truck, there was a ramshackle wooden hut with a thatched roof. My guard pushed me inside. There was just one room and the only furniture inside was a decrepit wooden table and two chairs. In the center of the hut's dirt floor was a square of concrete with a heavy chain connected to it. Without removing my zip cuffs, they cuffed my hands and feet again, then chained me by the neck to the floor.

They left me alone there. I heard them drive off; then there was only the sound of jungle birds. The sun set. I fell asleep in the chair.

When I awoke, night filled the hut. Another man sat at the table cooking in a stone bowl on a propane camp stove. Whatever he was cooking smelled something like fruit, something like meat, but not like anything I recognized. I was starving for Spam.

His thick dreadlocks surrounded a leathery face the color of midnight, lined with a spider web of wrinkles. He wore aviator glasses with reflective lenses. His military shirt was open to the bare skin underneath. He wore lots of trinkets, necklaces, amulets, and talismans. There was a bird's foot, a peace button, dog tags, an American flag patch, and a Haitian flag patch.

He noticed me and immediately spooned some of his concoction into a small wooden bowl before me. He spoke with a Caribbean accent and a voice full of gravel and time.

"You're awake now."

"Yes," I said, in a voice not all that different from his.

"You are Jimmy McIntyre?"

"Yes."

"You are from North Carolina?"

"Yes."

"Eat."

I really wanted Spam. "What if I don't want it?"

He drew a knife and laid it on the table. It had a ragged, cruel old blade. It wasn't metal. Maybe bone? Maybe stone? The handle was a short length of rusty pipe.

I ate. It tasted like fruit with something unfamiliar and earthy. When it first hit my stomach, it energized me immediately. I wolfed down the first bowl, then he served me the remainder of the batch.

As I finished the second bowl, he packed up his stove. There was a faint tightness in my stomach.

He got up and set the stove and his bag away from the table. He took his glasses off, grabbed my head, put his fingers around my eye, and held it open, looking intently. One of his eyes was fully blood red. The other had an iris of ice blue.

"Very soon now."

"What's very soon?"

My stomach grew tighter.

He stepped away from the table.

I belched. I got the sensation of falling, as if the earth below me opened up and I just fell and fell and fell. Then I belched a belch that sounded like screams and blood and pain and birth and death and farts and shit. I've never belched for that long. I could feel it in every bone, muscle, and joint of my body. Then I felt nothing ever again.

The man stepped forward and drew his strange ragged blade. He cut my zip cuffs. From his shirt pocket he removed a key, then unlocked the chain. He stepped back again.

"Stand up," he said.

I stood, though I didn't want to.

"Sit down."

I sat, though I didn't want to.

"Stand up."

I stood.

He stabbed me in the stomach. I didn't feel it. I didn't scream, though I tried. He stepped back again.

"Give me my knife back."

Horrified, I saw my hand withdraw the knife and hand it to him, handle first. There was no blood. I wanted to run and scream and I couldn't.

"You cannot run, unless I tell you to. You are dead and I own you now."

He gathered his stuff and stopped at the entrance to the hut.

"Jimmy McIntyre, tomorrow men will come for you. Go with them. Then, with their help, go home. When you get there, eat. You are the new sword of their jihad, whatever that means. Do a good job and I get to send you friends."

He left.

I didn't move the entire night. I didn't sleep. I didn't even breathe. In fact, I never slept nor breathed ever again. I couldn't. I was dead. Standing there in the dark I eventually understood. The dark is good for clearing the mind, helping us come to terms with what we truly are. Whatever the man had done, he had killed my body, but my mind—my soul—was still in it. I was a passenger. I didn't bleed, breathe, feel the wind blowing through the cracks in the hut walls, or pull my foot away when a spider crawled its way across it.

The men came shortly after dawn. When they came, I wanted to run, but my body turned toward them and followed their orders. They told me to climb onto the back of their flatbed truck, and I did. They told me to climb into the wooden crate, and I did. I lay there like a corpse. I didn't move while they closed it and nailed it shut.

I lay there awake the entire day it took to reach Mogadishu. I recognized the sounds.

I lay there awake the entire day it took to load me onto a ship.

I lay there awake the entire week it took the ship to get to Port Elizabeth. I recognized South African accents saying, "Port Elizabeth," several times, among other things.

I lay there awake as they loaded me onto a plane. I don't know how many hours I was on the plane, but it was a long time. I heard British accents when I landed. It wasn't long before I was on another plane. On that plane I heard a deep, rich, familiar Southern twang. The flight took a very long time. I think I crossed the Atlantic. I didn't get hungry, but I couldn't stop thinking about food. Even Spam.

When I landed, someone loaded me onto another truck. Shortly after the truck started moving, I could hear the radio. It was very loud. Classic rock. Creedence, Pink Floyd, Genesis. Then there was a commercial with a jingle. Crescent Ford in High Point. The moment that jingle played my feet and hands started banging against the crate. It startled me, like the noise came from someone else's feet and hands. My body, but not me.

I thrashed and pummeled the wood. The nails eventually came loose and I knocked the lid off the crate. When I climbed out, it was like watching a movie. I was in a small delivery van with only a few other boxes. I had no control when I went to the cab wall and beat my fists against it. Hard. Loud.

The truck swerved slightly, knocking me down. I got back up and started beating the wall again. The radio stopped. I beat the wall. The van pulled over. Curses came from the cab. There was a loud click and a creak. The driver's door. I moved to the back of the truck. The driver's door slammed shut. Clangs and bangs came from the latches outside. The door opened. I grabbed the driver by the head and twisted his neck until it snapped. I dragged him inside. I watched myself eat him. I ate most all of him but the bones. I didn't want to eat him, but my body would not stop, no matter how much I tried. I tried so hard to shut my eyes, or to shut out the sounds, or to stop biting, stop chewing, stop swallowing, but I didn't stop. It must've taken two hours.

I jumped out of the truck, covered in blood. It was a quiet street. No traffic. It was morning. I heard the sound of children playing in the distance. I could see my old school, High Point Elementary. I headed toward the sound of the children.

## Sorrow Stone

by Traci Nathaniel Walker

Sideways room dark

Nothing

Nowhere

Never

Then me

Not yet me

And the heavy

Don't breathe

In the world

Don't breathe

Out the night

Don't move

Don't start being

Stay still

Stay behind the peace

Let the breath

Stir the dust

Without you

And know nothing

Until

Yesterday

With its truth lie

Tells the you of me

And begins to pull

My center

Down out of me

My soft

My care

Let it go

Give it up

Leave

Slip back

Escape

Through the membrane

Now sealed

Now forgotten

By knowing

So

Yesterday

Hollows my gut

Scrapes me empty

Makes room for itself

Crawls up inside

Presses the hard stone

Into my throat

And beats the blood

Into my ears

No

Breathe out

The world

Breathe in

The night

Clutching

Go find it

Clawing

Reaching

Make it take me

Back in

Breathe it in

Breathe it in

And it won't

Take me back

While I think it

Just day

Bright thinking day

Bright burning day

Boiling the air

All around

The yesterday today

Heartbeat accuser

Sorrow stone

—

Rocks from the moon

On earth

Pebbles from the ocean

On mountains

Old wood ignored

Now mineral

So far they came

As if made to

How long

How many moments

—

Recoil

Retreat

Plunge within

Deep womb

Dark tomb

Cool refuge

Beg for mercy

Beg to be empty

Beg for death

Don't move

Hurts to move

Hurts to be here

Swallow hard

Around the sorrow stone

Let the tears slip

Let them run

Take yesterday

Drip, drip and run

Pull on the stone

Easy streams

Empty my bones

Warm, wet salt

From the stone

Be still

Clean

Slicing pain

Wants all of me

Feel it

Hate it

Hold it

Let it open me

Filet me wide

Bleed out yesterday

So I'll swim away

Innocent guilt

Gathering in pools

Dislodge the stone

Drain me of my Life

No more fury

Only flesh

Thick

And shiny raw

Laid wise at last

In defeat

Still I breathe

Damn breath

Why?

When I give it up

When breath brings no Life

Just breath

That won't stop

Here unwilling

Done and done and done and done

Moments on loop

Still playing

The baby cries

God, please help me

Please help me

Help

The baby cries

This is why

Mother in my gut

Not me

Made for me

She

Grabs all that space

And presses out

Leaves room for me

The baby cries

Upright and room and light

Breathe in

Breathe out

Steal back my will

As if made to

The baby cries

Carry my stone

Carry her Life

Make room for her

Inside of her

So no stone will find her

So no stone will fit

## Jacob's Journey

By Patrick M. Charron

"Sit still, or I'll be liable to hurt ya more than help!" Nora scolded, as Jacob sat upon the stone while the plump herbalist tended to his shoulder. He turned his gaze to the lifeless body lying upon the cold stone floor of the plateau, covered only in the sparse pine sprigs of a nearby tree.

"Don't be staring at him." Her voice was calming, soothing, akin to a mother coddling her wounded babe. "There be nothin' you can be doin' for him now."

"He saved us." Jacob's voice was flat, barely containing the pain in his face. "There ought to be something we can do."

Nora shook her head, desperation creeping into her voice. "He saved us for now. That explosion will be drawing all sorts of attention - and we can't still be here when they come lookin'." She finished applying a bandage to Jacob's damaged shoulder, barely satisfied with her handiwork. "If I don't get you to a proper doctor, you may lose that arm, or at least the use of it. We need to be gettin' on - like Baraster said - through the Dirage valley, to Endocombe."

Jacob flexed his fingers as Nora pulled a sling over his head, resting his right arm against his chest. "Have you ever been there?"

She nodded. "I've been everywhere." Pausing, she reached up, stroking his long, dirty hair. It had been a rough night for all of them, but especially for Jacob. Her attempts at motherly comfort were lost on the youthful orphan. "Go, do what you can with the wagons and supplies." She let her gaze fall upon the lifeless form on the ground. "I'll make sure we attend to him, and the others, in as proper a manner as possible."

"Pyre?"

"The smoke won't draw any more attention now." She paused, ready to counter any argument from Jacob. With none coming, she continued, "Go, and send back one of the farm boys to help me with the pyre." Jacob slid off the rock and stood erect, towering over the little herbalist. "And be quick about it. We haven't much time."

* * *

Jacob guessed it was nearly dawn as he walked alongside the heavily burdened wagon, rolling slowly through the mountain tunnel, the creak of the wheels echoing the low moans of the lumbering cow that dragged the cart down the path. Not accustomed to being a beast of burden, it labored under the yoke, swinging its head from side to side, trying in vain to bite at the leather strapping that crossed over its shoulders. Each time the cow slowed, Jacob prodded it with his staff, encouraging forward movement. They were well beneath the mountain plateau that had seen so much death the day before, and keeping the cow moving was all that kept his mind off the events of the previous day.

The village of Mastadon was no more, eradicated by the onslaught of Empire soldiers. Any hope of returning home ended when Baraster blew the top off the mountain - destroying the attackers, but signaling to all, spies included, that there was power within the refugees. The enemy wouldn't know Baraster had sacrificed himself in the process. Without doubt, more troops would be dispatched... likely in stronger numbers. Running was the refugees' only option now - to a nation that while never an adversary, could neither be called a friend.

Nora was far behind, but she would catch up quickly once she and Bren had taken care of the dead villagers. In a matter of hours, Jacob had gone from youthful apprentice to village elder. None of the council had survived - not a single head of a family or merchant house, or a guild leader still walked with the living. There were a few older farm hands, but they had never been schooled like Jacob was. The realization of his responsibility was beginning to weigh on him. Yet he yearned to leave even more than before. He wanted, needed, to learn the magical craft, especially if his injury proved as severe as Nora thought.

He looked behind, at the long line of women and children following in his wake, before looking ahead at the dozen or so wagons pulled by a variety of beasts. The tunnel was wide and tall, cut centuries before for the purpose of transporting immense quantities of gold and jewels. Dwarven tunnels, built for commerce and long abandoned, now carrying the currency of life. Jacob pondered how the dwarf miners of old had met their end. The stories of their riches had been passed down through many generations.

"Cor," he called ahead, "how much longer do you think before we're out of the tunnel?" Even with the massive width of the cavern, he still knew he was underground and he hated the feeling. He wanted to breathe fresh air and see the bright, blue sky overhead. He felt the stone crushing down on him.

"We should be having our mid-day meal in the sun."

Jacob nodded, pleased with that estimation. He motioned for one of the younger children walking near him to come over, and asked that she carry the message down the line. Scampering off, the child did as she was asked, oblivious of their dire situation. Jacob smiled, finding pleasure in the ignorance of a child, and realized it was likely the same smile that Baraster had given him so many times. The thought saddened him, and the smile raced away from his face. He poked the cow with his staff again, even though it didn't need prodding, and the cart bumped a little, the load jiggling.

They stopped shortly thereafter. Jacob sat quietly in the sun, leaning against the wagon wheel, chewing on a meager piece of bread. As he ate, he spotted Nora lumbering down the corridor, dirty, tired and sweating profusely. Pulling himself up, he strode to meet her, handing over the last slice of bread and a slice of apple. She took the food grudgingly, then slid to a seated position, and nibbled away.

"You took a long time." It was an obvious statement, but he suddenly had a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, as if a flock of moths were trying to burst out from the inside. Nora seemed to understand his queasiness, and reached out with her plump hand, taking his good left hand in hers.

"I don't want to talk about it either, Jacob. I just built a pyre for most of my friends. I thought the assault was horrific, but today has been the worst day of my life." She drew in a deep breath, tears barely contained behind her brave face. "Tomorrow will be a better day." Jacob nodded.

Finishing their meal, Jacob propped himself up with his staff, then extended his good hand to Nora to help her up. Jacob received the signal from Cor to move out, so he prodded the cow with his staff and the wagon began to roll slowly forward.

The light was fading fast, darkness creeping in from the east, the mountain hiding the setting sun. As the faint pink glow of the setting sun silhouetted the peaks that loomed behind them, they found a suitable campsite clearing a few hundred lengths from the mouth of the cavern. Several young boys led the wagons in a large circle, creating a perimeter for their encampment. Jacob took command of the beasts, finding an area where they could be tied off for the evening. He insisted that several of the young farm hands stand guard to protect the animals.

Once all was in place, Jacob went back to the center of camp. It was much smaller than he thought it should be. By his estimate, there were less than one hundred people remaining, gathered around a dozen or so cook fires. He wandered among them and finally came upon Nora, sitting quietly at a fire, stirring a pot of stew, as she listened intently to several older women. She saw him approaching, smiled gently, and waved him to take a seat next to her. The fire was warm, and the glow allowed him to take in all the faces of those gathered.

It was the closest thing to a council that Maradon had left. Of course, there was Nora to his right, her silence belying her intense concentration. To her right was Nadine, the widow of Gunther the blacksmith, her long black hair matted and dirty, her simple gray dress torn and bloodstained. Then her two youngest sons, Besin & Morac, both under ten years. She had older sons as well, and a daughter who had children of her own. None of them sat around the fire. Jacob feared he already knew the answer to the unasked question. Across the fire sat Hedi, the widow of the farmer Dawson. To his delight, her two sons, Orso and Gareth, sat on either side of her. The look of depression on their faces wasn't surprising, having seen their father fall the day before. But like their father, they were strong, intelligent, competent men who could lead, and others would follow. Finally, to his left sat Anson, the one-handed butcher. He was as "old as the hills," as Baraster would say, and surely as surly. Never in his short life had Jacob once heard a kind word from the man. He wore only a day's growth on his face, which was more than his head carried. His right hand gripped his staff tightly, while the stump of his left was fitted with an attachment, often topped by a cleaver, but currently with an empty slot. His large belly protruded toward the fire, barely contained within a dirty, white cotton shirt. It was a sign of his wealth that he could afford imported cotton. Most people could only afford simple woven cloth, or at most, tanned leather.

"Years it has been since I traversed this side of the mountain," Anson stated flatly. "We can't be knowin' the perils of these lands."

"'Tis true," Hedi interjected, "but the dangers in our realm are known. We may find allies here - Harad's reign is a clear danger to all free nations. Let's make it to the capital. We'll ask for refuge and aid. How long will we be on the road?"

Nadine piped up, "'Bout three years ago I arranged a shipment for Gunther," she paused a moment, feeling the wave of emotion washing over her at the mention of her dead husband, "was a three week round trip. Shoulda been less than a fortnight but there were issues at checkpoints."

"Checkpoints?" Anson queried.

"There have been smuggling issues... weapons and gold for the most part. Our shipment was held up in both directions. I suggest we make for the main road heading north and find a checkpoint. They are military - they'll be helpful, one way or another."

It was then that Jacob decided to contribute. "What if I took a small group north to find a checkpoint, while the rest of you continue east to Endocombe? The less time on the road, the better." He gestured to the campfires that dotted their small encampment. "We have a lot of young children, as well as a large number of elders. A long trip north could be daunting, even deadly for them. The sooner they're safe, the better." His voice trailed off, sheepishly. Suddenly, he was aware of how young and inexperienced he was... how out of place he was, giving advice to the leaders of the community.

To his amazement, Nora reached over, stroking his cheek with her free hand. "You're right, Jacob. Who do you want to take with you?"

"What of Orson and Gareth?" He pointed across the fire at them. "They are both capable hunters and trappers, and we can travel cross country, saving time."

"What of your injury?" Anson was showing genuine concern for the young man. "Shouldn't you be getting real medical attention?" He glanced at Nora apologetically. "No offense, mistress, but your skills are limited." Nora nodded, giving him an appreciative smile.

"I fear the shoulder is getting worse." Jacob flexed his fingers, gingerly. "It feels like I have sausages on my hand, and they don't seem to respond as I'm accustomed to." He shook his head. "I don't think it will matter by the time we reach help." He looked across the fire at the two young men across from him. "Orso, Gareth. What say you? It will be treacherous. There could be dangers, creatures we've never encountered in our realm. The journey will be difficult." He was doing his best to sound like a leader, someone they should have confidence in. To his amazement, both boys nodded their approval.

Nadine spoke up, "Be careful, boys. We've lost too many. Promise," she stared intently at Jacob, "that you'll bring Hedi her boys back."

As confidently as he could, he replied, "I shall."

Early the next morning, as the sun was rising, Jacob, Orso, and Gareth left, light packs on their backs, short swords on each of their hips. Jacob grasped a walking stick with his good, left hand and led the way into the dense forest.

Thick tree trunks with dense, green foliage closed quickly around them. Spider webs caught in Jacob's hair and shoulders as he passed between trees, searching for a clear path. Before long, he let Orso lead, who glided quickly through the trees, finding a clear path within a few strides, ducking under low hanging branches and sidestepping roots poking through the earth. They continued until nightfall, and Jacob thought they had covered almost a third of the distance to the capital. Stoking a small fire to warm their rations, he shared his thoughts.

"Nadine thought it should be between a week and ten days to get to the capital. I think we can make it in less than three, if we keep this pace." Jacob was doing his best to be reassuring and confident. "What say you - can we do it?"

Gareth spoke first. "Aye, Jacob." Those were the first words he had spoken since they left the main group. "We can close the distance, no doubt. We have no encumbrances, nothing to slow us but our own shortcomings." His manner couldn't have reminded Jacob more of his father, Dawson. It was then that Orso caught him off guard.

"Did ya see what happened to our da?"

Jacob was unsure how to answer that. The battle had happened so quickly, and he had been assigned to evacuate the women and children into the tunnel, not to the official defensive force.

"Orso," he tried to infuse as much compassion into his voice as his inexperience would permit, "I didn't see him fall. I was engaged with a soldier at the exit." He pointed to his wounded shoulder, held tight against his body by Nora's sling. "But I know he took the lead in defensive ranks. The last I saw, he was being pressed toward the back wall of the plateau." He wasn't sure what he was trying to do for the boys - provide comfort for their loss, or pride for their father's valiance. He continued, "All I can be sure of is that we couldn't have saved as many as we did without your father's leadership."

"Baraster," the two boys said in unison and Gareth continued, "he was your friend. I'm sorry he's gone." Jacob nodded. It was Baraster who had made their survival possible. The battle, while brave, would have been lost if not for his self-sacrifice.

"What I learned from him, I will take with me forever, including the desire to never need saving again. I will find a mentor, and I will become a great wizard. And I will destroy the king for what he has done to our people." With that, he finished up his minimalist meal, wiped his mouth with the back of his good hand, and took up the first watch, while the other two took to their bed rolls for some much needed rest.

They continued for the next two days, traveling quickly through the day, taking only short respites for food before bedding down for the night in the hollow of a great tree or remote clearing. Each day, Jacob became more concerned, finding neither any sign of the northern roadway, nor a town of any kind. With the pace they were keeping, they should have approached pastures and farms by now - even if they had deviated from a true north trajectory. Jacob attempted to keep his concerns to himself, but both Gareth and Orso were experienced in the wild, and they knew something was amiss.

"Wh-where did we go wrong?" Orso stammered with frustration. "We've maintained our position relative to the morning sun and the first light of the moon. We should have crossed the Trade Lane last night, or at least before our mid-day meal today." He pressed his hands to the sides of his head, leaning into the glow of the fire. "And I think we're being hunted."

"I feel the same," Gareth injected. "I've felt their eyes on us since waking yesterday. I think, whoever they may be, they are running us into a trap."

"I haven't seen any sign. What did I miss?" Jacob's inexperience in the woods was showing.

Before the brothers could answer, an arrow whizzed past Jacob's nose and lodged into the tree beside his head. All three leapt to their feet, drawing swords and raising shields. From the darkness, four large figures emerged, their low, guttural voices echoing through the night with menacing laughter.

Drool dripped from their fangs and long brown hair covered their torsos. Each carried a large club and one carried a bow, but the quiver on its back was now empty.

Jacob raised his sword awkwardly with his left hand, his shield held limply with his injured right arm. Raising his sword, he pointed it directly at the lead beast. "Be gone, creature."

It laughed a hearty laugh as it flexed its arms and raised the giant broadsword in its hand. Calling over its shoulder to the beasts behind, it declared, "Puny human thinks he scary. I claim his leg for fire." The others gave threatening laughs, licking their lips in anticipation.

Gareth and Orso didn't wait any longer. Rushing headlong toward the beast, Gareth swung his sword at the right knee, while Orso thrust his straight at the chest of the beast.

It deflected Orso's blade with ease, and while Gareth's sword sunk into the flesh below the knee, it didn't slow the monster down. It struck Gareth with the back of its hand, flinging him back into the darkness. The beast behind him veered off into the darkness, following the sound of Gareth's bounding body. The force of the deflection sent Orso to his back, his sword breaking from his hand. The leader paid no attention to Orso, striding past him, allowing the third to descend on the prone youth, while the leader made straight for Jacob. Raising his shield slightly, pain shooting through his injured shoulder, the weight of the shield felt as if it were an anvil. He grunted through the pain, sure that his life was going to end shortly, but convinced that he had to fight to the end. Clangs of metal echoed from the darkness; surely Gareth was putting up a fight, perhaps even winning. Might he be able to re-enter the fire lit campsite, and save Orso and himself?

The leader of the band thrust his sword at Jacob's chest, directly into the shield, pushing Jacob back into a nearby tree. The force pushed all the breath out of his lungs. Weakened, he was unable to hold onto his weapon and shield, the metal falling to the ground with a heavy thud. He looked up, right into the fiery eyes of the beast, gleeful at the prospect of an easy meal. Raising its sword for a final strike, Jacob made a quick peace with his fate, waiting for the arm to descend.

But it never did. A dwarf, moving with surprising speed, intercepted the strike. Using his height to advantage, he slid to his left, and ducked quickly back to the right, narrowly avoiding two quick slashes from the beast. Stepping inside the beast's reach, it couldn't bring the sword to bear with any authority, striking weakly at the dwarf's side. In close quarters, the dwarf brought his ax from right to left, slicing into the midsection with the front edge of his blade. Without hesitation, he changed direction, bringing the opposite side of the blade back to the right, opening the wound wider. The beast dropped its sword, clutching the open wound in its gut. Rocking back on his heels, the dwarf put as much power into his next swing, sinking the blade deep into the beast's midsection. With a gurgle and a spit of blood, it flopped to the ground and twitched its last, before remaining motionless.

The dwarf turned to Jacob and reached out his right hand to help him up.

"That shoulder be in great harm," he began,"ye have no business holding anything with that."

Jacob was only barely aware of the dwarf's voice, as he scanned the campfire for Orso and Gareth. More noises emerged from the dark forest, but the dwarf didn't seem concerned. "Gareth!" Jacob called out. "Gareth!"

Orso began calling out his brother's name as he struggled to his feet. Finally, Gareth stumbled out from the tree line, bloodied and battered, but alive.

"Oh, you be looking for him?" the dwarf questioned. "I took care of his crasp first."

"Crasp?" the three boys asked in unison.

"That be name we call these creatures. First cousin to the orc, only being dumber but stronger." He looked at their bewildered faces and explained, "It be the fangs in the difference."

Jacob reached out with his good left hand, extending his palm in salutation. "I'm Jacob," he began, but was cut off by the dwarf.

"I know who you be, and there be the brothers, Orso and Gareth. I be tracking you for two days now. Much too loud, you be. Probably brought the crasp to you."

"Who are you?"

"Sorry," he said, as he began to wipe the blood from his ax with an old cloth pulled from his belt, "I be Gebhart. Old friend of Baraster. What be happening at Mastadon?"

Jacob motioned for them to sit around the fire, and recounted the fall of Mastadon as succinctly as possible. Talking about the death of Baraster was distressing, but he got through it.

"At least the wizard went out with a flourish. He was always wanting to be center of attention."

"So, where are we? Why haven't we reached the capital?" Orso questioned.

"'Cause you be nearly two days west of the main road, lads. You be closer to the mountains than the capital!"

The boys looked to one another, unsure of what to do next. Jacob attempted to mouth something, but it died in his throat. Finally, he sputtered out, "Do you know the fate of the rest of our village?"

"Oh, they made it to Endocombe. I be a half day behind them 'afore I doubled-back for you lads," Gebhart stated flatly. "They be fine. Important question be - what's next for you lads?"

Orso looked to his brother, his dark brown eyes intense and sullen. "Don't know."

"Ya might make good adventurers, if ye be trained up proper. There be some coin - especially in these times."

"Adventurers?" Jacob was incredulous.

"Aye, lad. I have some elf colleagues of mine, might be 'bout two days northwest. Get yer arm all fixed up. Then ya be ready to go."

"Ready? Ready for what? We have to get back to our families," Jacob declared.

Gebhart shook his head, the white beard weaving from side to side, his thick, fleshy neck showing occasionally. Jacob was amazed at the scars that covered him from shoulder to ear. "Yer families don't be needing ya now. They be settling in, rebuilding in their new community. The world be needing you now."

He paused, playing with his battle ax, spinning it in the pale fire light. He yanked a whet stone from his belt pouch and began sharpening the crescent blade with long, sweeping strokes.

"Yer king be declaring himself Emperor. He be dangerous. He need to be stopped. Hone yer skills in the wild - take jobs, hunt monsters, learn to fight magicians and mercenaries. When it be time, I be calling on yer help to put down the Emperor. What do ye say?"

The boys looked to one another, their eyes shining with fearful anticipation. "I appreciate your aide, but we are not heroes. We couldn't even find our way to the main road." Orso's voice was ripe with anguish and despair.

"What did ye do when the army first came?" Gebhart queried them.

"We ran for the mountain tunnels, while the town guard tried to stop the intruders." Orso's voice was little more than a whisper over the cackling fire.

"And what did ye do when the army chased you into the mountain?"

Gareth raised his eyes to meet Gebharts' and responded succinctly, "We made for the valley, hoping our fathers' courage would save us."

Gebhart locked his gaze on Jacob. "And what did yer do when the Crasp set upon you?"

"We fought!" Jacob responded, his heart suddenly full of pride.

"Aye – ye fought. Ye didn't run. That be the difference." Gebhart smiled wide, his grey teeth catching the orange glow of the fire. "Ye stood yer ground. Poorly, but ye stood none the less. That be where me friends can help ya. Make ye real fighters. Ye want to be ready to fight back against yer king the next time he comes calling, eh?"

The boys looked to each other, reassuring nods passing around the circle.

"Well then," Gebhart intoned, "better be getting some sleep. It be a long walk to the elven realm tomorrow."

"And we'll never have to be saved again?" Jacob asked.

"No, my young friend. After yer training, you be the ones coming out of the dark to do the saving. I promise."

## The Long Ride Home

by A. Marie Silver

Oklahoma City

(37 hours left)

When the Jensens began the adoption process, everyone told me how lucky I was that this prominent, Christian family wanted me. I was only six years old at the time. The only thing I understood was that mother was dead and Sammi—the man I loved like a father—wasn't allowed to keep me. No one ever told me why. I heard ramblings about how he was dangerous and helped bad people get away with crimes. "The Jensens," they said, "Were good people who would love me and keep me safe from people like Sammi." And yet, here I was— ten years later—running for my life from the very people I was told I'd be safest with.

The bus station was busy for a Monday morning. Not that I was an expert. I'd traveled by plane on numerous occasions but never a bus. Still, I never imagined that a Monday would be such a hopping travel day. People shuffled around, lugging their suitcases, chugging coffee, and chatting on their cell phones. A voice on the intercom called out boarding information for buses. And then there was me: a total, nervous wreck. I had one shot to escape the Jensens and their corrupt plans. If this didn't work, I was screwed. Literally.

I left the house with only my backpack so Max and Cara Jensen—my adoptive parents, wouldn't suspect anything. Now I was sitting in a chair closest to the door that led to my bus, waiting for it to board and praying I'd never see Oklahoma City or the Jensens again.

The bus had everything: reclining seats, outlets along the floor and small televisions built into the back of each of the headrests. With the swipe of a credit card, passengers could watch just about anything during their trip. I had $15 in cash on me that had to last until I arrived in New York City, guaranteeing that the only thing I was going to watch were cows and cornfields. I grabbed a window seat in the back of the bus and shoved my backpack underneath the seat in front of me. I stared out the window, watching and waiting to see if either the Jensens or one of their goons was out there looking for me. Something about my escape seemed too easy.

I heard the other passengers boarding - opening and closing the overhead compartments, chatting up their seatmates and travel partners. It wasn't until I felt the seat move that I realized I had someone sitting next to me. The first thing I noticed was his shoes. The toes of both of his tennis shoes had holes in them. His dress pants were fringed around the cuffs and well-worn at the knees and his polo shirt was faded and had a few stains on this poor man's pot belly. A stale stench blew into the air as he sat down. I turned away for a second so he wouldn't see the gagged look on my face.

He made himself comfortable and smiled at me flashing a mouthful of fillings. "Name's Maurice." He held out his hand. "And who do I have the pleasure of sitting with?"

I shook his hand. "Jackie." Not exactly the truth but it was a name. Telling him nothing would be suspicious and telling him the truth would be stupid.

"Where you headed, Miss Jackie?"

"The Big Apple."

"You don't say." He leaned away and chuckled. "Looks like I chose the right seatmate. That's where I'm headed."

The bus jerked, pulling out of its parking space. I turned toward the window and looked out one last time. The Jensens and their goons were nowhere in sight.

I pulled out a disposable cell phone and stood up. "I'm sorry, Maurice," I said, climbing over him. "I need to step into the bathroom real quick."

Maurice squirmed, trying to get out of my way. "I don't think they want anyone in there just yet," he said. "They usually like you to wait until they're on the freeway."

"I'll just be a minute." I scrambled inside and locked the door. There was only one person who could help me. But the challenge was always the same—getting him on the phone.

I dialed Sammi's number and crossed my fingers that someone at his office would let me speak to him.

Springfield, MO

(31 hours left)

Four phone calls later and I still hadn't been able to reach Sammi. He was either with a client, in court, or in a meeting. Not being able to reach him made me anxious. I tried passing the time by listening to Maurice yammer on and on about his family. He had been in Oklahoma City settling his aunt's estate and had hoped to bring home some money to help send his son to the University of Pennsylvania in the fall. Maurice worked as a school custodian and his wife was a waitress at a small diner. Their son, Tyrone, was the first child on either side of the family to get into school and he had dreams of working as a NASA engineer. Fate—being the total bitch she can be—threw a wrench in those plans when Tyrone was denied the academic scholarship he needed to attend.

Listening to Maurice talk about his family was sad yet refreshing. It was nice listening to a true family man who adored his wife and beamed about his son. The Jensens were never a family. They put on a grand show—complete with elaborate birthday parties and "family" vacations used to entertain their audience and sponsors —but other than that, me and my adopted sister, Shelley were never their children. We were a business transaction.

"So tell me, Miss Jackie," Maurice leaned against my shoulder when he spoke, fighting the volume of the white noise that filled the bus. "What about you? You going to college?"

"I want to but my parents have other plans."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. They want me to work the family business."

"Oh." He nodded. "Yup, yup. That does happen sometimes. Kids have one dream. Parents have another. What's the family business?"

Nothing too interesting. Just an underground prostitution ring they run in Los Angeles. All the girls they adopt are expected to sign up after graduation. But, hey! At least I'll have my pick of Johns. "Farming. They grow wheat."

St. Louis

(24 hours left)

Maurice and I got off our bus in St. Louis. We had an hour until our next bus left and headed toward the food court to get something to eat. I grabbed a couple of apples and a sandwich from one of the stands and waited for Maurice who was grabbing a burger across the way. Time was moving slowly, driving my anxiety through the roof. All I wanted was to fast forward through all of this and stop when I was safe from the Jensen's wrath. No such luck.

A series of televisions were hanging from the wall over the center of the food court. Two of them had arrival and departure information. The others were broadcasting various national news stations. It was the story on the center television that caught my attention —in particular the caption, MISSING TEENAGER, running across the bottom of the screen. The story went that a member of the Jensen family was reported missing hours earlier. It was believed that she ran away with a boyfriend who was dangerous. A boyfriend? I have a boyfriend? Wow.

A $20,000 reward was offered for any information on her whereabouts or safe return. My class photo flashed across the screen. I pulled my hood up over my head.

"Miss Jackie."

I turned around. Concern filled Maurice's eyes as he stared up at the screen, oblivious to the fact that grease and ketchup from his burger was running down his wrist.

"I think it's time you and I have a little talk."

Maurice and I boarded the bus, choosing the seats across from the restroom. Maurice was quiet, probably lost in thought – contemplating everything I spent the last twenty minutes telling him. Watching everyone board the bus made me nervous. Every time someone climbed the steps, I worried it was either the Jensens or one of their goons. I grabbed my cell phone and climbed over Maurice.

Once inside the restroom, I locked the door and dialed Sammi's number. It was after midnight but it was worth a shot. I had to keep trying.

The phone rang three times before someone answered. "Law offices of Samuel Balistrari. This is the after-hours service center. How may I help you?"

"Yes. I need to speak with Mr. Balistrari."

"Have you been arrested?"

"No." I tapped my foot against the floor. "No, I just really need to speak with him. It can't wait."

"I'm sorry but Mr. Balistrari isn't available—"

The bus rolled forward.

"Tell him it's Katie. Please," I pleaded. "Tell him Katie Jensen needs to speak with him right away."

"I'll leave a message for his staff. Someone will follow up with you tomorrow."

The operator hung up before I had a chance to say anything.

Climbing back over Maurice, I slid into my seat.

"No luck?" Maurice asked.

"Nope." I sighed.

Columbus, OH

(13 hours left)

The next morning, Maurice nudged me awake, passing me a blueberry muffin and an orange juice. "Thanks," I croaked, unsure of where we were or how long I'd been asleep.

Maurice sat in his seat, his hands clasped against his chest. A folded newspaper was shoved between him and his arm rest. He pulled the paper out, tapping it on his leg.

"Is everything okay, Maurice?" Seeing how nervous he was made me feel bad. I shouldn't have told him. I wouldn't have told him anything except that he saw my picture on that news broadcast.

"Yeah....it's just." He continued tapping his leg with the folded paper. "Is this the guy you were telling me about? Samuel Balistrari?" He unfolded the paper and passed it to me.

There, on the cover, was Sammi. Aside from a few gray streaks in his hair, the man hadn't aged much in the last ten years. He had the same wavy, brown hair. The same large, eyes and the same dimples when he smiled. He was standing next to some guy who looked like he could've been on the Sopranos. According to the article, the jury in this criminal trial acquitted Sammi's client. It was a major victory for Sammi and a major upset for the federal prosecutor.

"Yup. That's him."

"You're sure?" he asked. "The FBI's been investigating this guy, Balistrari, for years."

"Well....no one's perfect," I said.

"Honey," Maurice whispered, "they say this lawyer makes key witnesses disappear. He's dangerous."

I leaned back in my seat. "Maybe to the FBI he's a migraine, but to me...he's the guy who read me Winnie-the-Pooh and cut the crust off of my grilled cheese sandwiches."

"Oh Lordy, Lordy." Maurice shook his head. "Guess everyone has two sides."

I could see he was concerned but Sammi was the only person I knew who could protect me from the Jensens. The trick was getting him to answer his damn phone. "Maurice, when my adopted sister, Shelley, found out why the Jensens sent her to Los Angeles, she partnered up with a reporter to try and expose them. The police found her body two days after the reporter's body washed up on a beach. Maybe Sammi is a bad guy. What choice do I have?"

Philadelphia

(3 hours left)

"Girl. Wake up!" I felt Maurice shaking me and looked up. "What is it?" I rubbed my eyes looking around. The bus was empty with the exception of the two of us. It was yet another stop in a long succession of stops that rattled me every time.

"There's two fellas out there asking people if they've seen you. They're even searching buses. You gotta get out of here. Now."

I grabbed my backpack. Staying hunched down I got into the aisle. I wasn't fast enough. I could see the Jensens goons through the other window. I ducked down. Beckett and Omar stood out like ragweed in the middle of pavement. Both were dressed in gray suits, wearing silver crosses on thick chains around their necks.

"Shit," I whispered.

Maurice knelt down beside me. "Here." He handed me a new bus ticket.

"What's this?"

"We got to get you off this bus. You take this and find number 1522. It's also headed into New York City. You get on that bus and you find that pop of yours." Maurice shoved a small wad of bills into my hand.

"No." I shook my head. This man did not have this kind of money to spend on me. "No. Tyrone needs this."

"There's no time!" Maurice looked around the bus. "You need it more, Miss Katie. Stay low and wait right here." Maurice ducked into the bathroom. He was on his hands and knees, his legs sticking out of the door way.

I peeked up, looking through the window. "Oh crap." Beckett and Omar were talking to the driver. The driver of this bus.

Maurice tapped me on the shoulder. "Come this way, Miss Katie."

A section of the floor was gone from the bathroom. Exhaust and a cool breeze blew through it.

"You crawl through this. You wait until they come on board and then you find that bus. Number 1522."

I hugged Maurice, holding him tight. "Thank you."

"I'll be praying for you, Miss Katie. I'll be praying you find that pop of yours."

The sounds of footsteps echoed from the front of the bus.

I grabbed my backpack and dropped through the floor panel. Maurice covered it up. Looking underneath the bus, I saw that Omar and Beckett weren't anywhere outside. I crawled past a set of very large tires and stayed low. Bus 1522 was three aisles over and looked like it was about to leave. The door closed just as I got there. I pounded on it. The bus driver rolled his eyes, opening it for me.

I stayed hunched over as I walked through the bus, finding an aisle seat somewhere in the middle. The bus pulled out and I looked across the aisle as we passed the bus Maurice was on. The goons were talking to him, holding up a photo. I saw Maurice shrug and then my bus turned out of the parking lot.

(1 hour left)

"Law offices of Samuel Balistrari. How may I direct your call?"

"Yes, my name is Katie Jensen. I need to speak with Mr. Balistrari right away." This was the sixth time in the last hour that I tried reaching Sammi. And each time, the outcome was the same.

"I'm sorry. Mr. Balistrari is unavailable."

"It's an emergency." I was gripping the phone so tight my knuckles were turning white. I glanced around the bus every two seconds, expecting Beckett or Omar to pop up and shout, "Busted." It was a silly delusion, considering how long ago this bus left Philadelphia, but if they were looking for me in Philadelphia, that meant someone probably saw me in St. Louis - maybe even someone I shared the bus with.

"Fine," the operator said. "Which prison are you in? I'll have a member of his team meet you there."

Prison? Dear God. "It's not that kind of emergency. Please. Just call him in his office and tell him Katie Jensen is on the phone."

"I'm sorry but Mr. Balistrari has conferences scheduled all day. I can't interrupt him unless it's an emergency."

Boy is she confused. "Funny but true story. It is an emergency. Please! Tell him Katie Jensen is on the phone."

"That's fine. I'll leave a message for you."

"No—" The dial tone buzzed in my ear. Unfrickin' believable. "I swear to God, I'd have to blow up the bus station in order to get this man's attention." I slammed the phone down against the arm rest.

The passenger sitting next to me looked alarmed. She grabbed her purse and shifted as far away from me as she could. Great. Now I'm that passenger: the foul-tempered passenger that freaks everyone out.

I slammed my head against the backrest which did nothing to ease her concern. I turned toward her and smiled. "I'm sorry about that. I'm having a bad day."

She cleared her throat and looked away.

(New York City)

Looking around at my immediate surroundings, I felt overwhelmed. Here I was in New York City. This place looked more like a shopping mall than a bus station. Food courts and boutiques lined either side of the hallways. Passengers walked at all paces through the building. Some were hauling ass. Others were meandering past the stores, window shopping and taking in the sights.

As excited as I was to be here, I had no idea what to do next. I had Sammi's business address but no idea what I would say when and if I found him. Plus, it had been ten years since we last saw each other. He probably wouldn't recognize me.

I walked past my gate and down the hallway. I was almost to the end of it when I saw them. Standing in between me and the exit were Omar and Beckett. Beckett tapped Omar on the shoulder. They both looked at me with really creepy smiles and walked over. I felt like a horror movie baby sitter: nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Desperate to escape, I dodged to the left, bumping into someone in a uniform.

"Katie Jensen?" The guy standing in front of me was a Port Authority Police Officer.

"Yes?" Why does he know my name? And why did he put his hands on my shoulder. Rude much?

"Put your hands behind your back."

He turned me around. Four more police officers stood behind me. Omar and Beckett stood frozen, looking as confused as I felt.

"What's the problem?"

"Come with please." He gripped my shoulder, leading me past Omar and Beckett.

"For what?"

Apparently someone on the bus heard me talking about blowing up the Port Authority Bus Terminal and called the cops. Oops. The only good thing to come out of this is that if I do go to jail, I can't be forced into a prostitution ring. The bad news is I doubt I'll be out in time to attend senior prom—next year.

Two police officers stood in the cramped interrogation room with me. Both had a constipated look across their face. I took the advice of the arresting officer and invoked my right to remain silent. And now we sat here—the three of us—waiting. For what, I had no idea.

Someone tapped on the other side of the door. The officers didn't have time to respond before the door swung open.

"Well this is a rare treat."

I looked up, recognizing that thick English accent anywhere. It always threw people off whenever they heard Sammi speak. Given that his last name was Italian, it never occurred to them that he might also be British.

Sammi stood in front of me and clapped his hands, rubbing them together. "I so rarely have the opportunity to defend someone who's actually innocent."

"Balistrari?" One of the officers asked. "What are you doing here? She's a bit below your pay grade, isn't she?"

"Not your business. Now please gentlemen," Sammi held the door open for them. "I'll need a moment to confer with my client."

The officers both snorted at him, like they thought he was kidding.

"Right," Sammi said. "See, the way it works is I open the door and then you walk through it."

The officers rolled their eyes and took their time leaving.

Once they were through, Sammi closed the door, clearing his throat. He ambled toward me, like he was afraid he'd scare me away if he moved any faster. When he was about two feet away, he looked me in the eyes.

"Hello, Darling," he said, looking up. "You've been missed."

My eyes watered. I couldn't think. There was so much I wanted to say to him but the words struggled to come out.

"You remember me?"

"I would know you anywhere." His voice was soft. "You are the spitting image of your mum."

I erupted into a sobbing mess. "Sammi, I'm in trouble." My knees buckled and I fell to the ground. I felt Sammi wrap his arms around me.

"Now, now. None of that. Nothing's been done that can't be undone."

"The Jensens," I cried. "They're bad people. They want me to be a prostitute."

"A prostitute?" Sammi laughed. "Are you mad? You're not going to be a prostitute. You're going to Columbia. Every member of the Balistrari family has attended Columbia. Every family member."

I cried in Sammi's arms. For the first time in years I felt safe and loved.

He held me tight. "You're not going to jail and you're not going back with the Jensens. You're coming home with me."

(Maurice)

"Are you sure?" Maurice wound the phone cord around his wrist, pacing back and forth in his kitchen. It was the bill collector's favorite time of month but every phone call Maurice made today to try and pay something on his bills ended the same way \- some schmuck on the other end of the phone told him his account was paid in full. It was like Maurice won the lottery and someone forgot to tell him. All of his bills - rent, utilities, credit cards, all of them were paid.

Someone knocked on the door. "Th-Thank you." Maurice hung up the phone and answered the door.

A well-dressed gentleman stood on the other side of the storm door. Maurice thought there was something familiar about him but couldn't place him. "Can I help you?"

"Pardon me," the gentleman said with a heavy accent. "I'm looking for Maurice Gibbons."

"That's me."

"My name is Samuel Balistrari. May I come in please?"

Katie's pop? Maurice nodded, opening the door so Samuel could enter.

Samuel climbed up the steps into the trailer and looked around. Maurice remembered how highly Katie thought of Samuel but after everything Maurice heard in the news, he wasn't sure he wanted Samuel in his home.

"Is there a problem?" Maurice asked.

"None at all. Katie mentioned you gave her some money and I've come to repay you."

"That's not necessary," Maurice said.

Samuel pulled out his wallet, handing Maurice me a crisp hundred dollar bill and a business card. "I disagree. You helped someone dear to me and now I'm going to help you."

Maurice hesitated taking the money, fearing there was a string attached to the back of that Benjamin Franklin.

Samuel pressed the bill into Maurice's hand.

Maurice cleared his throat. "Thank you."

Samuel shook his hand and headed for the door. "Oh before I forget. Tell your boy I said congratulations."

"Congratulations?"

"Yes. I understand he received a full ride to the University of Pennsylvania. That's quite the honor."

Maurice shook his head. "There must be some mistake. He didn't get it."

"That was yesterday. I imagine sometime in the very near future he'll be hearing different. And, if he doesn't, call the number on that card."

Maurice looked down at the business card and then back up at Samuel.

"The Balistrari family is indebted to you, sir." Samuel smiled. "There are no favors too big to ask."

## Journey from Eden—A Prostitute's Lament

by Sean Callahan

Here on my knees

Preying on the wrong John,

Why do I enjoy going down

This sinful slide I'm on?

Every chance, I've blown

To pay my soul's rent;

Kneeling at this altar

Always leaves me spent.

The whole dilemma,

When it gets hard in life,

Is servicing the Passion—

Cursed Job of the wife?

One faith I can't seem to swallow:

Why isn't love free?

But I confess, I babble on

Just a whore to the apple tree.

## Flipflops and Futures

by Charity Rau

The van hit another pothole, pushing me into its side. I pulled backed and shaded my eyes from the hot Mexican sun. I peered out the window. Rows of shacks climbed up the hillside, pushed against one another like children's blocks. Even though I'd been to Paris, London, Rome, Sydney, and Tokyo, I 'd never seen such poverty.

"Look, there it is." My mother pointed at the large pueblo building in front of us. Vendors selling handmade necklaces, woven blankets and rugs, and fresh fruits and vegetables crowded around the front of the building.

"This is so exciting, isn't it?" My mother squeezed me in a side hug before climbing out of the van. I grabbed my bag and nodded halfheartedly as I followed her out.

"Yeah. I think I'm going to take a walk first, though. To stretch my legs," I said as I turned to walk away from the building.

"You sure? Everything okay, sweetie?" My mother's eyes grew worried. She was so excited to be at this market where she could barter for handmade goods, that she couldn't imagine anyone not being excited about it.

I smiled. "I'm fine, Mom. My legs are just cramped from all that riding."

"Okay. Well, don't stay out here too long. We don't have a lot of time to spend here."

"And don't wander away from the van," my father chimed in. "The driver will be out here with you."

I nodded. I shifted my bag onto my back as I walked around the van. I leaned against it, taking in the view. The hundreds of shacks in the distance, a bright big sun shining over them, and just in front of me, a gently sloping hill. Soon my mind was elsewhere. I couldn't help thinking about the conversation I'd had with my parents the night before.

My father had asked, "Have you finished that essay for those college applications yet?"

I had shaken my head and replied, "I'm just not sure what I want to do with my life yet."

"That's okay," my mother had answered. "You'll figure it out. You don't always have to know right away. Just take some core classes the first couple of years until you decide."

But every time I thought about it, I just felt more confused and more stressed than ever. I didn't want to waste my life, and I really wanted to do something meaningful, but how was I supposed to figure out what that was at seventeen?

"You really don't have to get so stressed about it, Daisy," my mother had said.

"College and living on your own is a wonderful experience. It's the beginning of a journey that is just yours. Sometimes it takes time to figure out who you are and what you're meant to do, and that's okay. Just enjoy it."

My mother was so much more laid-back than me, and sometimes I wished I could be like her. Instead, I had my father's personality. Everything needed to be planned out in advance so I would know exactly what to do next.

Something hit my leg, pulling me from my thoughts. I looked down. A soccer ball bounced away from me. I ran forward and picked it up before it could roll down the hill. I looked around. A group of kids stood at the bottom of the hill staring warily at me. I smiled and walked down to them.

"Hola," I said. "Su pelato?" I asked, hoping that was the right conjugation for 'your ball'. I held the ball out to the biggest boy.

"Sí, gracias." He took the ball, a huge grin on his face.

They were all boys, except for a little girl clinging to one boy's arm. She was holding her foot up as if afraid to step with it. Blood dripped down from it onto the dirt.

"¿Qué pasa?" I asked, pointing to the girl's foot. I was pretty sure that was the correct way to ask 'what happened'.

The boy standing next to the little girl replied. He spoke so fast, I couldn't translate everything he said, but caught enough to know that the girl had stepped on some glass.

"Es su hermana?" I asked the boy.

"Sí," he replied, confirming that he was her brother.

"Un momento, espere aquí," I told the kids to wait. I ran back to the van to get the first aid kit I had seen in there earlier. I had taken several first aid classes and received two different certifications from the Red Cross. This would be the first time I put those skills to the test.

"Everything okay?" the driver asked me.

"Yeah, I just need the first aid kit. That little girl cut her foot on some glass." I pointed over to where the kids stood. The driver just nodded and pulled out the first aid kit.

"Thanks," I said as I took it. I ran back over to the kids and knelt next to the girl.

"¿Cómo te llamo?" I asked her.

"Marta," she replied.

"Es bonita," I said as I set the kit on the ground and pulled off my backpack. I rummaged through it until I found my water bottle.

"Me llamo es Daisy." I told Marta as I examined her foot. It was still bleeding a little and it looked like something might be in the cut. I took a deep breath. I can do this.

I motioned for Marta to sit, then held up her foot and poured some water over the cut. Her brother knelt next to her, his hand on her shoulder. The other boys crowded around us, watching to see what I was going to do.

Once the blood was washed away, I could see there was a tiny piece of glass in the cut. I opened the first aid kit and took out the tweezers. I doused them with the tiny bottle of alcohol then carefully removed the sliver of glass.

I looked at Marta's face checking for tears.

"¿Estás bien?" She gave me a little smile and nodded. I breathed a sigh of relief. The adrenaline rush started to wear off, and I felt shaky. I couldn't believe I had just pulled a piece of glass out of a little girl's foot. I took another deep breath. I hadn't finished the job yet.

I put some triple antibiotic on the cut and bandaged it. Thankfully, it didn't look deep enough for stitches, but she would need some shoes to keep the cut from getting infected. I looked over at the market. Right outside was a stand with all sizes and colors of flip flops. Those would work, but if I got some for the girl, I would have to get some for all the kids. None of them had shoes. I glanced at their feet, trying to determine sizes, then stood up.

"Un momento," I said again, hoping they would wait for me. I picked up my bag, but left the first aid kit there, so they would know I was coming back. I walked over to the stand with the flip flops, picked some out for the kids, paid the man, and ran back. The boys were standing there waiting, and Marta was still sitting on the ground.

"Para tí," I told Marta that the shoes were for her. I handed her the pink ones I had picked out. Each shoe had a little flower on it. She squealed as she slipped them on her feet. She hopped up and pranced around proudly. Then she hugged me.

"Gracias, Gracias!" She continued chattering so fast that I couldn't tell what she was saying. I handed the rest of the boys their flip flops. While their reaction was not quite as enthusiastic as Marta's, they were still quite pleased with the gift, and thanked me with a round of "Gracias!"

They all danced around in their new shoes, laughing and talking. It humbled me to think that such a small gift could make them so happy. This was the kind of thing I wanted to do with my life, something that would make people happy.

"Daisy, you ready? We need to get going," my father called out from the edge of the van. I waved and nodded at him, then turned to the kids.

"Mucho gusto, adiós," I said to the kids. I didn't know how to say 'I have to go', so I hoped 'pleased to meet you' and 'goodbye' would work. It seemed to, as they all crowded around me, each taking a turn hugging me.

"Mucho gusto, gracias por los zapatos!" Marta told me thanks again as she squeezed me tight. I grabbed the first aid kit and trekked up to the van.

"I see you made some friends. Did you use your Spanish?"

"Yeah, Dad. Those kids are sweet." I rounded the van and started to climb in.

"Are you okay? Did you get hurt?" my mother asked when she saw the first aid kit.

"I'm fine. The little girl down there had a cut on her foot. I fixed it up for her."

"Oh, that was nice. You could be a doctor, Daisy."

I didn't answer her as I sat down. My mother had said this more than once, but I just couldn't see myself as a doctor. They always seemed so pretentious. They worried more about promotions and money than they did about their patients.

"Where are we headed next?" I asked, changing the subject.

"We're meeting that doctor who runs the Bienvenida Clinic here during the summer," my father answered. "Remember, we're doing an article on him for the magazine?"

My parents were travel writers. They had their own travel magazine that people seemed to love. My dad wrote most of the articles, and though my mom wrote some of them, she mostly took the photos.

"Oh, right," I said as I secretly wondered if this was some kind of ploy to get me to decide to be a doctor. My parents didn't usually use those tactics, but still, it seemed like quite a coincidence. Doing an article on a doctor at the same time I was trying to figure out what to do with my life.

After a short ride, we pulled up to another pueblo building and got out. A man in a white coat rushed out to meet us.

"Welcome, welcome. I'm so glad you could come. I'm Dr. Sanders."

"I'm Jason Braxton, this is my wife Carina, and our daughter, Daisy. We're so happy to be here. When I heard about your work, I just had to come see it. Will it be okay for Carina to take some photos?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Dr. Sanders replied as he led us into the building. It was a huge open room divided into sections with curtains. The first area was an exam room with a table and chair, and shelves lined with medical supplies. The next room was like a hospital. It was bigger and had beds filled with patients. Several people in scrubs moved about helping the patients.

"Chase, Sara, come here a minute. I want to introduce you to someone," Dr. Sanders called to two of the scrub-clad people. As Chase and Sara got closer, I realized they were too young to be actual nurses.

"This is Daisy. She's about your age. Why don't you show her around and take her to the lounge. I'm sure she doesn't want to trail her parents around this whole time."

I gave Dr. Sanders a grateful smile, surprised he knew what I was thinking. I had followed my parents on so many trips, I knew the routine well enough to do it myself. It would be nice to be able to chill with others my age for a change.

"Hi, so you get dragged around with your parents all the time, huh?" asked Chase as he pulled off his scrub cap and smoothed his hair.

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Do you miss a ton of school?" asked Sara.

"Well, I'm homeschooled, so no. I have to do schoolwork on most of the trips and sometimes more than normal. My dad loves giving me special assignments specific to the place we're visiting. But those can be kind of fun, so it's okay."

"Have you been home-schooled your whole life?" Chase asked.

"No, I actually went to a regular school until high school. That's when my parents' magazine took off and they had to start traveling more to get enough content to publish every month. Before that I stayed with my grandma when they would go on trips.

So what do you guys do here?" I said, hoping they wouldn't ask any more questions about me. I wanted to find out more about them.

"Well, this is sort of a summer internship. We come and help with whatever Dr. Sanders and the nurses need assistance with. Most of the people who come here don't have money to pay, so Dr. Sanders doesn't charge anything for treatment. The only people who get paid here are the full-time nurses who work year round," Chase explained.

"Is Dr. Sanders not here the whole year?"

"No, he works at a hospital in the States for most of the year. Every summer he takes a leave of absence to work at these clinics. He has two others in different cities, and next year he's starting one in Argentina," Sara said.

"Wow, how does he pay for all that?" I asked.

"Some of it comes from his own pocket, and some from donations," Sara said.

"That's kind of cool. I always thought doctors seemed pretentious, but he seems really caring and sincere." If I ever did decide to be a doctor, I would be like him.

"He is," said Chase. "I'm here because I'm hoping to be able to do something like this someday, or maybe just work here at this clinic."

"Me too," Sara said.

"Nice," I said.

I had a lot of fun with Chase and Sara. They showed me around the entire facility. Besides the big building, there was a little building that served as an operating room, and another little building that served as a pharmacy. Everywhere we went, people were courteous and friendly. When we finally got to the lounge, I was surprised at how nice it was.

There was an old-fashioned T.V., a comfy-looking couch, and several mismatched armchairs. A snack machine and a soda machine stood against one wall. A water cooler and a table with a coffeepot, cups, and a selection of sugar, lined another. Three end tables were filled with Spanish magazines.

I got a bag of nuts and a soda from the machines and sat down.

"This is pretty nice. Is this for the people who work here?" I asked.

"Yeah, and sometimes family members who come and wait for someone in surgery or something," Sara replied.

We sat and talked until my cell phone buzzed.

"Oh, that's my parents. They've finished up."

"Okay, we'll take you back to the front," said Chase.

"Thanks for showing me around. This place is pretty cool."

"Sure, no problem. Maybe you'll want to come here next summer and help, if you're interested in this kind of thing." Sara said.

"I am kind of interested," I said as I realized it was true. "What do you have to do to apply?"

"There's a website, and you can do everything online," Chase said. We had reached the front, and he pulled a pamphlet from off the table and handed it to me.

"Thanks, I'll check it out. It was really nice meeting you guys."

"Yeah, you too," Chase said. Sara gave a little wave as they walked back to the hospital room.

I turned to walk over to my parents, but before I reached them a little body plowed into me. Tiny arms squeezed me in a hug. I looked down to see Marta wearing her pink flip flops.

"Hola, Marta," I said unsure of how to ask her what she was doing here.

I looked up and saw Dr. Sanders talking to a woman who stood next to Marta's brother. He smiled and waved at me. I smiled and waved back. Marta took my hand and led me over to Dr. Sanders.

"So, you must be the young lady who bandaged little Marta's foot?" he asked.

I nodded. "Is this her mother?"

"Yes, and she's very thankful to you. I must say you did a fine job of cleaning and dressing the cut."

"It didn't need stitches, did it?" I asked.

"No, not at all. In fact, I didn't need to do anything, because you did it all just fine. Marta's mother is pregnant and she has to come here every few weeks for prenatal checkups. She mentioned Marta's injury and I took a look at it. Where did you learn your first aid skills?"

"I took some first aid classes with the Red Cross."

"Well, you learned well." Dr. Sanders said. He turned back to Marta's mom, and said something in Spanish. She smiled and took my hand.

"Gracias," she said. She said some more things I didn't catch. I looked at Dr. Sanders questioningly.

"She's very grateful for the help you gave her daughter and for the shoes you gave Marta and Mateo. They loved them and have never had shoes before. Thank-you so much," Dr. Sanders translated for me.

"De nada," I told Marta's mom. She let go of my hand, and called out to her children, as she walked away. My parents had finished packing up their photo equipment and came over.

"I'm proud of you, Daisy. You kept your cool and put all those skills you've learned to good use." My father pulled me into a hug. I smiled up at him, pleased with his praise.

My mother grabbed my hand and squeezed it. She leaned close and whispered in my ear, "We've always been proud of you. You're growing up so fast."

I was starting to think I might actually have an idea of what I wanted to do with my life. I wasn't sure I wanted to be an actual doctor, but I did want to help people. And I did want to come here next summer and work. I could make a decision after that. Like my mom said, I don't have to have it all figured out now. One thing I did know – what to write about in my college application essay.

## In M.R.I. Land

by Nancy J. Clark

Like two drumsticks on a nutshell

Tapping deep inside my brain

Not pain but numbing clicks and clacks

Attacking ear drums like jackhammers

Jabbing into flesh and bone.

Five minutes? Sounds more like forever!

Better start the counting now to

Drown out louder clicks and clacks,

The tappets broken

By short gaps of nothing.

One thousand one, one thousand two,

One thousand three, one thousand four,

Oh Lord, how will I last so long?

The racket bounces off the floor

Above the door, a shooting war

Inside my brain.

Not the way I had imagined

Light waves dancing, calmly falling

Tickling, trickling through my ears

And flowing out along the floor.

This jabbing, pushing, penetrating,

Ripping through the tissue, sinews,

Bone, and fiber of my being—

Slicing, dicing Vegematic

Making soup of brain and skull.

But wait, is that a sigh, a breathing

In and out below the tapping,

In and out and full of fear?

He lies in wait, the bogeyman,

Behind the door, his breath so soft

As if asleep to lull me into

Nonchalance so he can pounce.

One hundred ten, one hundred twenty . . .

If I count fast will I get any

Quicker to the end or will I scream

And beat my hands staccato on the walls

So close around?

Pearly, glowing, almost pulsing

Birth canals and too tight wombs.

Knowing without words about

Incessant beat of drum and foot

And whirling bodies, flinging wide

And stomping, jerking,

Lurking in the hallways

Of my mind.

Two hundred eighty-nine—

Dead silence.

Praise the Lord, I counted slow!

"I'm sorry, but you must have moved."

I . . . think I coughed

Somewhere . . . back there. . . .

"We'll have to start again."

## Jars of Light

by Kim Bailey Spradlin

Missy was catching lightning bugs and placing them in a glass jar, the kind her mother would use to can the potatoes, green beans, okra, and tomatoes that she and her dad grew in his garden each spring and summer.

The glowing bugs were thick in the air near the tree line that edged the back yard of the little green house, which was tucked away next to two other modest homes on a quiet street bordering the western edge of the Tennessee Valley Golf Club subdivision.

From her front porch, she could view much larger and more expensive homes across the narrow street. Each one towered, elaborately bricked and sided, framed by manicured lawns and flower gardens. The house on the corner across from hers was also where her best friend lived.

Missy stood in her back yard, scooping the lightning bugs with her hands and placing their bright little bodies in her jars. She smiled as she filled them, looking forward to setting the jars of light on her night stand. They would make a lovely night light by which to fall asleep while she gazed upon the little creatures, throbbing and blinking before she succumbed to her dreams.

Dusk was turning to a deep gray and the air became cooler. Brutus, her faithful lab mix, was lying nearby studying her movements. He thumped his tail on the ground when she met his eye.

Missy had no intention of going in the house until she heard her mother call for her, or her dad came home, whichever came first. As far as she was concerned, she was locked inside too much anyway. Having to be inside the house or within the walls of her school was torture for the lively thirteen-year-old. She knew the time for going indoors was approaching because she could hardly see her hand as the darkness fell around her in waves, like a cloud of black ink.

It was late June and the summer air carried the mixed aroma of honeysuckle and pine. Missy took her much needed walk into the woods behind their house to her secret place, much as she did every evening since they moved to the little green house last year.

She and Brutus moved toward woods behind their house to the clearing, known only to her, where a bed of pine needles lay as thick as a straw mattress beneath the towering pines. Most of the time she wrote stories and poems. She needed her solitude. Brutus understood. No one else had to understand why.

She heard the familiar sound of her dad's Chevy turning into their driveway. She and Brutus sprinted towards him from her secret place, as she held a jar in each hand to show to him.

He gathered his lunch box from the front seat of the truck and grinned back at his girl. Brown-eyed and lovely, she was growing up fast. She refused to primp like the other girls her age. Instead, Missy let her wild, dark, and wavy hair hang like streamers around her face and shoulders. She was wearing her favorite cut-off jean shorts, a tank top, and her scruffy Converse sneakers.

"Well, I see you have yourself quite a set of night lights for when you go to bed later, huh."

Missy grinned, "You bet, Daddy. It's the most awesome way to fall asleep."

He tousled her hair a bit as they walked inside.

Mom had just put supper on the table. It was Missy's favorite meal—chicken and yellow rice. Molly helped set the table and bring the food out. Brutus ran inside with Missy and plopped down in his usual spot in front of the couch where Missy usually sat.

"Go wash your hands, young lady, and while you're at it make sure you run a brush through your hair," Mom said.

"Yes, ma'am." She walked away rolling her eyes in protest.

She could hear her mother complaining to her dad as the water ran in the bathroom sink. It was the same old routine. She was upset because Missy was too busy running around outside, hiking and fishing and playing ball with her friends, when she should be concerned with housework, homework, and making herself look nice.

Missy heard her dad mumbling, agreeing to her mother's point of view. Missy could hear her sister Molly snickering as their mother's voice rose to a higher pitch and her protests escalated. She wished she could just go to her room with her lightning bugs and her dog, and get away from everyone.

After supper, Missy did the dishes as usual. Later she plopped down on the floor to do her homework. Her mom and Molly read fashion magazines and chattered about their hair.

"Dad, may I be excused to go to my room now?" She had finished her homework but wanted to read before it was lights out.

"Why do you always want to go in your room or outside?" Mom asked for the hundredth time.

"I don't know," she mumbled. "I just do."

She resigned herself to spend time with her family to appear sociable. Her dad watched Gunsmoke, while her mom painted her fingernails. Molly did homework at the table.

Missy lay on the couch and patted Brutus on the head. She had her worn notebook and pen next to her on the couch. Every now and then an idea would come to her and she would jot it down.

Molly finished her homework and pushed Missy's feet out of the way to sit on the other end of the couch.

"Hey, stop it!" Missy cried.

"Girls." Her dad's stern voice stopped Missy from kicking her sister. Instead, she jabbed Molly's thigh a couple of times with her big toe, so her dad wouldn't see.

Molly ignored her and suddenly squealed.

"Oh, look at that color, Momma!" Molly pulled a new polish from the myriad of bottles their mother kept in a box.

"Do you want to paint your nails with us?" Missy's mom asked her. "This color would look nice with your skin tone."

Smiling, she said, "No ma'am, but thank you." She looked to her dad as he nodded approval.

Her mom sighed. "You're not a little girl anymore, you know. How are you gonna get the boys to ask you out if you keep running around like a tomboy?"

Missy looked to her dad for some intervention. He stared at the television instead.

She said, "Momma, I'm sorry, I just don't like it."

Her mom shook her head and went back to painting her nails with Molly.

When she was excused, Missy took a shower and braided her hair. Once in her room, with Brutus beside her on the bed, she put the jars of light on her night stand and stared at them for a long time.

The half-moon was rising outside—radiating more light than a half-moon should—and the stars glowed, blinking brighter and then fading in the black sky.

Somewhere inside her, deep in her bones, she knew something unpleasant was about to take place in the life of her little family.

She leaned back on her pillow, which was propped against the headboard of her bed. While she watched them blink out of sync, she began to drift off to sleep to the muffled noise of the television from the living room and the cicadas outside.

Not long after, she heard a tap on her door.

"Come in," Missy said.

Molly peeked inside and Missy groaned. "Not again! You know you have your own room, Molly."

"I'm scared, Missy. Now scoot over! Daddy has the air so low I've got icicles growing out of my nose."

Missy sighed and moved over. She readjusted her pillow and blankets and lay on her back, staring upward. She had a made a replica of the Milky Way and placed it on her ceiling, so each night she could look up at Jupiter, Mars, Venus, Saturn, and the sun while she contemplated what kind of life, if any, was beyond this world.

Molly whispered, "I have something to tell you. You're not going to like it."

"Okay, what is it?"

"Momma and Daddy are getting a divorce. He's leaving this weekend, after he packs his tools and clothes."

Missy felt as though a vise wrapped around her throat and threatened to choke back her words. She managed to ask, "Where is Daddy going? How do you know all of this?"

"Mom told me while we made supper. Daddy doesn't even know yet."

Okay, so that's what it was, Missy thought. She'd known something was coming, but she had no idea that this was the train racing down the tracks towards her. She felt her eyes begin to sting, and quickly wiped away the tears. There was no way she could tolerate living in a house with only her mother and sister, without her dad there to comfort and protect her. What would she do if he were gone?

Missy turned over to face away from Molly and stared at her jars of bugs as though she could divine some wisdom from their glowing little bodies. Tears streamed down her face, over the bridge of her nose, and onto her pillow. They flowed without her consent from an eternal spring of longing and grief, one she felt sure was placed in her heart by her mother. Every now and then she would wipe her eyes with the back of her hand, but it was no use.

Still, she knew they would not stay here. This was where her dad wanted to be. She remembered how happy they felt the day they moved in. Well, at least how happy she and her dad were. Mom was marginally satisfied but thought they were too far away from the city.

When they had moved in, Missy befriended the girl who lived across the street. She and Peggy often played basketball or softball, or ran through the woods with their dogs, or rode their bikes together. Sometimes they swam in Peggy's pool, but only after Peggy's mom and dad were convinced that Missy was a "decent girl who wouldn't steal the silverware."

That first summer, the lightning bugs were thicker than she had ever seen them. She collected jars of them night after night, making little lanterns all over the house for everyone to enjoy.

Missy heard her sister begin to snore, so she eased up out of the bed and slipped her feet into her Converses. She took one jar and her journal and softly clucked her tongue at Brutus to follow her outside.

"Hey, Mom, I'm taking Brutus out for a minute. I'm going with him, okay?" she said from the hallway.

Her mom mumbled and nodded in reply. The television flickered, casting pulses of light on the living room walls and ceiling where her parents sat apart in the dark room. The voices of Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon filled the otherwise silent space between her parents.

Missy walked across the kitchen linoleum toward the back door and opened it for Brutus to run out and do his business.

She sat on the back steps, holding the jar of lightning bugs and looking up at the bright half-moon. Tree frogs began their song, their frog-speak erupting from the direction of the thatch of woods. Missy could hear Brutus jumping and running through the thickets, probably chasing a rabbit.

Missy called out to him and they walked across the street together and around the back of Peggy's house. She picked up a pebble and threw it at Peggy's bedroom window. Her friend opened the glass pane of the sliding glass door and stepped out on her balcony. She whispered down, "Hey Missy, what's up?"

"Can you come down for a few minutes? I need to talk."

Peggy immediately climbed over the ledge of the balcony and shimmied down the drainage pipe.

Missy grinned and hugged her best friend. Peggy had red hair and freckles, and the greenest eyes Missy had ever seen, even greener than the models in beauty magazines and on the Cover Girl commercials.

"Tinker Bell will be mad when she realizes Brutus was over here and she didn't get to play with him." Peggy laughed. Her dachshund tolerated very few people and even fewer dogs, but she loved Brutus.

"I know. Sorry. I just need to tell you something." Missy exhaled as her shoulders sagged. "My mom and dad are getting a divorce. She doesn't like living here, and he will probably have to move out first. Looks like my prediction about moving before I finish high school was spot on."

Peggy shook her head, "No way. Did Molly tell you that shit?"

Missy nodded.

"Well, I wouldn't go by Molly's word on the matter. Wait and see what happens. You know how she likes to get attention. Your dad will let you know if something is gonna happen."

"That's just it. Molly said our mom told her while they were getting supper ready, and my dad won't know until this weekend when she will ask him to leave."

"Damn. That sucks big time."

"I know," Missy said as she pursed her lips and looked in the direction of her house.

The girls stood there for a few minutes and listened to the cicadas and tree frogs. They could hear the occasional sound of vehicles passing by on the main road connecting their houses to town.

"I see you got a lot of lightning bugs tonight." Peggy admired Missy's jar. "I didn't catch any. My mom sent me to my room because I smarted off at her. At least, that was her excuse."

Missy giggled. "I'm sure you did. You can't help but mouth off at everybody, even your parents and the teachers."

"Whatever," Peggy smirked. "Nobody really likes to hear the truth."

Missy had to agree on that point. It seemed to her that most of the time, all the adults they knew would rather chit chat or talk about the newest model of car, or gossip about their neighbors, instead of what was actually going on around them. Couples were cheating on each other, some husbands were hitting their wives and sometimes their kids, some women were taking pills and desperately trying stay young and beautiful with every product advertised on television. Meanwhile, kids were trying to figure out when life was going to feel safe, or if it ever would.

Missy and her family had moved every year since she was two and Molly was six months old. Her dad was a carpenter, so he had to go where his skills were in demand. Her mom worked factory yarn and carpet jobs and waited tables at the local night clubs on the weekends. When they moved to this house, on the outskirts of a small town north of the Tennessee River from Chattanooga, Missy made her dad promise this would be the last move until she graduated from high school.

"Baby girl, I promise you will get to graduate from this school." He said. "Don't worry. It will all be okay."

Missy had doubted that, but she had smiled and accepted the lie anyway.

She looked back at her best friend.

"Well, all I can say is, if my dad moves, I'm moving with him."

Peggy shook her head, "No. You cannot move away. You're the only person I know who understands me. You can't leave, no way."

Missy chewed on her bottom lip and lifted the jar of bugs up for them to peer at for a moment. "We'll see what happens. Meanwhile, take this jar with you. I have another one in my bedroom. I need to get Brutus and get back home before Mom throws one of her hissy fits."

Peggy took the jar and looked at Missy, her thin lips in a firm line, her jaw set and clenched. "Okay, but you can't go anywhere. You can live here with me if you have to."

The girls hugged. Missy called her dog and he raced across the field behind Peggy's house, where he had been sniffing around.

She opened the kitchen door as quietly as possible, taking care not to let the screen door slam shut behind her. She pushed it closed until she heard the door knob latch make the clicking sound and catch on the door jamb. As she turned around, she saw her dad sitting in the dark corner of the kitchen at the small dinette.

Missy jerked in surprise and fear as she sucked in her breath.

"Dad!" she whispered, "You scared me half to death!"

Her dad patted the seat next to him with his large, calloused hand. "Sit down here, baby girl. I need to tell you something."

Missy walked the several feet from the door to the table as though she were trudging through quicksand. Her feet felt heavier with each step. She sat down before her dad and waited.

"Well, looks like I can't keep my promise to you. Your mom and me, well, we're not getting along much these days. She wants a divorce. I reckon I have to let her have one." He sighed.

She felt her muscles tense and her jaw clench but said nothing.

"I'm moving out this weekend. Your Uncle Jim in Tampa is giving me a job and a place to stay."

"You're moving to Florida?" She heard her voice echo in the small kitchen.

"Shhhh, now keep your voice down." He reached for a handkerchief in his shirt pocket and handed it to his daughter.

Missy did not realize tears were streaming down her face and dripping steadily upon her night shirt. She took the handkerchief and wiped her face and nose and took a deep breath.

"Daddy, I'm going with you." She sniffled.

Her father clasped his hands behind his head. "No, sweetie, you have to stay here with your mom and sister. I need you to make sure your sister is okay? You hear me? You need to take care of things. Your momma needs you."

Missy was astonished. "What do you mean? Isn't mom supposed to take care of us, not the other way around? What about you? When will we see you?"

Her dad's chin fell to his chest and he looked down for a few moments. When he looked back up he said, "This is how it's got to be. I'm sorry, honey. Life isn't fair."

With that, he stood up and patted Missy's shoulder and shuffled out of the kitchen and toward the couch, where he had a pillow and blanket ready for him to sleep. Missy gazed after him, watching as his broad, strong shoulders slumped in defeat.

She walked to her room, slumped over much like her father, Brutus at her heels.

She noticed her sister was sprawled sideways across the bed, so Missy grabbed her pillow and a blanket from her closet and nestled into her bean bag. She got back up and took the other jar of lightning bugs from her night stand and placed them on the desk next to her.

A few tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes and eventually stopped as she wiped her face on the blanket. Brutus was curled up beside her on the floor, his nose tucked beneath his tail.

Silence fell upon the house and the bright light from the moon began to fade as clouds moved across the night sky. Missy had no idea what to expect, but staying awake all night wondering and worrying was not going to bring her any clarity.

She resigned herself to the pull of sleep, which tugged at her eyelids and pushed her farther down into the bean bag as she began to breathe in a steady, rhythmic motion. She watched as the glowing bugs pulsated in the jar to their own tempo, at first dim and then glowing bright. It reminded her of a lighthouse for ships lost at sea, weary and ready to anchor, to no longer be tossed by the waves and pushed by the wind.

Where would she be this time next year? Who would she be? Would she be the girl who likes to catch lightning bugs and run around outside all day and night? Would she rush home from school to find her thinking spot to write? Would she ride her bike while her faithful dog ran along beside her, or as she carried a fishing pole and a bucket of minnows to cast a line in the creek?

As she began to fall asleep, she wondered if she would ever be able to have those precious jars of light again. She had a sinking feeling that this was the last summer she would get to chase them, to place them in jars to illuminate the darkness.

She was certain there would be many black nights ahead, and she would have to find another way to bring light into the darkest places of her heart.

## Luck of the Paw

by Alyssa Mayley

The breath was forced out of my lungs as I clung white-knuckled onto the bedside bars while another contraction wracked my tortured body.

"I need to talk to him now!" I cried out.

Jimmy, my husband, was an understanding man. He didn't complain as I tried to talk through the pain and ended up yelling at him instead. He'd just turn, pick up the phone, and try to place the call, while still holding my sweat-slicked hand with the other.

Jimmy only left my side once, dialing my father's number for the millionth time, as he stepped out of sight. When he returned a few minutes later, he held a beautiful bouquet of yellow flowers and a new deck of cards.

"Here you go, honey," he said as he put the flowers down and fished through the deck for the four of clubs.

"It's not the same..." I tried to smile for his sake, but I could tell I failed by the flash of pain in his eyes. I reached for his hand, and brought it to my damp cheek. "I love you, and I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I need my card."

I knew my husband was going out of his way to take care of me, but all I could think about was holding my 'Lucky Paws' card on the most important day of my life. Even though we had talked about it off and on throughout our marriage, he still couldn't understand why I put so much faith in an object that possessed no real magic.

But he didn't know what I knew; everything would be alright, as soon as I had the card my father gave me when I was eight years old.

On that day, I had come home from school crying because my best friend, Ashlee, cut a large chunk of my hair during class. It had led to the biggest fight we ever had. I had been so upset that I said really mean things to her, and she told me we would never be friends again.

When I told Daddy what happened, he gave me a big hug, handed me a tissue, and led me into the garage where he began searching inside each drawer until he found an old deck of cards. He emptied the pack on his workbench and picked through them one at a time. I craned my neck to watch what he was doing.

"Ah Ha!" he exclaimed, stepping back to reveal the four of clubs. It looked like any other card in the deck, except for a dark grease print from his fingers after riffling through all of the tools in the drawers.

"This is a lucky, puppy-paws card. Let me just get it ready for you." He stepped back, pressed it between his hands, and mumbled strange words over it as he circled around me. After completing the fourth circle, he kissed the face of it loudly, and then presented it to me.

"Use this card if you ever find yourself needing a little extra luck," he said with a smile. As I was reaching for it, he snatched it back. "Make sure you only use it when you really need it, because it only has four uses—one for each club."

I took the card from him, gave him a big hug, and ran to my room to place it in my nightstand, not wanting to use up any of the luck it contained—I would need that for school the following day.

The next morning at school, I kept it tucked safely in the pocket of my jeans. Every time I started to worry about running into Ashlee, or that someone might be mean about my new haircut, I would reach for the card and run my fingers across its smooth surface. It helped me relax almost instantly.

As I reached my classroom, Ashlee was already waiting for me by the coat rack. I thought she was going to start another round of fighting; instead she surprised me by throwing her arms around me and apologizing. I hugged her back and apologized for the mean things I had said.

Mr. Bell interrupted our conversation by making us take our seats, and when I got to mine, he insisted that I remove my hat.

As soon as I took it off, the entire class fell silent, causing my stomach to flutter until Ashlee jumped up saying how nice my new haircut looked. Everyone nodded in agreement.

When Mr. Bell told us that it was the last day of the grading period, and we were going to have an easy day, we all cheered. Ashlee and I stayed together all day playing, drawing pictures for each other, and sharing a big bag of popcorn while we watched one of our favorite movies. I even told her about the lucky card, and how glad I was that it worked. After the movie, she let me use her purple marker to cross off the first club.

I pulled the card out for a second time a couple of weeks later—just to test its powers. I had been practicing day and night preparing myself for the school talent show. With the card in my pocket, I won first place and somehow managed to get an 'A' on the spelling test I had forgotten to study for. When I got home from school later that evening, my parents surprised me with a new puppy, named Max.

As I was crossing off the second club later that night, Max grabbed the bottom of my nightgown and pulled, making my 'X' look more like a 'V'. I just laughed, scooped him up, and went to bed.

After seeing how powerful the card was—and only having two uses left—I decided to tuck it away under a loose section of my bedroom carpet, and promised myself not to pull it out unless I truly needed it.

Many years passed before I crossed out the third club with the only thing I had on hand after my ninth grade homecoming dance, pink nail polish. There was this boy named Eric who I had liked since the first day of high school, and I wanted him to ask me to dance.

The card worked perfectly. Eric asked me to dance as soon as I showed up and we were up on the dance floor for nearly every song afterward. At the very end of the night he surprised me by asking me to be his girlfriend. We ended up dating all through high school and only called it quits when we decided to attend colleges on opposite sides of the country.

The next contraction ripped through my body, and a loud scream echoed through my hospital room, which was beginning to buzz with activity as nurses began bringing in equipment.

Jimmy's phone suddenly began to chime. He fumbled with it and almost dropped it before he finally hit the button to accept the call. He explained what I needed my father to do, and hung up the phone.

"Don't worry, honey. Your dad is on the way." Instead of having a calming effect, it made me panic even more, which only made my contractions grow closer together until it was a non-stop wave of excruciating pain. I lost all ability to concentrate on what was going on around me. Only two things mattered at that moment: holding my card and surviving the pain.

A dark-haired man in a white coat stepped into view, bringing the scent of disinfectant and butterscotch with him.

"It's time, Katie."

"But, I'm waiting for my dad." I whined.

"I'm sure he will be here soon, but this baby is ready to meet the world." He moved into position. "Now, with the next contraction, I want you to push."

Everything after that happened in a series of hazy events, and before I knew it a small bundle of blankets rested against my chest.

Soon afterward, most of the nurses cleared out and Jimmy stepped outside for a minute. When he returned, he was followed in by my father.

"Here you go, sweetheart." I could see the tears swimming in his eyes as he held out the card. "I'm sorry I didn't make it in time."

There it was—the real 'Lucky Paws' card. The card had seen better days, but each little imperfection reminded me of some of my favorite childhood memories. Small creases crisscrossed the surface from the time I jammed it into an overstuffed purse I used for the homecoming dance. A slight tear ran along one of the edges, from when I tried to put it back into its hiding spot a little too quickly after deciding I didn't need to use it for a college exam. The two multi-colored 'X's' and a single 'V' marking each use throughout the years, but the most treasured mark was a small, dark smudge of grease from when my father did the best he could to console his eight-year-old daughter.

I looked down at the beautiful baby girl sleeping soundly in my arms, and an overwhelming sense of peace settled over me.

I realized our roles had come full circle, and he was now the one that needed consoling.

"Daddy, you keep it. I've got all the luck I'll ever need, right here."

## I'm Just a Girl Who Loved a Dog

by Karen Doll

I'm just a girl who loved a dog.

He bounded in and stole my heart,  
And this was home right from the start.  
I'm just a girl without a dog.

I'm just a girl who loved a friend—  
A constant shadow by my side.  
A loyal "shotgun" —every ride.  
I'm just a girl without a friend.

I'm just a girl who loved a boy.  
A playful, frisky busy clown,  
With grass stained knees and paws mud-brown.  
I'm just a girl without a boy.

I'm just a girl who loved a smile.  
With crooked teeth he'd sport that grin—  
A happy boy with joy built in.  
I'm just a girl without a smile.

I'm just a girl who loved a star.  
Played Pat-a-cake and shook your hand.  
And leaped through a hoop for treats so grand.  
I'm just a girl without a star.

I'm just a girl who loved a time.  
When coming home meant barks of joy,  
So charming, yet his secret ploy?  
I'm just a girl without a time.

I'm just a girl who loved a sound.  
Four paws that pattered – sometimes sped.  
A jingle from a collar red.  
I'm just a girl without a sound.

I'm just a girl who loved a heart.  
He loved so big, so faithful—pure.  
Snug by my side—his signature.  
I'm just a girl without a heart.

I'm just a girl who loved a Pip.  
A curly coat Bichon Frise—  
A rescued boy who loved to play.  
I'm just a girl without a Pip.

I'm just a girl who loved a dog.  
My heart just weeps, so chilled with frost.  
I once was found, but now I'm lost.  
I'm just a girl without a dog.

## Wild Horse Reborn

by Kim Bailey Spradlin

Spirited foal

born deep in the forest

just as sunlight

broke the gray sky

into pieces of red and orange

brown like the earth

from which you sprang

slippery and shivering

searching for mother

finding only her bones

beneath the trees.

Young mare

you wandered

made your way

in a land without

towering timbers

many moons passed

many mornings of broken color

as you ran wild

past prairie grasses

into the desert where

only a cactus

flower blooms.

Dying from spirit thirst

starved soul so hungry

endless days and nights

without mother

you eat the beautiful red bloom

hoped for healing

reached for renewal

prayed for perseverance.

Yet while you gorged

on the bittersweet blossom

a cactus needle

poisonous

pierced your lip

and your cry of pain across miles

of desert and dust

was heard only by the wind.

Lying on your side

laboring with each breath

belly full of fire

you stared

milky eyes in darkness

the black night dotted

with points of light

while you draw your last breath

wondering why such beauty

killed you.

Moons come and go

as the stench of your rotting carcass

follows closely behind the cries

riding the wayward winds

to the edge of the balding mountains

filling the noses of flesh eaters

buzzards that dine on broken

spirits

men with knives and axes

looking for glue

to mend the cracks

in their failing conscience.

They all come

buzzards and men

pecking

hacking

slicing

taking from your glorious body

blood

muscle

skin

beaks rip and tear

knives slice your belly open

axes hack off your legs

flowing tail

and enormous black-maned head.

Your guts dismembered

spill upon the sand

your useful parts eaten

boxed up for proper use

your bones begin to bake

in the dry and searing sun

as you lie in a heap

beneath the prickly cactus.

Broken and scattered

throughout the desert

your ghost whispers

on the cold wind

crying out for the mother

you could not find.

An old woman collects your bones

humming a song never heard

but so familiar

while she pieces you back together

until you feel the blood pulsing

through your newly made veins.

Born again as the frozen dawn

turns yellow

orange and red

as the barren sand

beneath your body comes to life

sweet grass and trees push

from the newly blackened soil

their roots reaching deep

as their leaves search the sky

and water flows around you forming

a bloody river of life.

As the old woman's cracked voice howls

you stand in all your splendor

muscle-bound and sleek

shiny coat glistening

flowing black mane and tail

so beautiful in the breeze

and you run.

Wild

unharnessed

free

toward the red ball of fire

laughing as you howl and sing

your voice heard at last

in all its glory.

## A Woman's Journey to a Thousand Cats

by Pam S Manley

How did I get here? When I graduated from college, I never envisioned my life turning out this way. Marcus and I met my third year of college when he was a senior. To say we fell in love is a cliché. It was more like being slammed by an ocean wave while wading along the shoreline. Waiting a year to marry after my graduation was torture, so we eloped the week after his commencement. Five years later Marcus was restless. According to him, marriage had become restrictive and stifling. The jerk didn't even have the courtesy to tell me to my face. I came home from work to an empty closet and a note that said, "Laura, this isn't the life I thought I wanted. I need to be free. Goodbye." A year later, I learned that he had married an older woman whose bank account resembled that of Donald Trump. So it wasn't that his life was tied down, it was more a matter of not enough financing for his expensive tastes and fancy free lifestyle.

It's been fifteen years today since Marcus left, and the anniversary always makes me reflective. As I use the curling iron to twist the locks hanging on my shoulder, the gilded mirror reveals the lines around my hazel eyes and the white streaks in my hair which remind me how quickly life goes by. My husband's rejection and subsequent departure sent me into a depression. My closest friends tried to help me navigate that dark time, but it didn't help much because they didn't understand. A year later my depression exploded into anger. The more I repeated, "I'm better off without him anyway," the more it took root in my soul. Then on a dreary overcast day, a surprise landed on my doorstep. Swaddled in a soft blue blanket was the cutest little fur ball. It was swirled in white and black, curled up in the bottom of a small brown box. To this day I don't know who dropped it off, but my heart wrapped itself around it in a moment. The affection for that first cat blossomed into a love of all cats, and I began to bring them home whenever I saw an unwanted one. As quick as a blip on a radar screen, my home had been invaded by thirty feline friends.

As I left for work, I glanced down at my feline housemates. They reminded me of the gaping void in my heart when Marcus left and how their furry faces brought comfort in my darkest hour. Their presence made me feel loved and wanted. Not even the few men I had dated since Marcus made me feel as special. Once they learned about all my little friends, they sprinted faster than a high school track star. Another five years later and I had collected another hundred cats. One by one, my friends stopped coming by to visit. I couldn't understand it at the time. The cats didn't jump on or lick anyone, and the house didn't have the typical cat lady smell. In fact, they left people alone.

One day I asked my best friend why people wouldn't accept my invitations to dinner parties.

Our conversation left a permanent imprint in my mind. We were eating lunch at our favorite local dive on the edge of town. With classic rock blasting through the speakers, I said, "Sharrie, is there something wrong with me? No one comes to my house anymore. When I invite them over, they're always busy."

A French fry stopped in mid-air before she set it down on her plate. "Can I be completely honest?"

"Of course. I wouldn't ask if I didn't want the truth." At that second, it felt as if all the food staged a revolt in my stomach.

She hesitated. "It's because of all the cats. You have a problem and need therapy. No sane person would allow that many cats in their house. Do you even know how many you have? And how can you afford them all on your teacher's salary?"

The rest of lunch was quiet as I pondered her words. At first her comments were hard to digest, but she did have a point. I had lost count a long time ago so I didn't have a clue how many cats were scattered around my house. It had to be several hundred, though. My salary is far from making me rich, but most of them hadn't cost much. I would find them at yard sales where families didn't want them anymore, and they were willing to take only a few dollars to get rid of them. Others I picked up online at Craigslist.

My workday may have distracted me from introspection, but the picture on my home desk kicked it back on. A month ago, I met a new friend at a yard sale. Michael is handsome and cute, better looking than my ex-husband. He's muscular with coal black hair and emerald eyes that remind me of the lush green of the Northwest. When I'm with him, my skin gets tingly like my first crush in second grade. I like him a lot, and I think he likes me too. We've been on a few dates and now he's insisting on an intimate dinner at my house. I'd enjoy having him over especially since he's offering to cook, something I hate to do. However, I haven't had the nerve to tell him about my housemates. Even though he knows I like cats, I'm ashamed to have him come into my house.

I know I have a problem. A multitude of cats surround my office. Ten are lounging on top of the black lateral filing cabinet next to the desk. Another twenty line the edge of the room. Some are poised cleaning themselves while others are sleeping. At 43 years old, I feel like I could live a happy life and I should. But I know it will have to come at the expense of giving up my furry housemates. I've lived with loneliness far too long. I miss the companionship of a living, breathing person to share our days with each other.

I have another shot at love that I never believed I could have. And here I am. In a tough decision between the love for a man and the love for my cats. If I decide to part with my little friends, how do I decide which ones go? I love each one of them the same. The man will let me down. Marcus is proof of that. On the other hand, I've lost hours upon hours of cleaning the massive collection of stuffed cats and figurines. It boils down to which I desire more: the affection of a live person or the comfort of faux cats.

## Just What She Was Looking For

by Marge Cutter

Chelsea stretched her stiff muscles with an involuntary groan. An active, outdoor person by nature, she had just endured three hours cooped up in a cramped, stuffy kitchen, poring over pedigree charts with an old cowboy. But the torture had been worth it, she thought with a smile. The old man was right – he had just what she was looking for.

Still, Chelsea was glad to get outside again. She basked in the late September afternoon's mix of warm sun and cool breeze. She delighted in the fresh scent of the new mown hay wafting in from the fields to the east, and the heady fragrance of a late-blooming rose, the sole resident of a small, untidy garden by the sagging front steps.

Walking slowly, she tried to keep pace with the grizzled and bent old cowboy who struggled against his advancing arthritis to escort her to her truck. She paused for a moment in the shadow of the imposing mountains that loomed to the west, and watched the horses graze the browning pasture that stretched from the barn to the distant foothills. It was vastly different from the flat prairies of her native Kansas. She sighed.

"You should see our ranch in the spring," the old man said, his chest puffed out with pride. "Our pasture's so green! And it's carpeted with thousands of wildflowers, sparkling like tiny jewels when our sun reflects off the morning dew."

Chelsea smiled at the feeble-looking old soul. He spoke of everything on this ranch as if it were all his personal handiwork, Chelsea thought with a chuckle — the horses, the pastureland, even the sun itself. He had mentioned his grandson several times that day. She wondered if they were cut from the same cloth. She found she didn't have long to wait to find out.

A horse and rider appeared from behind the barn, jogging lazily toward the corral. In a glance, Chelsea could tell the horseman was the old man's grandson. He had the same curly, unruly hair peeking out from under his battered Stetson, though his was still the jet black that was just a memory to his grandfather. He had the same prominent cheekbones, the same firm jaw, the same aquiline nose. But he was as tall and straight as the old man was small and bent – maybe 6'2" or 6'3", Chelsea judged as she watched him dismount with fluid grace. She almost gasped as she took in the strong, muscular body that strained his checked work shirt and faded jeans.

"Clint! 'Bout time you showed up!" bellowed the old man. "This here's my grandson, Clint Jones," he said, unnecessarily.

"Mr. Jones," Chelsea said with a smile. She remained composed, despite the sudden flock of butterflies that threatened to take flight in her stomach. "Chelsea Franks," she said, extending her hand. "Glad to meet you."

"Ma'am," Clint said. His velvet brown eyes flicked over her in quick assessment. Chelsea noticed that he smiled at what he saw.

A riot of russet curls spilled from beneath her Western hat, and framed a heart-shaped face. Emerald eyes sparkled under long, curling lashes, and a splash of freckles accented her pert, upturned nose and blushing cheeks. Full, red lips parted as she smiled, revealing a slightly imperfect row of dazzling white teeth. Under a denim jacket, thrown open to the sun, a lace-yoked gingham blouse and a well-worn pair of Levis accented her firm, young figure, Clint noticed appreciatively. She couldn't be more than 25, maybe 26, he figured – about five years his junior.

He quickly pulled off his Kevlar ranch gloves and shook her proffered hand. He was surprised at the strength of her grip, much firmer than he had expected of her 5'2", slender and feminine frame.

Clint's grandfather broke into his musings.

"Miss Franks is staying with the Tompkins, over by Loma. Janie Tompkins sent her over here to talk with me about that band o' mares I've hung on to — the ones you've always sworn aren't worth a plug nickel. Well Miss Franks here is offerin' me top dollar for 'em!" The old man swelled with pride. "She says my mares are just what she's been looking for, for her breeding program."

"You've been looking for a bunch of broken-down old nags?" Clint asked her.

Chelsea bristled at the derisive comment. She decided that the young man had precious little in common with his grandfather, outside of his physical resemblance. He certainly shared none of the pride and delight in these mares that had been evident in the old man's impassioned discourse that afternoon. Scowling, she decided she didn't much like this arrogant young cowboy.

"I need the bloodlines that these mares represent, Mr. Jones," she said, as if speaking to an obtuse child.

Clint noticed that her green eyes were starting to glitter icily. They reminded him of the eyes of the half-wild calico kitten that sometimes glowered and spat at him from the recesses of the hayloft. He decided to watch out for claws.

"Your grandfather has been showing me their pedigrees," Chelsea continued, trying to keep a lead shank on her annoyance in the face of his obvious preoccupation. "That band of 30 mares has the best concentration of Oklahoma Star lineage I've found anywhere."

Clint's grandfather rocked back on his heels and puffed up with pride again. "Ain't I always said them mares're good?" he said. "I knew somebody else would realize it, too, given some time."

Clint dismissed his grandfather's claims with a snort and turned to Chelsea.

"There's not a horse under 20 years of age in that band," Clint said. "For the last 10 years, they've been running the high pasture, not seeing the inside of a barn, or even a bale of hay, except in the very worst of weather. There's not one of them that doesn't carry the scars of a hard life on the open range, and at least two of them are lame, but I don't suppose Pop told you about that."

It was a statement, not a question, and he continued before Chelsea could protest. "Only a handful of them have ever been bred at all, and none in the last decade. There's no guarantee that you'd get a single live foal from that herd. No one in their right mind would pay top dollar for those horses."

Clint turned from her, uncinched his saddle, and swung it down from the back of the large dun gelding that stood patiently beside him.

Chelsea was furious at his assumption that the matter was settled, and she couldn't stand seeing the old cowboy's shoulders slump in defeat.

"I would!" she said.

"Ma'am?" Clint turned to face her again.

"I would pay top dollar for those mares, Mr. Jones," she said, feeling her cheeks burn under his scrutiny. Clint's only answer was a lift of an eyebrow.

"I'm not a fool, Mr. Jones," Chelsea said. "I'm aware of the risks of this investment. There's never any guarantee of success in the horse industry, as I'm sure you'll agree; but I do believe the deck is stacked in my favor. First off, by purchasing the mares now, in the fall, I'm allowing sufficient time for them to be shipped to my folk's ranch in Kansas, where they will have all winter to adjust and settle in. Secondly, my veterinarian specializes in the care and management of older and problem broodmares. I have no doubt that Doc can not only get all 30 mares in foal this spring to my sister's Oklahoma Star stud, but also see them safely through to the delivery of 30 healthy foals the following spring.

"If I get the usual ratio that Okie sires, four-to-one fillies over colts, I will have at least 24 broodmares of the exact bloodlines I desire some years down the road when I retire my stallion from the rodeo arena to the stud farm."

Chelsea stood there, trying to catch her breath, her anger all but spent. Clint just stared at her. Finally, he turned back to his mount, removed the horse's bridle, and released him into the corral.

"Rodeo arena, huh?" he said. "Now I recognize your name. Chelsea Franks, World Champion barrel racer and team roper."

He frowned as he latched the corral gate.

"If I remember correctly, Miss Franks, that stallion of yours is an Appaloosa." He pronounced the word with a sneer.

Chelsea nodded, ignoring the gibe.

"So why the interest in Pop's Quarter Horse mares?"

"Well, Mr. Jones, if you knew anything at all about Appaloosas, you'd know that the Quarter Horse is an acceptable outcross," Chelsea said. "The foals will still be eligible for registration in the Appaloosa Horse Club registry."

"Okay, but why these particular mares?"

"My stallion is heavily line-bred Mansfield Comanche," Chelsea said. "Your grandfather's mares and my sister's stud are concentrated Oklahoma Star. Both the Oklahoma Star and the Mansfield Comanche lines are strong performance bloodlines. Both boast a string of champions through the generations in racing, roping, reining, and just about every performance class you can name. Many of Oklahoma Star's get and grandget gained fame in the rodeo arena. The two families are also similar in their outstanding conformation and excellent disposition. So, why not cross the two lines?"

Clint stared at her again, then asked, "Do you always lecture like some long-winded college professor?"

Clint's grandfather came to Chelsea's rescue.

"What is it you young'uns say nowadays? If you've got it, flaunt it! Face it, Clint, boy," he said, "the lady knows what she's talking about."

"Maybe," Clint said, his eyes narrowing. "But maybe she should take a look at your precious mares before she goes plunking down her money."

"Of course, I'll inspect them first!" Chelsea said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

"Well, they have to be brought down from the high pasture, and we're short-handed right now. If I can find another hand, I'll have them penned up here by tomorrow afternoon," Clint said. "You can see them then."

Chelsea squared her shoulders and stuck out her chin defiantly. "I'll be here first thing tomorrow morning with my stallion, Mr. Jones," she said, "and I'll help you bring them down myself."

"Not a chance, sweetheart," Clint said, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm not babysitting some rodeo queen who wants to play cowboy on some arena-broke horse, especially not some crazy Appaloosa!"

"Rodeo queen?" Chelsea's eyes widened and her voice grew shrill. "Crazy Appaloosa? Why you insufferable..."

But Clint was already walking away.

"Clint!" His grandfather stopped him.

Clint turned to face the older man. His grandfather's legs were planted wide as he faced down the younger man, and a vein on his forehead stood out, throbbing.

"I'm sorry, Pop," Clint said, "but you know as well as I do that a roundup like this is no picnic. A real working ranch horse has to stand rock steady in the face of sights and sounds that would shake the average arena performance horse right from its perfectly braided forelock to the tips of its highly polished little hooves. The job isn't done in 18 to 20 seconds, either, or in the confines of a safe arena, where the rider can just play to the crowd."

"Oh, don't worry about me or Comanchero, Mr. Jones," Chelsea said, fairly spitting. "We can outwork any horse and rider, whether it's in the real world of a working ranch or in the artificial – but equally demanding and potentially dangerous – world of the rodeo or show arena. See you tomorrow morning!"

She turned on her heel and jumped in her truck. As she drove off, she saw Clint staring after her, slack-jawed, while his grandfather appeared to be having a good laugh.

* * *

A cold, heavy rain was falling when Chelsea eased her rig off Route 89 at precisely 6 a.m. the next morning. Ten minutes later, she jumped out of the cab at the Jones' ranch, and pulled her poncho close about her. She quickly unloaded her stocky stallion, 15 hands and 1200 pounds of muscle and heart in the beautifully black-spotted white coat of the leopard Appaloosa.

Clint was already mounted on the handsome dun Quarter Horse. He jogged over to Chelsea, splashing through several quickly growing puddles.

"You and that arena showpiece of yours won't make it in this weather," he said, frowning.

"Really?" Chelsea smirked as she swung effortlessly into the saddle. "Afraid we're going to melt? Well, don't worry, Mr. Jones," she said. "Comanchero and I survived the torrential downpour at Pendleton this season — where we were all but swimming the barrel course!"

Clint studied Chelsea for several long minutes, his brown eyes as stormy as the Montana skies above. Then he adjusted his slicker and wordlessly reined his mount toward the northwest, leaving Chelsea and her mount to slog along after him.

The rain prevented conversation, so Chelsea kept company with her own musings. She harbored no doubt that Clint Jones was the most arrogant, chauvinistic, intolerable and totally infuriating man that she had ever met. On the other hand, she realized as she watched the square-shouldered figure riding a short distance ahead, he was also very nearly the best looking man she had ever laid eyes on. She wondered just what it was that made him tick.

As if sensing that she was thinking about him, Clint stopped and waited for her.

"We have to cross a narrow stream up there a few hundred yards," he shouted over the driving rain. "I'll lead your horse across."

"You'll do no such thing!" Chelsea's eyes were blazing. She backed her stallion at a run as Clint reached for her reins.

"Have it your way, Miss Franks," he yelled back, "but you'd better take a real deep seat. A lot of inexperienced horses will try to jump a stream this size. The ground on the far side is liable to be slick, and you could end up taking a mud bath."

Clint turned and led off toward the stream. Chelsea nudged 'Chero forward, and followed at a safe distance. The big dun calmly walked right through the rushing, knee-deep water. On the opposite side, Clint turned his mount and settled back to watch the fireworks.

The Appaloosa walked into the stream just as calmly and gracefully as had the dun, and seconds later emerged to stand quietly nose-to-nose with the other animal.

Chelsea smiled. Clint just stared. Then he turned back toward the foothills and rode off in silence. Chelsea followed, humming softly to herself.

Two hours later, they stopped to rest their horses in a sheltered copse of stately, ancient pines. The ride had been arduous. Both horses were blowing, and steam rose from their rain-drenched hides.

Clint's mood hadn't improved much since the stream crossing, so few words were exchanged as the two riders checked their horses' condition and adjusted their equipment; but as they started to remount, Clint turned to Chelsea and said, "You know, you're not as bad as I thought you'd be...you or your horse."

Then he vaulted into the saddle and reined his mount around.

Chelsea was too surprised to reply. She realized this was an enormous concession for Clint to make. As she scrambled to mount up and follow Clint, a huge grin slowly spread across her face.

What's wrong with you? Surely you're not falling for that hardheaded, autocratic, quarrelsome, aggravating, obnoxious... But long before she ever finished her list of adjectives, she knew she was, though she couldn't figure out why. Maybe it's the altitude. She chuckled.

The rain had almost stopped when they reached the high pasture. 'Chero had held his own beside the ranch horse, effortlessly tackling the uncompromising terrain. He never made a misstep, and did little more than flinch when a startled pheasant broke cover and thundered up almost under the horse's nose.

Chelsea's riding had been faultless as well, as she guided her mount through the sodden grasslands and up into the slippery foothills. But did Clint notice? No, of course not! What happened to her and her horse not being so bad?

Currently, Clint was barking orders and yammering about how they'd have to approach the mares calmly and quietly, blah, blah, blah. Does he really imagine that this is the first time I've ever seen a horse? Chelsea rolled her eyes and sighed. She wondered for the hundredth time that hour just what she ever thought she saw in him.

Chelsea snapped out of her reverie. Clint was glaring at her, apparently waiting for an answer to a question she hadn't heard. Color rose quickly to her cheeks, and an apology sprang to her lips.

Slowly, Clint's eyes softened. He rubbed the back of his neck, and hung his head. "No, you needn't apologize, Chelsea," he said. "I guess I've been more than a bit overbearing. I don't blame you for tuning me out. It's obvious that you and your Appy are no novices at this, so let's just go round up your mares."

He turned and started walking his dun toward the edge of the herd, which was strung out for about a half mile across the mesa. Chelsea gaped at his retreating figure.

"He did notice, 'Chero!" she finally said, patting her horse on his drenched neck. "And he called me 'Chelsea'! Will wonders never cease?"

For the next several hours, the two riders and their mounts worked efficiently as a team. They gradually gathered the small band of mares and turned them toward home. They set a leisurely pace, so they wouldn't put undue stress on the two lame mares. To Chelsea's surprise, they were soon exchanging friendly banter.

By the time they reached the stand of pines where they once again stopped to rest the horses, they were very comfortable in each other's company.

"So," Chelsea said, "tired of babysitting the rodeo queen and her crazy Appaloosa yet?"

"Ouch!" Clint ducked his head. "Think you can ever forgive me for that crack?" he asked with a lopsided grin.

"Oh, given time, I suppose I could," Chelsea said. "Maybe in two or three hundred years."

She smiled at Clint, then turned serious.

"Was there a rodeo queen in you past?" she asked, not wanting to pry, but needing to understand his original attitude.

"Yeah." Clint sighed as he remembered. "A girl a couple years younger than me. She was a 'townie' but we attended the same school. She was the victim of rodeo fever and a father with more money than brains."

He paused, his eyes distant, his mood withdrawn. When he continued, his voice was husky. "She might have made it on the circuit eventually; she had the desire. But her daddy wanted his little darling to be a winner right from the get-go. He spent two fortunes and a king's ransom for the fastest thing on four legs he could find. Man, that Appy could fly!"

"What happened?" Chelsea asked when Clint paused again.

"What you would expect to happen when you put a Lear Jet in the hands of a child," Clint said. "In the arena, the horse was on automatic pilot. He lived to run barrels. All Debbie had to do was hang on, give him his head, and bask in the applause. But she overestimated her own skills and insisted on taking the horse out for a ride. She just wanted to relax on the trails. But something spooked the horse and sent it into a blind panic. It showed up back at the barn hours later, in a lather. No Debbie. No saddle."

Clint paused again and took a deep, shuddering breath before continuing. "She was almost dead when they found her. She spent months in the hospital, with several years of rehabilitation and therapy after that."

Chelsea nodded and said, "So then yesterday, along comes Miss Chelsea Franks, barrel racer, and her faster-than-the-speed-of-light Appaloosa, to stir up all the old ghosts."

Clint nodded in agreement. "I guess I've never been able to forget, or forgive myself."

"Forgive yourself? Why? Were you what spooked her horse?" Chelsea said, wide-eyed.

"No, but I knew the horse was flighty, and that Debbie couldn't really handle him. And I knew about the ride. I should have gone with her, kept an eye on her. After all, I was older, and I had been on the back of a horse practically all my life. I should have been a friend. Instead, I was home arguing with Pop about his horses — these very mares, as a matter of fact." Clint nodded toward the herd that was browsing quietly in the underbrush.

"He was so proud of them, but we were going broke, keeping old foundation stock. Everybody was buying fashionably bred foals, and Pop was too stubborn to see that we had to change our breeding program or lose the ranch."

"So, you blamed yourself for what happened to Debbie, and you took out your misplaced guilt and frustration on me — and your grandfather," Chelsea summed it up quietly. She reached out and touched his arm.

"I'm a real idiot, aren't I?" Clint asked softly, taking her in his arms.

"Yeah, a real idiot," Chelsea said, as their lips came together.

* * *

The sun was breaking through the last of the showers by the time they arrived back at the corral. A spectacular rainbow had formed directly overhead, but the two of them barely noticed.

Clint's grandfather was waiting to help them pen the mares. As the old man swung the gate shut behind the last mare, Clint vaulted out of the saddle. He flung his reins to his grandfather.

"Dave or Bill will have to handle the mares for the pre-purchase vet exam next week," he called back over his shoulder as he strode toward Chelsea.

"Why?" demanded the old man, steeling himself against another argument. "Why can't you do it?"

"Because I'll be in Billings — at a rodeo!" Clint said, as he caught Chelsea in a passionate embrace.

Clint's grandfather gaped at the young couple wrapped in each other's arms. In a matter of seconds, they had forgotten all about him and the horses, as their lips tenderly melted together.

"Well, I'll be darned!" the old cowboy said. Then he cackled. "I guess she really did find just what she was looking for!"

## Following Fish

by Ariel

I said goodbye to my sanity today

I could not keep it and still love you

for following you was never a rational thing

so I keep stowing away on ships

talking to the silent fish

and leaving a blood trail for them to follow;

to drain my heart overboard daily

I must drink the sea to replenish it,

one can get used to a mouth of salt.

And one can get used to the unbalanced

waves, the lighted and slippery prow,

laughing into a storm.

One can get used to a face of water

a diet of biscuits, shivering

with wind and sail. Insanity

is not a voyage I am scared of.

I fear instead staying on the shore

and forgetting you.

## Luxury Poem

by Elizabeth Eisenhauer

Take a moment from your day

If you will

From your bed and curtains

From your desk

From your bathroom and your

Kitchen and all the work that

You must do, all

The things that hang over you.

Take a moment from your day

And leave

Leave them all, go away

From the work and the jobs

And the things that hang

Over and around you,

Your jewelry and your art,

Your books and your music

Take a moment.

Walk far away from it all,

Walk into a cloud

(No, not that cloud, walk away

From your computer as well.

Did I really need to specify?)

Into the fog, it'll be damp, and chilly, and you

Won't be able to see much,

Your hand

In front of your face,

If you are lucky.

Are you with me?

You can't tell, can you,

Because of the cloud that

Surrounds you?

That's OK, we'll say you are,

Just over there, where we can't see

Each other. I'll stop talking now

For a moment.

Isn't it nice, the quiet?

## Journey Not

by Donna Vieth

Journey not  
begun today;  
another excuse  
to not find your way.

Journey not  
begun tomorrow;  
another excuse  
adds to your sorrow.

Journey not  
begun this year;  
another excuse  
to feed your fear.

Journey not  
begun this life;  
another excuse  
to end in strife.

Journey not  
onto your path;  
a final excuse  
for your epitaph.

## Passive No More

by Eliza Winkler

As time went by, I'd sit,  
And wait...

For what?

For "life" to start—too scared to act alone.  
Timid and shy  
Did only what _they_ thought right.  
My Peace lost,

just out of reach.

Dreams tucked away,

Unspoken.

Fear of failure

Disapproval

Kept me muzzled for too long  
Bound by _their_ expectations.  
Uncomfortable in a world not mine.

A deep breath.

I cross that line.  
Stretch a little farther—  
Grab what I want, despite

The Judgement.

Disapproval shines in _their_ eyes,

Radiates into my soul  
Burning my heart.

Questions on why—

can't _they_ see?

be happy?

Too long I waited, but

No More.

Take back what's mine:  
My Life

Evermore.

## Life's Journey or Somehow, It Seems Important

by Marge Cutter

I labor to recall the events of my early life; it is as if I am seeing them all through a thick fog. That is not surprising, I suppose, as I am reaching back through countless centuries. Somehow, it seems important.

* * *

I have vague, shadowy memories of struggling to free myself from a rubbery encasement. I heard the mewlings of my siblings, blind and helpless as myself, already begging for their share of a deer carcass, its tantalizing scent leading us to the meal our parents had provided. How many we were, I could not say. Over time, though, I knew we were growing fewer. There were not nearly so many others to battle for my share of the food, not nearly so many voices demanding the attention of our parents. By the time my eyes opened, many weeks later, there were but two dozen of us left. I suspected the others had become, for my larger siblings, convenient snacks between parental feedings.

I remember little of my wyrmling years; they were an endless succession of sunrises and sunsets, a long monotony of eating, grooming, and napping.

As we grew in size and strength, there were also lessons, particularly the dreaded mock combat between siblings. By the end of our first century, as we neared our initial transformation, seven of my remaining clutch mates had succumbed to these training battles. Whether this was by accident or by design of the larger wyrmlings, I could not say, although I had my suspicions. As the last to have hatched, and the undeniable runt of the clutch, I depended on a keen eye, quick reflexes, and superior agility to keep me from the same fate.

Only ten of us emerged from metamorphosis. Although in those days, few creatures could threaten a full-grown dragon, many wyrmlings and chrysalides fell victim to predation. I was amazed that I was among the survivors.

I remember being unhappy with my appearance upon emerging from the hard encasement. I had been born solid ebony, sleek and shiny. After my transformation, I looked as if I had rolled in the dirt. My newly acquired wings were dingy brown and dusty gray. One wing was slightly larger than the other, and neither would fold properly to stay next to my body. My siblings, resplendent in rich shades of russet and polished chestnut, looked at me with contempt as they held their wings neatly folded in proper dragon fashion.

My clearest and dearest memory of early life is that of first flight. My wings, so clumsy and unmanageable when I was afoot, proved magnificent in flight. While my siblings struggled, running and hopping awkwardly, flapping their perfect wings to no avail, I took to the air on my first attempt. My untidy, slightly misshapen wings took my undersized body aloft effortlessly and held me there for hours. I climbed. I soared on the thermals. I flew loop-de-loops. I hovered. I streaked back to earth and landed like a feather. All the while, my clutch mates managed but a few short, weak, clumsy flights. My parents looked at me with such pride! My siblings looked at me with envy and loathing. I knew I would, of necessity and a well-honed sense of self-preservation, be the first to fledge, to leave parents and siblings and strike out on my own. I did so that very day.

I flew for weeks, stopping only to eat. I put as much distance as possible between myself and my siblings. Then I began my search for a territory of my own. I sought an area with sufficient shelter, ample food and fresh water. It took many years, but eventually I found it — an immense expanse of fields and forests, streams and lakes. On the twilight side, it was safeguarded by a mountain chain that dropped to a huge expanse of salt water. On the side that greeted the sunrise, the meadows and forests stretched as far as one could see. Though young and untried in legitimate combat, I had little trouble wresting this prime territory from the deaf and blind old dragon who, I surmised, had held it on reputation alone.

I found a roomy cave on the face of a cliff, and easily shaped it into a comfortable dwelling. Once settled into my new home, my existence quickly fell back into a rut. I hunted, I ate. I groomed, I slept. I grew. Oh, how I grew! Soon, I was the ultimate predator within my claimed territory. If I thought my wyrmling years uneventful, they were nothing compared to the next millennium. I actually welcomed the rare occasions when another dragon would stray into my kingdom. I became quite adept at aerial battle, and no rival could match my prowess with tooth and talon.

One morning, I awoke to an uneasy feeling. I had been in a deep slumber for many weeks following a particularly large feeding. I smelled smoke. Taking to the air, I surveyed my kingdom. I had become too complacent. I had not bothered patrolling the entirety of my territory for decades. During my inattentiveness, something had changed. Far from my dwelling, on the extreme sunrise border of my kingdom, large portions of my woodlands had been leveled. Many of my fields had been defiled, large furrows breaking the ground. Strange beasts grazed behind cut timber barriers. There were bizarre wooden structures, the likes of which I had never seen, flung haphazardly across the landscape. These structures were the source of the smoke; thin, white plumes drifted upward from stone appendages on several of the structures. Near the structures were unfamiliar creatures, creatures who stood upright on their hind legs, as did I. These creatures were curiously adorned with the fur of various animals, and other materials I had never seen and could not identify. They communicated with others of their kind by perplexing vocalizations, unintelligible to me. I later learned these strange bipedal creatures were known as humans.

Upon first discovering these bipeds inching into my territory, I had no reason to think them a danger. They were puny creatures, not even the size of my hind leg, and they seemed slow and clumsy in comparison to the swift, graceful deer I hunted for food.

Besides, the discovery of these interlopers occurred only weeks before I was to enter the second Sleep of Transformation. Other dragon minds were already seeking me out; I had been feeling the curious tickling at the edges of my consciousness for many months. During the coming period of dormancy, my mind would be linked to those of my sire and dam, and theirs, many generations back. Over the course of a century-long slumber, I would draw from them the knowledge I needed to wield the inborn abilities of my species — dragon fire, shape-shifting, and the ability to heal. I had no time to deal with the trespassers, as I needed to hunt and consume vast amounts of food before I retired to my cave for this transformation. Once sated, I blocked the entrance to my cave and forgot all about the intruders.

* * *

Upon awakening from this second metamorphosis, my first concern was the rumbling of my empty belly. I stretched, yawned, and made my way to the opening of my cave, intent on feasting on the first herd of elk or deer I could find. As I tore down the wall I had erected to protect the entrance of the cave, I stopped and blinked several times. My eyes were slow to adjust from the darkness of the cavern to the bright sunlight of the valley beyond. My mind was slower to adjust to the scene I beheld. Suddenly, I felt as if the mountain had come crashing down on me, crushing the breath from my body.

While I had slumbered, my world had disappeared. Gone were the vast forests and meadows filled with game enough for a dozen dragons my size. The landscape was now defiled by a profusion of the curious wooden structures I had previously seen at the edge of my domain. There were countless such structures crowded together at the base of my mountain. Columns of heavy white smoke rose from their stone appendages, polluting the air. Other, similar structures spread throughout the valley, each surrounded by dissimilar anomalous constructs; and those unfamiliar captive animals, first seen before my Sleep of Transformation, had multiplied, as had the enclosures containing them. My meadows were all furrowed now, and the bipeds had moved through my domain, destroying all nature had provided.

I roared, bellowing my rage and indignation. The sound echoed through the valley. The creatures within the timber enclosures screamed and stampeded in terror. The bipeds scurried around, like so many stupid insects, trying to discover the source of the din.

I pushed down the remainder of the barrier and took to the sky. Soon every biped was pointing at me and screaming. I called upon the knowledge I had acquired during my sleep. I drew in a deep breath, held it, and summoned the power of my species. Within moments, the biped's settlement, along with many of the closer wooden structures strung out along the valley, were nothing more than charred remains as I unleashed my newly realized dragon fire upon them.

I had no time to ponder the enormity of my actions. My energy spent in the inaugural use of my dragon fire, I almost fell from the sky. I needed immediate sustenance. I tore into the remaining captive animals. They were not dissimilar in taste to the wild bovine that had grazed the countryside beside the deer and elk, before the bipeds had invaded. Unlike the wild creatures, though — so swift, agile and cunning in eluding capture — these were slow in their bewildered state and easily overtaken. My gnawing hunger was soon sated.

I retired to my cave and fell into a troubled sleep. I awoke, I know not how long after. The sun was high overhead as I made my way from the cave to the carnage below. I poked about the remains of the settlement, still smoldering. I examined the charred corpses of the bipeds. Many were huddled together where they had fruitlessly sought protection from my wrath. Some of the larger ones held smaller ones, perhaps their offspring, close to them. For some reason, I could not bring myself to eat one. Something about that idea unsettled me.

Within the ruins, I found many shiny objects that captured my eye and filled my heart with a sensation unknown to me. For no reason I could discern, I coveted these objects. By nightfall, I had a small pile of sparkly trinkets and shiny bits of metal in my cave. I curled my tremendous bulk around them and slept well that night, cozy and content.

It was weeks later that the surviving bipeds returned. They hunted me to my cave, now filled with the plunder from their homes. Their pathetic tools and inferior weapons made no dent in my scales, but their very presence within my sanctum offended my pride. Not one escaped my fiery onslaught.

I moved my trove after that. I found a far superior refuge. The entrance was much higher, less likely to be discovered by the bipeds. A wide passageway led to a huge cavern deep inside the mountain. There I found the treasure of the ancient dragon I had so long ago usurped. The pile of precious metals, gemstones, pearls, and other riches was so huge, I could swim through it!

I had to protect my trove! I became more vigilant. I continually patrolled the entirety of my territory. Settlements pressed in on all sides, but the puny bipeds learned to respect my borders. Those who did not were exterminated on sight. Gradually, my kingdom began to return to its former state. The grasslands and brush covered the ruins, and the forests regenerated.

Eventually, I started exploring what lay beyond my borders. I was amazed to find more of the biped's settlements, some as much as ten times the size of the one I had destroyed at the base of my mountain. The larger the settlement, I soon discovered, the greater the treasure to be plundered!

I became the terror of the region. I laid waste to the biped's settlements, as they had once laid waste to my lands. I burned their dwellings and their fields. I feasted on their captive animals. I pillaged every shiny trinket I found in the ruins. And they were helpless to stop me . . . even the metal-clad ones.

Knights, they called themselves. From my cave, I could hear them clanking through the countryside atop huge horses, similarly armored in metal. They brandished swords and lances, and hid behind metal sheets they called shields. They were followed by more bipeds on foot. I laughed at them, as I watched them move slowly across the land, like a column of ants. I wondered how they planned to climb to my lair.

Not waiting to find out, I took to the air. As the bipeds slowly crept across the grasslands, I swept low over their column, bellowing. I was astounded that their mounts did not panic and bolt. I was more astonished that the bipeds tramping behind the knights did not panic, either. Instead, they raised some sort of weapon and fired pointed projectiles at me. Most bounced harmlessly off my scales. Several, however, ripped through my right wing, throwing me off balance. I screamed in pain and indignation. I righted myself and dove toward the offending bipeds, unleashing fiery retribution.

Later, as I reclined at the mouth of my cave, nursing my wounded wing, I watched the handful of surviving bipeds. They had not immediately retreated; nor were they hunting me. They were burying their dead. I was perplexed. No other creature I had ever encountered did this with their dead. Somehow, it seemed important.

* * *

From that day, watching the knights bury their dead, my fascination with the bipeds grew. It did not prevent me from raiding and pillaging, of course. I remained the terror of the region, the nightmare that persisted and haunted every biped's waking hour. So, it was inevitable that the knights would return.

I heard them clanking along through the forest, their archers in tow. This time, I met them just as they entered the grasslands. As before, I swept low over their column, bellowing. Adroitly dodging arrows, I snatched one of the knights from atop his mount and carried him off, dangling from my talons. I cleverly circled back beyond the timberland, then flew low across a lake, to avoid detection. Once the bipeds were dashing through the forest in pursuit, I doubled back and took my prize to my lair.

I had not realized how insubstantial the knight's armor was, nor how fragile the body it encased. My talons had ripped through the metal armor and sank deep into the knight's flesh. His lifeblood poured out. In a few heartbeats, he had passed from this existence. A fleeting sensation of remorse passed through me, unfamiliar and confounding. I sniffed at the corpse, but the thought of consuming it still disturbed me. Not knowing what else to do with the remains, I took it back and left it by the road at the entrance to the woods. I knew his comrades would find him there, and bury him. Somehow, it seemed important.

The knights were relentless. They returned again and again to battle me, to slay me as I had slaughtered so many of their kind. Each time they returned, I made another attempt at capturing one of them. Each attempt ended as horribly as the first.

Finally, I changed tactics. Instead of grabbing a knight in my talons, I took one in my arms and held him firmly against my scaly hide as I flew back to my lair.

Success! I had captured a biped.

That one did not survive long. He fell from the mouth of the cave while attempting an escape. A long succession of others followed, each perishing before I was able to study the specimen. Finally, one survived, albeit in a weakened condition from some unfortunate injuries.

He faded in and out of consciousness, jabbering at me unintelligibly whenever he awoke. He seemed to want something. He kept gesturing to his mouth. I cautiously threw him a bone, a bit of meat still attached. He shook his head, and frantically gestured again. He pointed to some moisture dripping down the stone wall of my cave. I understood.

I took his helmet and flew off, returning with fresh water from the lake. He grabbed at it, almost spilling it, and gulped it down so quickly that he brought it right back up. I fetched more, and this time he drank it slowly. He sank back, and gave me an appraising look. He opened his mouth, making slow and precise sounds. Thank you. The vocalization was obviously intended to convey some meaning, though I could not understand.

I continued to study this biped. He scrutinized me just as carefully. He seemed as surprised as I to recognize intelligence in the foe. He tried to communicate, but most of his vocalizations meant nothing to me. I did come to understand a few rudimentary sounds and what they indicated: hungry, thirsty, tired, hot, cold. And his name. I came to know him as Ger-vase. He called me Mon-ster, yet said the word with respect.

Ger-vase did not heal quickly. His hip and leg had been shattered, though I can not remember how, and he had been pierced by several arrows that had missed their intended target. He bore his pain stoically, but was unable to move about. Although that may have been all that was preventing his escape, it troubled me. I began to pity him.

As he slept fitfully one night, I decided to experiment on Ger-vase. Dragons possess great healing power. In but a brief time, a dragon can heal itself from near-mortal wounds or heal another of its kind. I had no idea if that healing would work on another species, particularly one as feeble as a human. Still, I felt inexplicably compelled to try. Somehow, it seemed important.

When he awoke the next morning, Ger-vase's facial expression conveyed astonishment at finding no sensation of pain left. He cautiously tested each limb, then rose slowly. I sat by the cave entrance, making no threatening move. Slowly, Ger-vase approached me. There was a look of gratitude on his face, and something else. Curiosity? Disbelief?

Ger-vase's eyes darted past me, to the cave opening, to freedom. I growled softly, and smoke curled from my nostrils. This biped was astute. He understood, and made no attempt to bolt.

The two of us needed sustenance. I pointed to a pile of bones, then to myself and finally to the outside. Ger-vase's brow furrowed momentarily, then he brightened and nodded his understanding. As I prepared to fly off, I turned to Ger-vase and growled softly. He nodded again.

Ger-vase was still sitting in the cave when I returned with a deer carcass. I pondered this. Was it fear or honor? He could have easily escaped while I was gone, but must have realized his freedom, and his life, would be short-lived. Did he fear this? Or was it honor that kept him there, his earlier brief nod to me his word, his bond?

Ger-vase stayed. After a time, I did not even have to threaten when I left the cave. He and I continued studying each other for many weeks. I was growing genuinely fond of this biped. He never tired of trying to communicate, though his rudimentary language was as the braying of a donkey to my ears. His ways were strange to me, particularly his insistence on charring his meat before eating, and bowing his head to mumble some incantation before each meal. As different as we were, I enjoyed the companionship and took comfort in his presence.

One night, after Ger-vase fell asleep, I sat staring at him. He seemed a simple enough organism. I decided to draw upon the last of my dragon abilities that I had learned during my Sleep of Transformation, the power to shape-shift. I concentrated with all my might. Bit by bit, I changed. My immense bulk steadily shrank, my wings shriveled, my snout receded, my claws and teeth retracted, my scales melted away, and hair sprouted on my head as I took on the form of a human. I found I could hold the form for but a few long minutes. It sapped my strength completely. I needed sustenance, and I fell on a half-eaten elk carcass before falling into a deep sleep. I awoke before dawn, and tried again with much the same result. By mid-morning, when Ger-vase awoke, I was in dragon form again. Each night while he slept, I repeated my attempt. In due course, I could hold the shape for most of the night.

I fretted over Ger-vase's likely reaction to my change. I could not even explain why I wanted to transform, let alone why it mattered to me how the human would react. But I eventually made the decision to reveal my shape-shifting ability to my companion. Somehow, it seemed important.

But I had waited too long.

The other humans had returned. I could hear the knights' armor clanking, the archers trudging behind. Ger-vase heard them, too. His face paled. He turned to me, his eyes pleading, unintelligible vocalization on his lips. Don't. And again. Please. I gazed at him. Although I could not understand his vocalizations, the meaning was evident in his face. I nodded.

I flew off to meet the approaching army, a much larger force than had ever come before. I roared and scorched the earth as warning, but I kept a safe distance. Neither side could inflict injury across this gap. I continued to bellow and spew flame. The humans continued their advance. They drew nearer and nearer to the base of my mountain stronghold.

I returned to the cave and Ger-vase. I tried to make him understand. These humans, his comrades, would never suffer me to live. I had killed far too many of their kind. I never before faced the enormity of my actions. I felt fear. Or, perhaps . . . remorse?

Ger-vase appeared to understand. He looked at me with such sadness clouding his blue eyes. Suddenly, I realized I could not do what I knew I must. I could not slaughter these humans. I reached out, hesitantly, and stroked Ger-vase gently on the cheek with a talon. Then, abruptly, I turned to take to the sky. I would leave these humans and find a new territory to conquer, one that humans had not yet defiled. I would make a fresh start. I would never again kill a human.

Before I had cleared the mouth of the cave, I felt the searing pain. How could I have not noticed the device the knights hauled? A huge arrow-like projectile shot through me. I fell, crashing down the side of the mountain, my wings shredding against the rocks. Before I could escape, before I could find a safe place to use my healing power, the humans were on me, hacking and slashing.

* * *

Ger-vase's voice echoes in my ears as I collapse. Noooooooooooooooooooo!

I hear Ger-vase yelling, see him shoving the other humans away. I feel his hand, stroking my muzzle. With my last ounce of strength, I shape-shift one last time. I see the look on Ger-vase's face — part wonder, part sorrow. He gathers me gently in his arms. I try to smile, but cannot.

I wonder if Ger-vase will bury me. Somehow, it seems important.

## Door to Anywhere

by Eliza Winkler

"You know how this goes, Banks. Give me your badge and gun. Until the internal investigation is complete, you're on administrative leave."

My captain looks solemn and regretful as he says the words to me. My hands are trembling and my palms are sweaty. I take a deep breath to steady myself, then slowly hand over my hardware. I struggle to swallow the knot in my throat. "Anything else, sir?" I manage to say in a hoarse voice.

I see the corners of his eyes soften. "No. You're dismissed."

I nearly bolt for the door, instead walking to my car as quickly as I can without running. The day couldn't get any worse. When I went through the police academy, I always thought I was prepared to do what I had to in order to survive if a call got hairy, but I never realized how hard it would be once the trigger got pulled. As with every officer involved shooting, there would be an internal investigation. In the meantime, I get to try to pull my soul back together while the head shed does their Monday morning quarterbacking and the local media hounds fill their narratives with the "what-if's" of the situation.

I put my car in park, realizing that I've arrived at my house, though I don't remember the drive. I release the steering wheel from the death grip I didn't realize I gripped it with, my fingers tingling as sensation returns. Hot tears make their tracks down my cheeks as the weight from the day presses down on me. I may well have saved my partner's life, but that couldn't take away the guilt I felt for ending someone else's. I lean forward, my forehead resting on my hands as the day's events play over and over in my mind.

The sound of rain pattering against the roof and windshield of the vehicle brings me out of my thoughts. At that moment, I want nothing more than to change into my fluffy bathrobe and eat a pint of Ben & Jerry's while binge watching my latest Netflix addiction. Anything to get my mind off of my current situation. With a sigh, I gather my work bag and keys before jumping out of my car and darting to the front door.

I slip the key into the deadbolt, unlock it, then swing the door open. The sight before me makes me blink in confusion. My living room isn't there, but rather an open desert valley, broken up by cacti and mesquite. A fire blazes under a large cauldron, around which half a dozen creatures—Minotaurs?—stand, chanting in a harsh language I could only describe as demonic sounding.

"You have got to be kidding me," I mutter. I shake my head to clear the images, but the huge creatures remain. The chanting stops as they notice me, gravel crunching under their shuffling hooves as they face me. The closest one lowers its head and, with a snort from its bull-like nose, charges toward me. I jump back, yanking the door shut and stumbling over my work bag as I retreat from the entryway. I hardly take notice of the rain on my head, dripping down my back, as I wait for the angry Minotaur to burst through the door.

When nothing happens after a minute, I step back up to the door, taking my keys from where they still dangle in the lock. I clench my car key in my hand, ready to use it as a weapon should the need arise, and tentatively reach for the door handle. The door opens on silent hinges, and I squint at the brightness before me. A clear blue sky above bright snowy slopes greet me, a frigid breeze add _s an_ extra chill to my soaked body.

Ahead of me, I see two bundled figures on skis making parallel tracks through the pristine snow. One glances my way and lifts a hand in greeting. Stunned, I wave back. _Just what is going on here? Is this for real?_ I reach down and touch the snow, gather a handful up into a ball. It chills my fingers and slowly melts in my palm, the icy water dripping down my arm and off my elbow.

I close the door on the surreal gateway, half expecting the snowball in my hand to disappear with the wintry landscape, but it doesn't. I look back up to my home's front door, my mind struggling to accept what my eyes have seen. I reach for the door again, wondering if my living room would greet me this time.

It was not to be.

The view before me takes my breath away: a lush meadow of knee-high grasses and wildflowers, edged by forest. Snow-capped mountain peaks are every direction, and the air smells fresh and clean, as if never impacted by humanity's pollution. It's everything I would imagine paradise to be.

I drop the snowball and step through the doorway, feeling the grasses brush against my legs. My hand grips the doorknob tightly as my mind spins. I always wished to live in a place such as this, and now it has been presented to me, delivered to my very doorstep.

Thoughts of today's events set off a web of memories rushing through my mind...the shooting after the traffic stop, our pre-shift briefings that covered everything from daily safety to local events which may attract gang activity, to the heightened microscope that the law enforcement community as a whole has been under since the shootings that have remained in the national spotlight for the past two years. Ever since the riots in Missouri and Baltimore, everyone in my department has been on edge. Then the recent shootings in Baton Rouge and Minnesota, followed closely with the deadly ambush on Dallas police, heightened the tension exponentially.

My disjointed thoughts finally settle back on my situation at hand, back on the investigation. Even if the results will be in my favor, there's no telling what the public will decide to do. Will they riot from this incident too? Will they condemn me even if I'm cleared?

I glance back over my shoulder, to my front walkway where the rain still pours down. My mind made up, I gradually close the door. I hear it close with a soft _click_ , then it's gone. My hand feels nothing but air as I reach for where it just was, and a combination of panic and excitement rush through me.

I take a deep breath of the fresh air while a smile tugs at the corners of my lips, pick a direction, and set off through the meadow to find my new life.

## About the Authors

### Ariel

https://poetariel.net/

### DMG Byrnes

DMG Byrnes is an author and poet, artist, freelancer, perpetual project acquirer, and dragon tamer. DMG plots in their lair outside of Atlanta and is a queer, disabled spoonie with chronic illnesses, working and creating in between the many (un)expected health-related hurdles. Some of DMG's favorite genres to write include Adult and YA fantasy, sci-fi, and queer/LGBT+ fiction, with a special place for children's books. Dmgbyrnes.com

### Sean Callahan

Sean Callahan is a vagabond tapping tales on his iPad everywhere he travels. S. C. might stand for: Salty Curmudgeon; Spaghetti Connoisseur; or Sailor of the Caribbean!

Callahan can often be found hiding out in one of these boxes:

| Writer | Shark Diver | Metal Guitarist | Dog Lover | Runner | Hubby | Dad |

### Patrick M. Charron

Patrick lives on picturesque Cape Breton Island in Nova Scotia, Canada with his wife, two kids, and four cats. A CPA by day, Patrick endeavors to continue to write fantasy in his free time. You can find his short story, "Battle Scars" in the anthology, _Flashpoint_.

### Nancy J. Clark

Nancy J. Clark, a native of Toledo, Ohio, is a retired college English instructor who has also been a grant writer, senior services coordinator, and director of a volunteer center. She currently tutors students online and occasionally does editing and proofreading. Her writing includes magazine articles, short stories, poetry, and Christian devotions. She is currently working on her first full-length book, a biography of her great-grandfather. Look for more information on her website/blog: www.finishedright.me.

### Marge Cutter

Marge Cutter is the pseudonym for Margaret Cutter, an aspiring author, amateur nature photographer, avid bird watcher, and unabashed dinosaur. She shares her suburban Minnesota home with her husband and the entire cast of characters from the series of Young Adult Fantasy novels she is writing. She often shares the adventures of her characters, who have fallen out of the pages of her manuscript and into the "real" world, on her weekly blog (https://margecutter.wordpress.com/).

### Karen Doll

Karen Doll is a freelance writer based in the beautiful countryside of eastern Pennsylvania. As a veteran homeschool teacher, Karen specializes in writing about home education topics and creative learning activities. Her work has appeared in Home School Enrichment Magazine, Seton Magazine, Oak Meadow Living Education Journal, and Write Shop. Karen enjoys bird watching, reading, watching old movies, gardening, and fishing the day away with her sweetheart in his dad's old rowboat. Visit Karen: athomewithkarendoll.wordpress.com

### Elizabeth Eisenhauer

Elizabeth Eisenhauer doesn't usually write poetry. Current work in progress is a speculative novel about incarceration and authority. Other irons in the fire include a novel exploring the life of a single mother in 1960s New York, and an investigation of the prohibition-era speakeasy that once operated in her basement. In her spare time, she reads, researches and does household demolition and repairs. She has one husband, one daughter and one dog. Her online home is www.truestoryreally.com

### Hiba Hasan Gardezi

She's a Pakistani, she's a Muslim and now she's published! Hiba Hasan Gardezi is an artist (unofficial ) and a dreamer (obviously unofficial) who lives with her parents, brother and sister in Islamabad where they moved from Karachi in 2007. A sixteen year old short story writer, Hiba first fell in love with lighting pencils against paper by stealing her brother's dreams.

But that's another story. Nice around a cup of tea.

Geralyn Hesslau Magrady  
Geralyn Hesslau Magrady is the 2016 Winner of the Soon to be Famous Illinois Author Project, an annual competition sponsored by the Illinois Library Association and Reaching Across Illinois Library Systems (RAILS). She received this award for Lines-, a self-published novel of Chicago historical fiction. Geralyn's poetry and essays have been published on several literary websites, and she is an English teacher at Fenwick High School in Oak Park, Illinois. http://www.ghesslaumagrady.com/

### Mona E. Mamoun

Mona El Mamoun is a German researcher and translator who has been based in London for 28 years. She has lived in seven countries, including the United States, where she was awarded an honors BA in English and Economics from Wellesley College. She was an art librarian at the educational branch of Sotheby's for ten years. Mona has written five regency romances. Her current project is a modern thriller.

### Pam S. Manley

Pam S. Manley is an assistant pastor, blogger, and writer of short stories and mysteries with a hidden dark, twisted imagination. An Ohio transplant from Illinois, she feared for her life when her beloved Chicago Cubs won the 2016 World Series. Pam is a self-described organized slob who needs a GPS to find buried treasure on her desk. She can be found at www.pamsmanley.com or on Facebook and Twitter.

### Alyssa Mayley

Alyssa Mayley has won multiple awards as a freelance writer. Her short story CAUGHT IN TERROR won first-place in the 2015 Wayne College Regional Writing Awards, and two stories placed in the Round One and Round Two groups in the NYC Midnight Challenge 2016. Twenty-five of her articles appeared in the Tuscarawas Bargain Hunter. To find out more about Alyssa visit her website www.alyssamayley.com, Twitter @AlyssaMayley or on Facebook.

### Kat McCormick

katherinemccormick.com

### Robert Pipkin

Robert Pipkin is a writer at the front end of his career. He writes humor, science fiction, scary stuff, tall tales, campfire stories, superhero stories, and more. By day, he writes boring stuff for banks. He is a dad and a husband, has a dog named Chewie, and lives in North Carolina. For more information, visit www.robertpipkin.info.

### Majida Rashid

Majida Rashid was born in Pakistan and has lived in various countries. She is multilingual and has worked with non-profits and international organizations in the U.S., the Middle East and Africa. Her articles have appeared in publications around the world; including The Washington Post, USA Today and The Chicago Tribune. Currently she is focused on publishing her memoir, which in part details her upbringing in a polygamous household. Here is a synopsis video of her book: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=COUxcSIqACs.

### Charity Rau

Charity loves fairy tales and myths and re-imagining them. Besides writing, Charity also works as an educator, helping students achieve their highest potential. She enjoys taking creative photos, painting, and spending time with family. Charity lives in Maryland with her sassy pomchi and her own charming prince. The Strongest Tie is her first YA novel.

### A. Marie Silver

A. Marie Silver is a wife and mother of 2 ½ kids (or three, depending on when you read this). She spends her days writing letters to Ellen DeGeneres, conversing with her toaster, and editing Pilcrow & Dagger Literary Magazine. She can be cyberstalked at amariesilver.com and pilcrowdagger.com.

### Kim Bailey Spradlin

Kim Bailey Spradlin, a Pushcart Prize Nominee, writes Women's Fiction, short stories, poetry, non-fiction, and a weekly column for Five 2 One Magazine. She is currently writing a third novel. She's published in several online literary journals and print magazines. Kim lives in her hometown of Chattanooga, TN. To connect follow at www.kimbaileydeal.net and on Twitter @kimbaileydeal

### James Stack

James Stack is a recipient of the Freedom of Expression of Courage Award from PEN America. His memoir, WORLD'S FAIR, and collection of poetry, PLEASURES & SEASONS OF VERMONT, were published in 2013. His poems have appeared in Maine Review (Grand Prize winner), New Millennium Writings, Ash & Bones, among others. His short stories have appeared in Ghost Stories: A Zimbell House Anthology (Zimbell House Publishing), Maine Review, Five2One Magazine, Ruminate Magazine, and FishFood Magazine

### Donna Vieth

www.donnavieth.com

### Traci Nathaniel Walker

A licensed teacher, experienced homeschooler, and an education consultant, Traci is also a reader, a writer, and a full-time experience collector -- running existential gauntlets as a lifestyle. Matters of social justice, victory over adversity, and relieving the suffering of others are what get her out of bed in the morning and stumbling towards the coffeepot. Find her at www.tracinathanielwalker.com.

### Eliza Winkler

Eliza Winkler is an Army veteran with 15 years in the law enforcement field. During her off time, she enjoys reading, writing, fishing, gaming, and making the annual trip to Gobbler's Knob in Punxsutawney to see the unsuspecting groundhog Phil get ripped out of his home by men in top hats so he can prognosticate the weather. Eliza lives in central Pennsylvania with her husband and their two dogs.

### Amy Zlatic

Amy Zlatic lives in St. Louis, Missouri, with a brilliant husband and an adorable daughter who make her laugh every day. She's a freelance writer and editor who is delighted that pants are optional in her home office. She makes photographs and dabbles in fiction, but personal essay is her true love. Here, she explores her complex relationship with her late mother, made ever more difficult by an Alzheimer's diagnosis. Read her essays at www.amyzlatic.com.

## Acknowledgements

The contributors of this anthology would like to make a special note of thanks to some of the people that made it possible. While writing itself can only be done by one person, the act of piecing together different voices and self-publishing a group anthology from people all over the world can only be done with the right elements and a good team.

First, we would like to thank Robert Lee Brewer for bringing the original PlatChal anthology group together for the October Platform Challenge in 2015. Without him we may not have ever crossed paths and come together in this way. We'd also like to thank him for his lovely introduction to this anthology.

We'd like to thank PlatChal Group member Robert Pipkin for actually mentioning doing an anthology together. He may not have been the only one thinking it, but he started the initial discussion that has ultimately brought us here.

We want to give all of our appreciation and thanks to the tireless efforts of our volunteer editors DMG Byrnes, Sean Callahan, Nancy Clark, Kim Bailey Spradlin, and Donna Vieth. From start to finish, they've helped to gather, polish, and arrange the anthology you have before you; all out of the goodness of their hearts and the collective desire to see this through.

We'd also like to thank DMG Byrnes for her work on the cover art and for keeping this anthology going and on track.

Finally, we'd like to thank everyone else that has in any way supported this anthology and its contributors.

Thank you!

See you on the journey.
