Mississippi Crow Issue 8

Are YOU in it? 1

The Mississippi Crow magazine takes its name from its location—near the

confluence of the Mississippi and Crow rivers in Dayton Minnesota. We publish

artwork, poetry, flash fiction, articles and essays (on a variety of subjects). To see our

guidelines, go to: www.MississippiCrow.com.

Copyright © 2008 River Muse Press, ISSN 1934-5631. No portion of this magazine

may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form—

electronic, mechanical or other means without prior consent of the publisher and/

or of the authors of the individual works. All rights revert to authors upon

publication.

Editor and Publisher

Nadia Giordana—River Muse Press

(763) 433-0270 or (763) 222-3113

Email: [email protected]

Associate Editor

Mary Deal

Author, Writer, Pushcart Prize Nominee

Website: www.writeanygenre.com

Apprentice Editor

Brittany Mabusth

St. Cloud, Minnesota

Front Cover, ICARUS by Ingrid Sundberg

www.sundbergstudio.com

Ingrid Sundberg grew up in Maine on the small island of Mount

Desert. With daily access to Acadia National Park she began her

appreciation of the connections between nature, spirituality, and

art. She later attended the Massachusetts College of Art in Boston,

under a merit scholarship, and studied illustration. Ms. Sundberg’s

degree project expanded her exploration

of the visual and intellectual connections

between nature, science, spirituality,

religion and philosophy - themes that still

resonate in her work to this date.

Working in both watercolor and mixed

media, Ms. Sundberg, begins each piece

with a single image or topic. She uses

research and intuition to help develop

and inform the work, as new images are

added. Layers of paper and paint reflect

this journey. The use of natural patterns

and geometric drawings is meant to expose the geometry within all

living things, as well as to create an aesthetic sense of unity. The

resulting “visual essay” should inspire the viewer to a deeper

appreciation of the patterns and connections that surround us.

Back Cover, ALTERATIONS and Centerfold, PEAPOD

by Peter Bates.

www.batescommunications.net/pixelpost/

Peter specializes in street photography, from the sunlit back roads

of Vermont to the scruffy sidewalks of

Boston. He has photographed decaying

industrial cities like Lynn and the

blackened cathedral facades of nocturnal

Brussels. He is attracted to highway

architechture, such as the photogenic

stretch of Route 1 from Saugus to

Danvers, Mass. Lately he has been

experimenting with high dynamic range

(HDR) photography, particularly as it

applies to night photography. He is also

working on an ongoing photo-

documentary project entitled “Christian America.”

Alison Bullock

C.P. Stewart—www.cpstewart-poet.co.uk.

Carla Martin-Wood—http://thewellreadhead.googlepages.com

Carrie Crow—http://baronandcrow.blogspot.com/

Christopher Woods—www.moonbirdhillarts.etsy.com

Daniel de Culla

David James—www.oaklandcc.edu/or-eng/dljames/djhome.htm

Diane M. Deifel

Elaine Pedersen

Eric Vance Walton—www.EricVanceWalton.com

Fariel Shafee—http://fariels.tripod.com

Guy Kettelhack

Gym Nasium—www.gymart.com

Henry Louis Shifrin

Holly Painter

James Keane

Jan Oskar Hansen

Janet Butler—www.janetleebutler.com

Jeffrey C. Alfier

Jim Fuess—www.jimfuessart.com

Justin Hyde—http://www.nyqpoets.net/poet/justinhyde

K.C. Wilson

K.H. Solomon

Linda Woods—www.moonbirdhillarts.etsy.com

Myrna D. Badgerow—www.authorsden.com/myrnadbadgerow

Pat O’Reagan

Peter Schwartz—wwwsitrahahra.com

Russ Curtis

Sara Harris

Sandee Lyles

Shawn Nacona Stroud—www.authorsden.com/shawnnstroud

Wendy Brown-Baez—wwwwendybrownbaez.com

To Purchase Issues of Mississippi Crow, go to

http://stores.lulu.com/RiverMuse

Contributing writers and artists

alphabetical by first name:

Peter Bates and cat, Pucci—

photo by Cheryl Levin

2 Mississippi Crow Magazine

Photo by Mary Deal

Are YOU in it? 3

The Blessed

All this day

the dear, dear dead,

have twittered, gaily,

like delirious birds,

about my head.

“Step in, step in” they sweetly sing,

as I pick my way

through a dissolving

world.

--C.P. Stewart


BlueWhite by Jim Fuess

Are YOU in it? 5

castrated by the flowering of obligation: blinded by all this cheap unbearable light: i zipped myself inside a hammer and started writing sad songs and third string poems. but my throat rusted, clean through to the pure yellow. and my hands fell off and ran away up and over the bluffs.

−−Justin Hyde

my hands fell off and my hands fell off and my hands fell off and my hands fell off and ran away ran away ran away ran away up and up and up and up and over over over over the bluffsthe bluffsthe bluffsthe bluffs


Christopher Woods—www.moonbirdhillarts.etsy.com

Are YOU in it? 7

After Moonlight paints us into corpses as we lie tangled in bed. I cling to you like a boy clings to his teddy bear in darkness, listen to crickets shake their rattles over the splash of cars passing through rain puddles. All night I lie awake with you relearning the curves of your flesh, the satin brush of your hair, devour your cologne as it rises like steam from your skin. I hold you until the moon is through— when sunlight brushes flesh tones on me, but leaves the gray tinge of an effigy on you.

--Shawn Nacona Stroud


Sentences

Midnight stars whisper

Upon velvet, slipping into dreams

And their fading sighs

Trail shadows of sentences

Being written across sky

I hear the words tumbling softly, one onto the next, and feel

each nuance, each subtle inflection. The ink of intimacy flows

so sweetly, and I, lost in its rhythm, reach for my pen of

curiosity. Sentences spill forth, one, then two... and I

forget to breathe as that last whisper slips away leaving the

sky to silence.

—Myrna D. Badgerow

Are YOU in it? 9

Gym Nasium

Parity

A picture is worth

a thousand words,

as are a few

well chosen ones.

—KH Solomon


Like Clockwork to the EndLike Clockwork to the EndLike Clockwork to the EndLike Clockwork to the End East Village: chilly early morning vision: huddled bundled figure on the sidewalk, mittened fingers on the handle of a shopping cart, meticulously pushing it— small squat woman in a black hat, shawl and coat – wagon packed with plastic garbage bags: black, stacked and bursting: thrusts it forward slowly thirty feet. Turns and pads back on the curb along the street to get the second cart, to push it towards its kin; returns to get the third— to join it to its brethren. And then— she pushes first the first, and next the second, and the third another thirty feet again. And does it all again. And does it all again. Like clockwork to the end. —Guy Kettelhack

Are YOU in it? 11

Photo by Daniel de Culla


What I Want right now more than ever is to capture in my arms a woman whose crying enraptures me (who regrets she ever knew me), melt the frigid anger gagging the heat of her heart in icy tears, entice her sullen teeth to disappear with the tickle and flicker of a young tongue peering in to face what quickening harmony, breathless, her mouth with mine will embrace till her willowy fingers gently unravel to straddle her anger’s warmed saddle, press on to surround love’s fever unbound, splay in rage to bind her warm heart with mine till her heart knows and mine knows no fear. --James Keane

Winter Coming In the chill of my room I gasp for air, fishy legs churning, dappled waters darken and freeze. I am hungry for forest and song of wind-whistled trees, the sandbank hiding me from the ache of tomorrow’s rush to ice. Sink back in mud hole and pebble lane, flitter like the dragonfly whose flight we imitate no matter the hoof or paw, because it is Life- light, it is only one breath more it is the slender silk thread, the web, the tumble down leaf. The winter has come to grab me by both arms and up-end me on the pond where skaters have left a signature of lace, fragile motion, shadows of grace. —Wendy Brown-Baez

Are YOU in it? 13

Study in Brown—watercolor by Janet Butler


Verbal Rebellion, Free Wee Fee

and Corporate Size Reinvention

—Eric Vance Walton

I've learned that most writers are born people

watchers and I'm no exception. We find fascination

in the most unlikely of experiences, the whole world

is a library...each person a book. It could be a

conversation overheard, a story told to us or some

slight idiosyncrasy that we might witness first-

hand. The other night one of my best friends and I

were across the table talking about an upcoming trip

to Chicago. Keep in mind my friend grew up in the

late 60's, before technology completely ruled our lives.

He was reading the description of the hotel that we’re

staying in and said, "Look, they have free wee fee!"

After a few moments I realized that he meant wi-fi.

Once you get to a certain age I think people start

getting completely fed up with certain aspects of life

and consciously start calling things by slightly

different names as a kind of protest to conformity.

My father was way ahead of the curve on this one.

He's been verbally rebelling as long as I can

remember. When I was a kid, I had a friend named

Sean and my dad always referred to him as, "John"

which you could tell dumb-founded Sean but for

some reason he never said anything about it. To dad

socks are "stockins", immaculate is "immaculace",

prostrate is "pole-straight" (which must baffle his

doctors) and fish has always been "feeesh". But you

know what? That's okay and to tell you the truth I

wouldn't want it any other way, it's part of what makes

him "dad" to me and I relish this uniqueness.

It's already begun for me. When ordering at

Starbucks I refuse to buckle under to their "corporate

size reinvention". In today's society we have far too

many things to remember already without having to

relearn something that we learned in kindergarten. I

have no idea how large became Venti and I want no

part of it. When I order a cappuccino, I call it what it

is and say "small" not "tall". The cashier usually will

tilt their head and flash and inquisitive look,

appearing for a second that their whole belief system

has been threatened while calling out to the barista,

"TALL skim cappuccino". As I approach 36 it's time

to step up my game. The next time I'm in a coffee

shop I'm going to march up to the counter with head

held high, compliment them on the immaculaceness

of their establishment and ask if they have free wee

fee.

Eric Vance Walton and Juan T Parker’s newest

children's book, “The Land of Things We Wish For” is

available at: http://www.lulu.com/content/4423662

Too Late

—Sandee Lyles

Annabelle Cheshire was just a sweet old lady to me.

No doubt about that, even if she did collect cats.

We’d see her bring them home. But we never saw

any of them outside. She kept them all in. They

were her babies. Once, I asked if I could come in

and see them and she said they were “sleeping”. I

knew she didn’t’ want us in her house. I thought it

was just messy, but Henry said he thought she was

afraid we’d disturb Mr. Cheshire, who was very old

and sickly. She used to bake the best cookies and

pastries for the neighborhood children who lived on

the cul-de-sac. But she was famous for her stew which

I had never tasted personally but Henry said it was

“to die for”. She would often bake it for his family.

She’d also make meat loaf and pot pies. Henry’s

mother wasn’t well every since Mr. Brown had run

off with his secretary, leaving her to care for their

four children. So Old Lady Cheshire had adopted

the Brown family and made it a point to take them

dinner at least three times a week.

She was going to visit her sister this particular day,

Are YOU in it? 15

and she had asked me to collect her papers and mail

while she was gone.

“Would you like me to feed the cats and look in

on Mr. Cheshire?” I asked.

“No. Mr. Cheshire is doing well. He’ll look after

my babies,” she said. And, with that, she handed me

a huge pot of stew for our evening meal. I was so

excited. Finally, I’d be able to taste this marvelous

concoction I had heard so much about. We had

already had dinner but I talked my mama into

planning a late meal for when my daddy came home

at around ten. She agreed and I went out to play

with Henry. “Don’t be late girl. You be home by

9:30 and not a second past.”

“Yes ma’am.”

At first we did the usual biking and swinging and

playing fort but, after a while, we started to tell scary

stories on the teeter-totter.

“I bet he’s dead, Mary.” Henry surprised me.

“You bet who’s dead?”

“Mr. Cheshire. Don’t nobody ever see him.”

“Oh Henry. That’s ridiculous.”

“Then why don’t she let nobody in the house?

Look, I seen her take a shovel out of the garage and

head for the back yard like she was gonna bury

something more than one time. She probably cut

him into little pieces so she could manage it.”

“No.” He had my attention.

“Really! I’m serious. Hey, let’s go back there. She

ain’t home. The timin’ is perfect.”

“I’m not goin’ back there.”

“Come on, Mary. Don’t be a big chicken.”

“Who’s a chicken?!” I jumped off the teeter-totter,

sending him crashing to the ground.

“Well, okay then, let’s go.” We got a shovel out of

Henry’s garage. It was starting to get dark so we

grabbed a flashlight and headed to Mrs. Cheshire’s

backyard. It was a little tricky getting back there with

all of the overgrown shrubbery and vines but we

managed to climb the fence and jump down. It had

gotten very dark by now.

“Hold the flashlight up,” Henry demanded.

When I did, we collectively gasped at the sight. There

were rows and rows of little dirt mounds.

“Is it a garden?” I asked.

“No, it ain’t a garden,” Henry answered. Then, he

paused… “Graves.”

“What?”

“Cat graves.”

“No.” Henry began to dig them up, one by one.

“Poor thing. To lose all those babies she loved so

much. Wonder what they caught.”

“Hold that flashlight up Mary.” Another collective

gasp. In each shallow grave were what appeared to be

cat remains. But only the skull and tail were left. It

was as if someone had chopped them off and put

them in these shallow graves as little memorials to the

dead.

Then, Henry hit something new. It wasn’t a skull,

or a tail. “Hold that light up, will ya?!” Henry

snapped sharply. I dropped the flashlight. It was a

hand… a human hand. We ran to the house and

onto Mrs. Cheshire’s porch. Without thinking, we

turned the unlocked knob and went inside. We

turned on the light and saw a beautiful kitchen.

Then, I noticed several rows of jars across a very clean

counter. I couldn’t make out what was in them but it

looked like whatever it was had been pickled, jellied,

or jammed. Henry slowly walked toward a freezer in

the corner of the room.

“No. Don’t do it!” I screamed. But, he opened it

and turned completely white. It felt as though it took

me two days to walk to the freezer and look inside. It

was parts. Cat parts. Human parts. In freezer bags.

Labeled. There were livers, knees, calves, you name

it. Even a nose. Then we saw it. The bag labeled

“stew”. Henry turned and threw up. Then he looked

at me and we ran. We ran so fast. We never looked

back. “What time is it?” I shrieked as I ran up the

driveway to my house, noticing my daddy’s car

already in the driveway.

I don’t even remember how I got to the dining

room. It’s still a blur. All I remember is my mama

saying, “Well, look who decided to show up. We

done ate the stew. Go on up to your room. You’re

too late.”

And I knew she was right as I slowly made my way

up the stairs.�

Sandee Lyles is an RN, International Poet/Freelance

Writer, 2007 Pushcart Nominee, and Publishing Editor of

Oak Bend Review. She lives in Flower Mound, Texas with

a household of teens, animals, and Jack, and still remains

sane at least some of the time.


Pekoe —Mary Deal

A Port-A-Jon had been placed in the lot beside the Java

Bean coffee house where I sat on the lanai. They

should have moved it back along the trees behind the

businesses. A new building was being constructed next

door. Each time the trade winds wafted, I couldn’t

imagine why the Jon was placed so close to the café’s

outdoor eating area.

Kilauea volcano wasn’t spouting this morning and

sending ash into the air. That volcano was on the Big

Island of Hawaii at the south end of the Hawaiian

chain opposite Kauai on the north. Each time Kilauea

erupted, it sent volcanic ash into the air that stuck in

the clouds and mists that the trade winds blew over all

the islands. At least it painted the sunrises and sunsets

pink, coral, and red. Mornings and evenings made for

some spectacular photography.

I sipped my Chai and then tipped my face toward the

sun. Between the noises of passing cars, I occasionally

heard faint mewing and looked around and found

nothing. A cat must have had a litter back among the

trees, or maybe, under the building. A kitten

somewhere was trying to get some attention. As the

mewing continued, I just had to get up and learn from

where it came.

Trying to hold my breath, I passed the Jon. Then I

realized the mewing came from inside. I stared at that

blue cubicle, putting my hand across my mouth and

nose. Did I dare?

I did, and took a big gulp of air and swung the door

open. To my surprise, a teeny ball of orange fur lay on

the floor. I grunted in surprise and expelled all my

breath. I gulped again and grimaced, and it wasn’t

from seeing a weak little Tabby kitten. If not newly

born, it had to be under a week old. It mewed and

tried to walk but was much too young and wobbly and

still couldn’t hold its eyes opened. I gently but swiftly

scooped it up, turned, and kicked the door closed with

my heel. On the way back to the lanai, I checked and

found the kitten was a male. Bits of umbilical cord

were still attached.

Again taking my seat on the lanai, this tiny sweet

bundle snuggled down in my lap. He had stopped

crying and gone to sleep in the valley between my

thighs. I brought one leg up and propped my foot on

another chair and kept my hand gently across his body

to shelter him from the wind. The owner of the Once

More Consignment Shop, above the coffee house, saw

the kitten and seemed truly surprised. “Where’d you

get that little bundle?” Lani asked.

“In the blue box,” I said, nodding toward the Jon. “At

least someone abandoned him where others would

find him.”

Lani looked relieved but dashed off like she was on a

mission. I sat there covering the kitten with my hand

each time the trades wafted over us. The gentle wind

was fine with me, but this little guy would be cold. I

drew the edge of my sarong up over him and

wondered where I might find him a home. While the

Humane Society would lovingly care for him, Kauai

has so many adoptable cats that he might live in a cage

for months.

My Chai was just about finished when Lani dashed

back with a handful of items. She had been to the Vet

and brought back a tiny bottle with a nipple and baby

kitten formula! My heart went out to her selflessness.

She must have fallen in love.

“Can I feed him?” she asked. Then she said, “Wait.”

She dashed upstairs to her consignment store and

returned with an old soft tee shirt and wrapped the

kitten in it. The kitten took the bottle immediately.

“What’ll we call him?” she asked. “Should we give him

a Hawaiian name?”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “He’s the color of orange

Pekoe tea. How about Pekoe?”

We giggled like young girls. Lani’s instincts were more

like a mom. She handed Pekoe back while she went to

tend to her store. By now others on the lanai had

crowded around to take a look. Everyone wanted to

pet Pekoe on his head, which was the only thing that

stuck out of the folds of the old tee shirt. I wondered

about that little knob being tapped on by so many and

pulled him back to the protection of my lap.

Are YOU in it? 17

Colorado Sublime —Pat O’Reagan

A traveler, bound for Colorado and with a yen for

adventure, might well consider two appealing

challenges – hiking on the Colorado Trail and

climbing one or more of the 14ers. The Trail runs

from Denver to Durango, 483 miles, in 28 segments. It

courses through mountainous terrain, from alpine

meadows to rocky crests, through pine forests, marshes

and verdant fields, and through stretches of forest

scorched by fire and struggling to recover. The 14ers

are some 56 peaks in Colorado over 14 thousand feet.

Denver is about a thousand miles from the Twin

Cities. My intent was to camp on the Colorado Trail

just outside Denver on the second night of the trip.

The older one gets, I found, the harder it is to drive

long distances alone. If the first five-hundred-mile day

was tolerable – barely – I was grumbling incessantly by

the afternoon of the second. But the urge to get into

the wilderness was strong, and I kept on.

If civilization has not formed a crust over our souls, we

are drawn, as if by some mystical attraction, to the wild

places. My keenness to get on the Trail growing with

each passing mile closer to my destination, I sailed

through eastern Colorado and metropolitan Denver,

never leaving the freeway, almost fierce – though

driving carefully – to hike and camp before dark.

Following a windy road, just south of Denver, paved

and then gravel, by five-thirty I was at the trailhead at

the start of segment 2 of the Trail. I threw gear, food

and water into a pack and set off into the darkening

pine forest. My spirits flew. If this wasn’t home, it was

a lot closer than the confines of a vehicle or comforts

of a motel. Here was a measure of serenity. A large doe

mule deer bounded past, stopped and regarded me

with mutual awe and curiosity. Stirred by the deer and

the forest, I pushed on for some three miles before

stopping for the night. I enjoyed the freeze-dried meal

and lay awake in the tent for a long time, listening to

the hum and buzz of insects and catching, once, the

distinctive bark of the pika (a rabbit-like rodent).

Now, I couldn’t take this kitten home. My neighbor

already has six large, prowling cats that caroused mine

as well as all the neighbors’ yards. They kept the mice

under control that seemed to come from the nearby

stream.

Fortunately for little Pekoe, everyone fell in love with

him, but other then me, none more so than Lani. She

returned with a small cardboard box containing a

cushion. “Are you taking him home?” she asked,

sounding thoroughly disappointed that she might hear

me say yes.

“Can’t,” I said. Lani’s smile stretched across her face. I

wanted to tell her about my neighbors cats but she

didn’t give me a chance.

“I want him,” she said, and that settled it. Pekoe

would now—or when he grows up—be the mascot-

guardian of the consignment shop. He would have his

own mice to chase among the trees and underbrush in

the back lot.

Lani, all smiles and giddy, carried Pekoe upstairs.

In a few minutes, a bearded man walked over and sat

down beside me. His clothes were clean, but stained

with our iron-rich red dirt. “Where’d the kitty go?” he

asked.

“Upstairs,” I said, tossing my head and smiling.

“She gonna keep it?” He asked like he knew he was

too late.

“Guess so.”

“I coulda’ used that cat,” he said, standing and ready

to leave. “He’d have loved all the crawly things I got

out on my farm.” He walked away shaking his head.

I scooted over into the shifted shade of the table

umbrella and propped my feet on another chair. The

sound of heavy equipment made me look. The Jon

was being moved farther back. Kilauea wasn’t erupting

this morning and the trades blew fresh. I breathed in

deep and watched nearby palms sway in the breeze. It

was another magnificent day in paradise.�


Hiking out in the cool of the morning was a

memorable delight. Coming to the place where the

forest opens up, I lingered in the shade of a rocky

ledge, soaking in the vista – mountains in ranks,

rising above the tree line and fading into the sky on

the horizon. This, I thought, is why we come to the

wild places – for the beauty and the physical

challenge, one to quicken the soul, the other the

body. Here we live the most. Here all the irksome

necessities and drudgeries of comfortable living seem

shallow and distracting. We belong in the wild – at

least some of the time – because it engages us deeply.

We yearn for it. At some level, people sense this; thus,

for instance, the popularity of the National Parks.

My next stop was the junction of segments 10 and 11,

where the Trail meets a spur trail to the top of Mount

Elbert, the highest point in the state.

The 14ers are ranked by difficulty. Though the

highest, Mount Elbert is by no means the most

difficult. Still, it is a long, arduous trudge to the top.

“This is a marathon,” I kept telling myself, “not a mile

run. Slow down, take baby-steps, drink plenty of

water, you’ll get there.” I crested the huge dome I had

been approaching from a distance, only to discover

that it was a false peak. The next, rocky peak was the

top. In a little over three hours, I was having my

photo taken at the staff stuck into a cairn that marks

the highest point in the state (14,433’). A gaggle of

happy climbers, mostly young, milled about,

chattering and laughing. In every direction, the vistas

are stunning. The land is a symphony of mountains

and forests, lakes and rivers. From far above the tree-

line, the pine forest resembles a thick, dark-green

carpet. The lakes glisten darkly like shards of mica in

the sun.

As any climber can tell you (but as for me, if the

climb requires more than a sturdy pair of hiking

shoes, I’m not up for it), coming down a mountain is

the more risky part of the climb. Fatigue and

inattention can combine to make the descent

treacherous. I still bear two partially healed scrapes.

The campground was welcome that night.

In the wild, the change from high-tech comfort and

convenience to primal living arrests our attention.

Food tastes better when we are starved for calories and

must take some trouble to prepare it. Fret over

calories? It’s hard to eat enough. Water soaks into us.

We notice the effort to do things we take for granted

at home. One could not camp without sound knees;

there is too much crouching and getting up. We sleep

better when fatigue consumes us. The first cup of

coffee in the morning is sheer delight.

After Mount Elbert, I was bound for the beauty of the

alpine areas. The guidebook to the Colorado Trail

identifies the segments north of Durango as the best

places to see wildflowers in bloom. I drove south and

west, heading for segments twenty-five to twenty-seven.

After a night in the vehicle in a pouring rain in Pagosa

Springs, just east of Durango, I drove into the

mountains south of Durango on a bumpy gravel road.

The sign said, “Four Wheel Drive Vehicles Only,” and

I have that capability. But still I was scared off by the

bumping and scraping on the boulders and deep ruts.

I parked the vehicle and hiked three hours and seven

miles to get above the tree-line. It was worth it.

Wildflowers in gorgeous profusion bedecked the

mountain flanks – vast fields of reds, yellows, blues

and whites, with the flirtatious and proud columbines,

the prettiest of all, scattered about in stately, delicate

handfuls of mauve beauty.

On another hike into the alpine, sometimes through

fields of flowers, waist-high, I encountered a through-

hiker who had only three days left in his hike of the

entire length of the Trail. He was twenty-two, strong-

legged and eager to talk to somebody. We talked about

Africa (he had been there with his parents at age

eleven), photography and close calls in the wild (he

said a lightning storm on a mountain top on the

current trip had almost killed him). The conversation

ended only when an angry cloud dumped hail on us.

The final alpine hike was on a trail into Yankee Boy

Basin. Yankee Boy is a cirque, a magical amphitheater

of mountains, draped in snow slides and decorated

with wildflowers. A river cascades through the Basin

and a waterfall tumbles down the center of the

mountainous semicircle. At the top of the trail, a

Are YOU in it? 19

serene alpine lake lies nestled among the peaks.

Arguably, the Basin is one of the prettiest places in the

state. I lingered for some time at the snow-encircled

lake, mesmerized, taking photos of the lovely setting.

Perhaps I should mention in passing that I stopped in

Aspen for an afternoon. It was Friday, a lovely day,

and the resort town was very busy. To get into the

ranger station to ask directions to a campground I had

to make a left turn. Who knows how long I would

have had to wait for a break in the traffic had not

some cowboy in a 4 x 4 pickup waved me through?

The place is a bustle of chic people, a stylish

madhouse. Gas was $5.10 a gallon. But the mountain

falls to the foot of the town – a lovely setting for the

madness.

I camped at Lost Man campground, well out of Aspen.

Drawn by the beauty of the setting, I hiked a trail in

the area for hours before dark, taking photos as my

mood and the vistas beckoned.

The next day, I headed for Mount Evans, a 14er near

Denver, a rocky ridge of several peaks. But I cheated

on Mount Evans, driving up to Summit Lake at

12,800’. There I slept in the vehicle. It is chilly at that

altitude and one draws a deep breath from time to

time. But the climb in the morning, a boulder-

scramble of some 1,500’ to the peak at one end of

the ridge, was not too difficult. I was lucky enough to

see a mountain goat, unconcerned about me, feeding

nearby as I hiked past. I sat on the top for a long

time, absorbing the vistas of mountainous terrain as

far as the distant horizon.

When I got back to the vehicle, I drove, among the

stream of tourists – also reaching out to touch the

wild – up the steep and narrow road to the far end of

the summit ridge. People stopped to ogle three

mountain sheep feeding idly along the road. For the

crowd of tourists, the vistas at the top were no less

bewitching.

After hiking among the ancient bristlecone pines on

the flanks of Mount Evans, I was bound for home.

The long drive – with two nights in campgrounds in

Nebraska and Iowa – was much easier than the drive

out had been.�

Genius by Christopher Woods


Peapod by Peter Bates

Are YOU in it? 21


Powers of the Full Moon

—Diane M Deifel

The hospital called again and asked Rachel to work an

extra night shift even though she was tired from a hard

day at home. To make matters worse, there was a full

moon and as every nurse knows, it was going to be a

hard night when there is a full moon playing its games

on the patients minds.

As was her custom, she took a nap just prior to going

to work. She wanted to be sure that she was alert for

her patients. On this Saturday evening she was so

tired when she lay down that she actually fell asleep.

When she awoke, she found she slept a little longer

then she planned and was running late.

Her white two piece skirted uniform was hanging on

the door, so she hurriedly washed her face and began

getting dressed. While glancing at the clock, she put

on her white nylon’s, her white nursing shoes then

grabbed the uniform jacket and put it on as she ran

out the door to her car.

Rachel wanted to bring donuts for her co-workers, so

she stopped at the all night bakery. There was only

one other customer and the guy behind the counter

when she got to the shop. She waited patiently for the

counter man to wait on the other customer. Rachel

noticed that the man standing next to her kept looking

in the direction of her legs. How rude of him, she

thought and she turned her back on him, trying to

eliminate any opportunity for him to engage her in

conversation.

He finally finished his purchase and left. Then she

turned her attention to the donuts and the clerk who

was addressing her. She selected a variety of donuts so

her fellow employees would have a choice. The donut

man packaged them up and she was on her way.

Arriving at the hospital, she was exactly on time.

Rachel used the back entrance, because it was closer to

the time-clock. Running into the building she was met

by her fellow employee Jim the engineer punching in.

She waited her turn, hoping the clock would not tic

away, making her one minute late.

Jim put his timecard in the rack and said. “Hi

Rachel, you’re looking good tonight.” Jim was a

teaser, so she ignored his attempt at flirting. Jim

repeated what he had said. “Hi Rachel, you’re

looking really good tonight, going casual ha!”

“I don’t have time for this Jim, I’ve got to keep

moving, and it’s late.” Rachel said with exasperation

in her voice.

“Well, you’d better make a little time; I don’t think

you want to go onto work looking like that.” Jim

said.

Rachel stopped in her tracks. She saw the stupid grin

on his face. “What in the world are you talking

about?”

He continued to grin as he stared at her legs. Her

eyes drifted down towards her legs and her face

flushed with color.

There she was standing, half dressed. She was

wearing her white shoes, white nylon and a jacket.

She forgot to put on her skirt.

“Oh shoot, now what am I going to do?” she said

with a tinge of hysteria in her voice. Time no longer

was important. It was her embarrassment as well as

her lower body that needed covering up.

Irritating Jim stepped in to save the day. He said.

“Rachel if you go up to the maternity floor, they have

scrubs you can put on for the night. It would save

you a trip home.”

“That’s a great idea Jim,” Rachel replied, “I am so

embarrassed, this has never happened before.”

Then Jim came up with a second suggestion. “Why

don’t you go directly to your work station with those

donuts? I’ll get the scrubs and bring them to you in

exchange for one donut.

“Oh would you Jim that would be wonderful. There

Are YOU in it? 23

is no sense in anyone else seeing me like this.”

Rachel ran towards the stairwell in hopes of avoiding

any other preying eyes. On the way to her nursing

station, she suddenly realized why the customer at the

donut shop was giving her the eye. “How

embarrassing, and to think I thought he was trying to

pick me up,” she said to the empty stairwell. He was

probably trying to think of a way to tell me to go

home and finish getting dressed.

A short time later, Jim showed up with the clean

scrubs. He got his donut and everyone else got a

good laugh. Heck it wasn’t so bad, just a little

embarrassing. When you think about it, it is a

miracle it doesn’t happen more often to night shift

workers. As it turned out, it wasn’t the patients that

were affected by the full moon that night, it was the

nurse. That dreaded full moon, did have some

surprising powers.

Diane M. Deifel has always a been a

day dreamer with an active imagination.

Her professional career in nursing was

fulfilling but her restless mind led her back

to college where she discovered an ability to

use her imagination for creative writing.

Her career and other life experiences has

lead to much of her work.

Bliss

Some things you can’t look at

can’t look away from

can’t get out of your head

stopped at a traffic light

I look down

black and white and bleeding out

a small cat lies

already dead

and doesn’t know it

golden bell about her neck

jingles with every move

she had belonged

to someone

she washes her face

genetically instructed

to perform this final act

of macabre grooming

pink tongue licking

pink paws stroking

she purrs a death rattle

ignorant of the inevitable

numb to life

blooming out of her

looking into green eyes

glazing over

you’d hardly notice

hind quarters severed

legs tossed casually

onto the median

or how the gutter

runs crimson now

some things you can’t get rid of

even after all those years

as you fasten my necklace

as I straighten your tie

I hear her purr.

—Carla Martin-Wood

Copper Cut Road, Santa Rita Range

Late shadows glide over the desertscape.

They scuttle over sun-ripened larkspur,

drift through cutbanks and the lithic scatter

of vanquished tribes. Some shadows once ferried

their survival across the last ice age.

Other shadows have long since left the earth,

as if they had resigned their tenure here,

coming to lie still in canyons or caves

where they overlapped, waiting for thunder.

—Jeffrey C. Alfier


Photo by Carrie Crow

Are YOU in it? 25

PPPPIIIICCCCTTTTUUUURRRREEEE PPPPOOOOSSSSTTTTCCCCAAAARRRRDDDDSSSS

My toes turn yellow, then orange, and then crumble off inside my shoes.

Every October, I stagger around like a new drunk, convinced my life is over

and done with. My hair falls out, circling in a V formation above me, before

flying south. My skin dries up, becoming beige or yellow, and my arms, fingers,

hands crash to the ground like fleshy apples, fodder for the late night

deer.

Another year slips out the back door without as much as a goodbye,

leaving me to stare out the windows as the world collapses into picture

postcards. It would help if I grew in wisdom or knowledge, but I simply know

less than I did a year ago, and I’m more certain of that.

As the afternoon carries pieces of me out under the night sky, this

string of breath I hold frays a bit, pulling me forward, though all I want to

do is go back.

—David JamesDavid JamesDavid JamesDavid James


The

All-too-Human

Extraterrestrial

Crisis

I was now medicated enough to not panic as the

craft’s lights penetrated the curtains of my

bedroom window. I got up, put on my boots and

fleece jacket and walked outside. The large silver

flying saucer hovered in my backyard, no louder

than a refrigerator. The hatch at the bottom of

the craft slowly opened making a hissing sound

and out he came, lithe and greenish with a larger

than usual head. He had big black oval-shaped

eyes, which, for the first time ever, seemed to

express emotion. He’d been abducting me for

years to study my teeth and his demeanor had

always been methodical—not cold, but business-

like, until tonight. Was it sadness? Depression? It

was definitely something out of the ordinary.

Our communication didn’t involve words

but it was as clear as if words were spoken.

“You ready for me?” I asked reluctantly.

“No,” he said. He looked down and shook

his head. “No. I don’t think so.”

I was pleased. My teeth were still sore from

the last time he visited. “What’s wrong?” I asked,

feigning empathy. “You seem down.”

“You ever questioned what you were doing

with your life?”

“Sure.” I shrugged. “Everyone does, at

times.”

“Yeah, I guess. You have any idea how old

it gets studying teeth all night?”

“I bet,” I said, nodding. “So, what’s your

passion?” I just blurted that out like a high school

counselor, probably in an attempt to lift his spirits.

“Crop circles,” he said, shaking his head

incredulously. “Listen to me. Like I’m going to

give up my research agenda to become an

artestrial.” I had learned enough about the

nuances of his communication to deduce that

artestrial must stand for extraterrestrial artist.

Artestrials, apparently, are responsible for creating

crop circles.

He fiddled nervously with his long fingers.

“I guess I shouldn’t complain, though,” he said,

“researching teeth is better than mutilating cattle.”

He didn’t use the word mutilating but I

knew what he meant. Although, I found the

comment strange considering how I hadn’t read

about cattle mutilation in many years. I figured

that it must be an extraterrestrial idiom, similar to

me saying, At least I’m not a telemarketer.

“It would be a sacrifice,” I said, “making

such a big career change.”

“Yep,” he said. He looked off to the side as

if something caught his attention. I looked too but

there was nothing there. Then it dawned on me

that he might be crying. “Yep,” he said again,

avoiding eye contact. “Anyway, I just wanted you

to know that I won’t be visiting anymore.”

“My molars thank you,” I said, relieved.

But then I felt bad and wished I said something

like, I’ll miss you, but we both knew that would’ve

been a lie.

He made a funny gesture with his hand,

which I took to mean a wave goodbye. So I waved

and said goodbye.

Then I walked back inside my house, got in

bed and pulled the covers snug up to my chin.

—Russ Curtis

Are YOU in it? 27

Photo: Blue Object by Peter Schwartz


To Soar

I wish I were a bird, a powerful eagle, maybe a

white dove, or I’d settle for being a goose

because a gaggle of geese are a cohesive lot that

support one another as they fly in V formation

with each taking a turn in the lead to cut a

trough through the air as the others ride in the

wake which enables them to rest and ultimately

fly farther like we could have so that we could

attain potentials never reached before in this

little world of endless sorrow and woe that I

am locked into and keeps me wishing to soar

as you in your world seem to have it all and go

about your days smiling in secrecy and leave

me alone to hold together the fraying bits of

our lives without so much as gratitude because

we simply do not speak; you for fear that you

might make a slip of the tongue about where

you’ve been and me because I’ve remained a

caged, frail prisoner of conscience far too long,

but now I plan to soar because I followed your

car with me the free bird driving mine until I

saw where you lay low yet could not reason

why; while I remained at a distance imagining

you experiencing stolen moments of ecstasy

that do not include me because you and I have

lost the desire to feather the same nest except

when you drop your dirty social laundry on me

and expect me to protect your public image

once more which makes me again wish to be

any unencumbered bird and all too often I do

escape to soar above the rooftops and trees and

into the clouds to feel the wind and rain

cleansing me of your indiscretions and

restoring the life that is mine which is freer

than yours in your clandestine little world

because it is exactly that, little, as I being in

denial flying in my car follow you night after

night as if I have to feel the pain again and

again to make me stop my escapism and to free

myself from the confines you have built to

keep me grounded so I can truly be that

graceful bird soaring up and away from the

state of confusion that you have brought upon

us because out there where I am free I have

found new strength through the grace of

imagined autonomy that gives me courage to

hover again and again near that house where I

watch the shadows on the blinds and see the

lights go out and later come back on dimly just

before you leave to return home as if you

owned the world in which I also live and

where my imaginary flights have strengthened

me as I plan to soar and no matter that I am

awkward like a goose, all you will be left with

after this free bird swoops down is the mess

that I’m about to drop on you.

—Mary Deal

Are YOU in it? 29

Hawk in Full Strike by Jim Fuess


Sunflower Dreams by Linda Woods

Are YOU in it? 31

By This Time Tomorrow,

I’ll Be Gone

She wore his sweater that night just before passion

inflamed its exile. It was warm… as it is now, though

tattered as was once unbeaten, and the conveyance

paralyzed the repertoire of imagery. The lasting heat

of his body pressed the wool draping the frailty of her

form as the interconnection of his scent bestowed a

fragrance of recent past… for the journey she knew all

too well, was one of the heart. He no longer lived

within sweater threads. He lived only in her memory.

Through a tired dusting of slivered illumination,

Juniper dimmed beneath puddled shafts of ocher,

allowing her fingers a trace meditation, and as she

traveled rivulets, seeping in steady flow… the whole of

the world wept beside her. Sinking deeper into grief,

her eyes followed listlessly. The hum of his voice and

the vagueness of his face, everything seemed to fade.

Within moonlit streams, lost reflections bow in

prismatic dance, and a sullen air of guileful silver rain

trembles the story.

That morning Juniper woke, as usual to the right side

of the bed… the other now lay empty as if a spiteful

game of white linens and downy cushions. Charily

meditating a propensity of thought, memories fade

into life’s obscurity as if never captured, as if they had

always belonged to someone else who would ascend

above the world, prospering in the hearts of many.

She wept that afternoon, on the anniversary of love’s

evocation and the newness of his death, though she

returned to the market as usual. She went alone, as

did she return. She wept before the strangers and in

the face of childhood familiarity, teaching her feet to

blind the journey while her heart endured the truth.

Entering the market and its bustle of anxious

customers, she looked briefly to the woman standing,

nearly hidden, behind a large counter of outdated

newspaper, candlewicks, shoe polish, and a number of

miscellaneous items strangely co-inhabiting the same

dingy shelving.

The tawny bruise lounging in the shadows of her left

eye was prominent; her nails chipped of color in

pauper’s polish, though from the swollen air

splattering her ripened appearance, she seemed to

have found peace in her just solidarity. Her shadows--

black as night, carried the luggage of her life-- showed

evidence of caramel dust. It smudged beneath

without her acknowledgment, but the coverage was

intentional as baker’s powder smeared the green

apron that strangled her waist. A residual print of

ground wheat like painted hands on children’s

sidewalks, struggled to conceal endurance. The man

in the corner slumped brittle with experience, panting

his cloud of cherry smoke, appeared undaunted by

the day. He glanced upward, both curious and

fleeting... his once prevalent sparkle, all but vanished.

Tears stained Juniper’s face as it began to rain, a dark

curtain of profound symbolism draped idle by the

hands of fate.

She clasped her slender hands over her mouth and

thinks of her skin, examining its delicate surface that

is wiser than yesterday. Her eyes widen with grief,

though remained expressionless to the world of

ignorance, and the rusty bell dangling freely from its

market door playground overhead, chimed her

departure.

A silent crescendo of sympathy in the demand of fear

and solitude.

Golden tendrils of hair brush an ivory smoothness

that he once said was, “God sent,” and then discovers

the sullen arch of her spine, drifting into ringlets that

descend.

The memory wept inside as if clandestine curios that

wither with dreams at sunrise, orphaned to the

boundaries of a bed pillow.

I am the blossom, though no one is here to record the sounds

a heart makes when it is breaking… no one sits in quiet

observation to the rhythm composed while living. I am the

vine at my flowers base, an imploration rooted to a divine

fragrance amongst distant fields of beauty and grandeur… as

distant as the hidden petals waiting inside my wedding dress

pocket.

—Sara A. Harris


Faces, Quirks, and Personality —Mary Deal

Only twenty basic faces or facial structures exist

throughout the world. I read this somewhere and it

caused me to look deeper at the characters about

which I both read and wrote. Fortunately, many

variations of these twenty faces exist.

One story I read described the heroine as a raven-

haired beauty with emerald eyes. Since we draw upon

personal memories of people who resemble these

descriptions, that one caused me to imagine a stately

woman with black hair, green eyes, and a milky

complexion.

Some time later, I read the same simple description in

another story. Wow, this woman gets around.

In order to create characters that are not mirror

images of all the rest, we need to further define them,

maybe give them some quirks.

What if the raven-haired beauty with green eyes had a

birthmark on her cheek? Not a dark one, but

noticeable enough as to make her feel insecure from

childhood on? That would make her different in so

many ways. Her insecurity might cause her to have a

timid personality, something she needed to overcome

in her adult years.

Suppose she was so high-strung that she stuttered

when excited, stuttered to the point of getting on

people's nerves. Her personality would certainly be

different than that of a demure beauty with a

birthmark.

If this woman was perfect in every way, and doted

upon as a child and her beauty exemplified, she would

have a different outlook, perhaps an overweening

personality. She would have different life obstacles to

overcome.

A single quirk can define the personality of any

character.

We writers must make our characters different from

all the rest, no matter how common they begin. The

ways we make them different affects their

personalities. And what is a character without a

distinct personality? Be diligent and give your

characters variances, but be careful to give them the

types of quirks that will define their persona as needed

in the plot.�

Scene Changes —Mary Deal

A scene ends when the action ends or the

conversation can add no more to that part of the

story. Maybe one scene is in the grocery store; the next

scene is outside on the docks. Usually when a huge

shift in location happens, you begin a new chapter.

(Don't try to write a sequel to "My Dinner with

Andre" which happened totally in one scene at the

dinner table. It's been done and was successful

because the actors were good.)

When you end a scene, leave the reader wondering

what could happen next and wanting to read further.

It's called a cliff hanger. Leave something unfinished,

like a threat of action yet to happen and we can see

one character gearing up to do some dirty work. The

reader wonders what could possible happen next?

And so they keep turning pages.

Or maybe it's a romance and you end the scene with

two people simply staring into each others' eyes

wondering if they could work as a couple.

When you move to the next scene, jump into the

middle of it. Use very little narration to set the scene.

Best is to knit the action, narration and dialogue

together.

Depending on how you present your story, you do not

need to have each new scene be a result of another. In

other words, that cute couple I just mentioned are

staring into each other's eyes. You wouldn't and

shouldn't start you next chapter with them in a new

location, still cuddling up to get to know each other.

Once you introduce that they are mutually attracted,

the next scene (the whole story middle) should have

action that pulls them apart. Every couple has baggage

Are YOU in it? 33

Sleep and Creativity —Mary Deal

Want to wake in the morning with more creativity?

Then pay attention to what’s on your mind when you

fall asleep.

Research has proven that the mind uses its most

recent daytime images and thoughts to create dreams.

So, too, the mind produces the mood with which you

wake after sleeping.

No matter what story you work on, do not think

about it as you fall asleep. Instead, before going to

bed, do something to put you in a relaxed state. Play

some soothing music, preferably without vocals,

which can plant new thoughts. Yoga, maybe? Or

walking? If you're one of those people who fall into

bed exhausted, then concentrate only on your

breathing. Then trust your mind to work on what’s

necessary since you’ve put it at ease.

The state you wish to create for your mind is one that

you have not directed. The mind knows what’s

necessary, better than you know what’s important.

Get into the habit of allowing your mind to work for

you.

You’ve heard the saying, “I’ll sleep on it.” Then the

person goes about doing something else. In the

morning, the answer comes. It’s the same principle.

Trust your mind. �

Mary Deal is the author of three published novels, “The

Tropics,” “The Ka” and “River Bones” (available at

amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.com.) She has written

numerous stories and articles and her website is a valuable

resource for writers: www.writeanygenre.com. Mary was a

2009 Pushcart Prize nominee.

The Dewdrop Its dome discusses horizon to horizon in reflection, in its voice the sun's echo. A cloud hangs inside the glass bead suspended from a grass blade -- the crystal ball mirrors a cricket's superstitious eye, foretells drizzle of leaves as if each dangled from a spider's thread, until unreeled groundward. The breeze fogs this image with the breath of spoiled apples. So many years in a season condense, speak in the scent of crawlers' inching through walls of wine and rust, then the ball clears: a winding worm is a high rise against the skyline, says the dew in whose mirror a small circle of sun suddenly drops into the shadow of thrush wings. Darkness and the moon step into the conversation: a stride of history exhaled as morning mist. —- Henry Louis Shifrin

to air before they become a couple. Regardless

what background or location you place them in,

the action must be lively.

Keep the idea of a cliff hanger in mind when

you finish your chapters.

Cliff hanger = An exciting hint of things to

come; something to make the reader want to

know more.�


Life Imitating Art Imitating Life

Emmiline sat at her computer thinking about plot.

Suppose, she thought, the timid, middle-aged, protagonist

had an obnoxious daughter— someone completely self-

absorbed, rude, in the way that only a teenager

could be? The contrast might lend itself to good

drama. As Emmiline was beginning to sketch the

possibilities out in her mind, her own daughter

Trudy entered the room.

“I need to get on the computer” Trudy said. She

reached over and took the mouse from her mother’s

hand, while simultaneously nudging her out of the

chair with an Abercrombie and Fitch clad knee.

Emmiline demurred sheepishly—she’d never felt her

writing should be given the same priority as her

daughter’s homework or her husband’s business

correspondence. She moved into the den to work

out her ideas. There was no reason she couldn’t

write the old fashioned way. She sat down on the

sofa with a notebook and soon began clicking her

ball point pen thoughtfully.

What if the relationship between the main character and

the daughter was completely dysfunctional? The

daughter taking a position of power within the

house, making constant demands when it came to

supper menus and the family’s vacation plans. The

mother could be a complete enabler, scurrying

around in the daughter’s shadow, picking up after

her, afraid to set the slightest of limits. Emmiline

shifted on the sofa. One of the cushions moved,

revealing one of Trudy’s half-eaten chocolate bars,

melted and bleeding into the suede covering. She put

her pen down and rushed for a damp cloth. She

scrubbed the spot again and again, but it only grew

larger and dingier. Emmiline felt her own resentment

swell in unison.

But suppose, something were to happen to change the

relationship? she thought. It would have to be

something dramatic. Something big.

How, for example, might the daughter react if her

mother had inoperable cancer? Might she snap out of

her self-absorption long enough for a meaningful

reconciliation? Would the tables finally turn? Would

the girl bring the mother tea in bed? Ask for

forgiveness?

Emmiline wondered and wondered how the girl

would react, if at all? Would she cry? Wring her

hands? It had to be authentic—nothing over-the-top.

But how do you gauge the capacity of the human

heart? Especially a damaged heart like that one. A

slow smile crept over Emmiline’s face.

“Trudy!” she called out now.

“What?!!” screeched the ingrate from the computer

room.

“Come into the den,” Emmiline called back.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

It was fascinating to watch the knees buckling. And

she never would have known to include the

hyperventilating.

“Are you going to die?!!” her daughter sobbed.

“Maybe” Emmiline said, her pen poised.

—Alison Bullock

Are YOU in it? 35

A serial killer

terrorizes residents

among the lush

orchards and

farmlands of

California’s

Sacramento River

Delta. Sara Mason is

a woman whose

destiny has brought

her back home to

the Delta, but her

decision may lead

her down a path

lined with danger

and straight into the

arms of a madman

in this captivating

thriller.

Read more about River Bones and order paperback, hardcover, or eBook copies from her Web site: http://www.writeanygenre.com/mystery-novels.html Mary Deal's official Web site: http://www.WriteAnyGenre.com

Visit the Novels Section for Rave Reviews of River Bones, a thriller, just released in paperback ISBN 0-595-48172-8 and hardcover ISBN 0-595-71751-4. Author Mary Deal is a 2009 Pushcart Prize Nominee.

Author Mary Deal


Author/Artist Biographies

(in the order they were received)

Guy Kettelhack has authored, co-authored or contributed to

more than 30 nonfiction books. His poetry has appeared in over

25 print and online journals, including Van Gogh’s Ear, Melic

Review, New Pleiades, Malleable Jangle, WORM 33, Das Alchymist

Poetry Review, the PK list, The Rose & Thorn, Heretics & Half-Lives,

Desert Moon Review, Hiss Quarterly, Juked, Anon, Umbrella Journal,

Mississippi Crow and The Chimaera. He lives in NYC.

Carla Martin-Wood’s second chapbook, Garden of Regret, is

forthcoming from Pudding House Press,

and she is currently working on her third

book. Her poems have appeared in the

US and Ireland since 1978, including

Mississippi Crow, Rosebud, The Clapboard

House, The Linnet’s Wings, ken*again,

Soundzine, The Lyric, IBPC: New Poetry

Voices, Up the Staircase, Flutter, Cherry

Blossom Review, Oak Bend Review, State

Street Review, Aura, Songs from the Web,

Astarte, Elk River Review, Goblin Fruit, and many other journals.

With a 13-year background in theatre, she has performed her

work from The University of the South at Sewanee to Greenwich

Village, and at many galleries, colleges, civic organizations and

coffeehouses in between. She is a 2008 Pushcart Prize nominee,

an in-house reader for Soundzine, and maintains a virtual open

mic at Smoky Joe’s Café on her website at The Well RedHead:

http:thewellreadhead.googlepages.com

Myrna Dupre’ Badgerow is a graduate of The Louisiana School

for the Blind and makes her home in the bayou country of

southern Louisiana. She enjoys writing, reading, and spending

time with her family.

She was nominated for the prestigious 2008 Pushcart award by

the editors of Mississippi Crow magazine, named 2004's Poet of the

Year at The Writing Forum as well as Poet of the Month in 2003

and 2006. She also has a credit as lyricist as one of my poems has

been recorded in spoken word format on a CD by the band

Against the Wall.

Myrna’s first book of poetry, My Words, My Thoughts, My Heart

(ISBN 1413726992) was released in July 2004. A second book,

Conjunctions of Invisible Breath, is a collaborative collection of short

verse, released in 2007. More of her work has appeared in several

literary magazines, including Distant Echoes, Stellar Showcase

Journal, Mississippi Crow, and Trellis Magazine. She has also been

featured on numerous online venues.

Justin Hyde lives in Iowa where he works as a correctional officer.

He’s had poems published in a broad spectrum of magazines

ranging from the New York Quarterly and The Iowa Review to

hundreds of on line zines. More of his published work can be

viewed here: http://www.nyqpoets.net/poet/justinhyde.

C.P. Stewart lives with his family in North Yorkshire. Formerly

singer/songwriter with the cult band Laughing Gravy, his

poetry has been widely published in England, Canada and the

United States. He is currently Poetry Editor for Sotto Voce Arts

and Literary magazine (U.S.) For further information please visit:

www.cpstewart-poet.co.uk.

Janet Butler: A native of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Janet and

Fulmi-dog transferred to the Bay Area,

California, after living for many years in central

Italy. While in Italy the artist participated in

numerous group exhibitions, both regionally

and nationally. One of her portraits was

featured in the Art Clinic, The Artist's Magazine,

December, 2003, and she won various

recognitions for her watercolors while living in

Italy.

Jim Fuess works with liquid acrylic paint on canvas. Most of his

work is abstract, but there are recognizable forms and faces in a

number of the paintings. He is am striving for grace and

fluidity, movement and balance. His painting technique

involves using squeeze bottles with different viscosities of liquid

paint, two brands of paint, and a number of interchangeable

nozzles of different apertures. Website: www.jimfuessart.com.

Jim Fuess was on the Executive Board of Directors and Vice

President for Visual Arts at the Watchung Arts Center from

1993 through 1999. He is the Chairperson and Founder of the

New Art Group (NAG). Jim Fuess has curated or been

responsible for 94 art shows at the Watchung Arts Center and

35 shows for the New Art Group. He was the curator for art

shows, in his hometown, at the Berkeley Heights Library.

James Keane resides in northern New Jersey with his wife and

son and a menagerie of merry pets. His poems

have appeared recently in The Tipton Poetry

Journal, Mississippi Crow, Gold Dust, Sage Trail,

Mirrors, and the Silver Boomers anthology,

Freckles to Wrinkles. He was proud to read a

poem he dedicated to his wife called “My Hero”

at the open reading at the Geraldine R. Dodge

Poetry Festival, held this past September at

Waterloo Village in western New Jersey.

In 2004, Wendy Brown-Baez released her poetry CD Longing for

Home and since then, has performed poetry nationally and in

Mexico, in unique venues such as cafes, galleries, schools, and

cultural centers, solo and in collaborations. She has published

poetry in dozens of literary journals including Issue 7 of

Are YOU in it? 37

Mississippi Crow, Borderlands, Out of Line,

The Litchfield Review, The Awakenings

Review, Blue Collar Review, Sin Fronteras,

Wising Up Press, Minnetonka Review,

Mizna, and on-line journals Lunarosity,

and Flask and Pen. Her collection of love

poems sensual and celestial, Ceremonies of the Spirit, is due out by

Valetine's Day by Plain View Press. Wendy is the creator of

Writing Circles for Healing writing workshops. She received a

2008 McKnight grant to teach a bilingual writing/performance

workshop. For more info: www.wendybrownbaez.com

Sara A. Harris was born and raised in the heart of the Midwest,

and launched her childhood affection for writing by jamming the

keys of her mother’s Smith Corona typewriter. Boasting a

versatility of literary fiction/nonfiction for Children,

Juvenile/YA, and adult readership, she continues the avid pursuit

of establishing her lifelong aspiration one story at a time. In

2007, Sara A. Harris received an Editor’s Choice Award for

outstanding artistry by a poet, and in 2008, was selected as one of

fourteen applicants to attend Simon Van Booy’s writing

workshop. Her creative works have appeared in several

publications, including print and online media.

Alison Bullock's short stories have appeared in the 2005 Momaya

Anuual Review, Boston Literary Magazine and Every Day Fiction. She

lives in Massachusetts with her husband and three children. Her

email address is as follows: [email protected]

David James' new full-length book is forthcoming

from March Street Press, She Dances Like Mussolini,

24 years after his first book was published. His one-

act plays have been produced in New York,

Massachusetts, and California. He teaches for

Oakland Community College in Michigan.

Linda and Christopher Woods own Moonbird Hill Arts and live

in Houston and Chappell Hill, Texas. Many of their recent

photos are taken at or in the near vicinity of their farmhouse in

Chappell Hill.

Linda is an art teacher, metalsmith, and ceramicist. She has

been active in photography for many years and studied with

photographer, George Krause. She has a degree in Fine arts and

also studied at Penland School of Crafts and Arrowmont School

of Crafts. One of Linda’s passions in photography is to

photograph animals in a way that tries to capture their spirit or

soul through a photo.

Christopher teaches creative writing to adults and is fairly new

to photography. He has received residencies at The Ucross

Foundation in Wyoming, and The Edward Albee Foundation in

New York. Among his published works are a prose collection,

Under A Riverbed Sky, and a collection of stage monologues for

actors, Heartspeak.

Pat O'Regan was born and raised in a small town in Minnesota,

Pat has remained in the state but for a tour in the Army and a

stint teaching at a small college in upstate

New York. His first career was as a

biology instructor. Worn out from that,

he began a second career as a business

writer. On the side, he nurtured a

passion for literature, writing his first

novel and collection of short stories.

With enough funds to slip the role of a

starving artist, he set out on his third

career – as a full-time writer of whatever

he wanted. Pat has written three novels, three collections of

short stories and many articles. A handful of the short stories

and many of the articles have been published.

Russ Curtis lives and writes in Fletcher, NC, and

teaches at Western Carolina University. His

creative work has appeared or is forthcoming in

Timber Creek Review, Mississippi Crow, and

Metabolism, among others. More often than not,

Russ double-knots his shoelaces. This has more to

do with comfort than safety.

Carrie Crow: Carrie Crow’s photographs have

appeared in numerous international

magazines. She lives in Paris.

Shawn Nacona Stroud's poetry has appeared in

the Crescent Moon Journal, Mississippi Crow

Magazine, Loch Raven Review, The Poetry Worm, and

Here and Now. His work has appeared in the

poetry anthologies Poetry Pages Vol IV and Poetry

From The Darkside Vol 2 and was recently

nominated for the Pushcart Prize for 2008.

After years of writing and painting, Peter Schwartz has moved

to another medium: photography. In the past his work's been

featured in many prestigious print and online

journals including: Existere, Failbetter, Hobart,

International Poetry Review, Red Wheelbarrow, Reed,

and Willard & Maple. Doing interviews,

collaborating with other artists, and pushing the

borders of creativity, his mission is to broaden the

ways the world sees art. Visit his online gallery at:

www.sitrahahra.com.

Henry Louis Shifrin resides in St. Louis, MO with his wife

Julie, daughter Josie and son Ezra. He studied creative writing

(fiction, poetry and playwriting) at the University of Maryland,

College Park. He now works in software development,


Journal of a Drowning Man

Episode the First

When last we saw our hero, Nigel, he was drinking

himself sodden in a pub. With no regard for his

family or friends, he took his dubious pleasures

where he found them. More than anything, he

enjoyed insulting strangers.

There were morons in the house. No doubt they

wanted their money back, too. That made them

worse than morons. It made them morongs.

Nigel lowered his cap brim over his eyes as he

muttered into his empty glass, "They've come to the

wrong place then, haven't they?"

As one of the larger morongs lifted him by the

scruff of the neck, Nigel cursed him roundly until

blows from the witless herd rained down upon his

face.

Once they tired of thrashing him, Nigel managed

to eke out a retort. "See here," he mumbled,

spitting out a bloody tooth, "is that any way to treat

your Daddy?"

Episode the Second

In an airport lounge on the fifth of May, in

Cuernavaca, Nigel sat with both his elbows on the

bar and furtively admired the dusky barmaid.

Her one gold tooth was very appealing. It glittered

when she smiled, which was all the time.

He had almost persuaded himself that it was a good

idea to ask for a referral to her dentist. But she had

already slapped him once.

Too many of his personal encounters of late were

turning violent for no apparent reason.

Episode the Third

The eyes of a mental incompetent stared back at him

as he washed his face and the thought passed

through him that he was not that man he saw

recidivating along toward the departed buzzland of

afternoons in the basking sunny brightness of earlier

Februaries, when all to the pad flew Nigel's most

earnest thoughts, in sentences graphic with

shimmering tremors and voices pluperfect of speech.

(The talent of one so young, in so slight ways gone

awry.)

Episode the Fourth

Meditations on the word "if"

If he had gone into politics instead of sales..

If he had just learned how to play the guitar...

If he had forced himself to read more women

poets...

If he had not, at an early age, fallen in love with

danger...

If he had been less selfish altogether and more

concerned with the feelings of others…

Nigel, at the brink of self-discovery, lay alone in a

motel room without cable, watching talk shows and

contemplating the indicators that his very existence

was, at best, insignificant.

If he was not even the center of his own universe,

then…

Unable to defragment his brainpan long enough to

form a thought, Nigel covered his face with a sweaty

pillow and tried to remember who he was before he

was locked in the room with no booze.

Episode the Fifth

In Nigel's dream a phone was ringing. Someone was

trying to call him, perhaps with an offer of

employment. But he was not available to take the

call because he was asleep.

Are YOU in it? 39

Life and Death

Death reeked across the valley in disfiguration, as the

tides rose onto the bleak shore.

She was the sole survivor on the island -- the queen of

mile-long loneliness in the midst of rubbles. A host of

morbid leaves once embracing the burnt driftwood

next to the corroded pebbles now crowned her in sar-

casm. The piece of ochre log was soon washed-away by

the salty waves and then the leaves dried and shattered

into dust. Her footsteps on the sand also perished as

the water departed.

These episodes of saline fury brought about newer

forms of struggles for her each day, and any invention

or idea to defeat the monstrous waves would break

down into shambles early next morning. A dam shat-

tered like trampled matchsticks, and her straw abode

dispersed into scattered bundles on the beach now

studded with starfish.

So she ran into the cave, where the water rose from

below to sink her; and then she fled to the mountains,

where the scorching rays struck with no sympathy

amidst the blighted rocks, and a bald eagle stared con-

tinuously with lust. Then she dashed again, glaring at

the slithering rattler hungrily.

These occurrences of despondency only reset the clock

back to the beginning in her attempts to build a life,

while life never really stopped. Soon wrinkles formed

below her fatigued eyes, and her bones became old,

fragile.

Yet she lingered on from one spot to another, to live

half dead.

—Fariel Shafee

C’mon folks, what’re ya waiting for?

Order your print copies online of this

and/or past issues of the Mississippi

Crow magazine for family and friends at:

http://stores.lulu.com/RiverMuse

All contributors to the Mississippi Crow

Magazine will receive as payment, an e-

book copy of the issue in which their

work appears and a free listing of their

website as space allows.

Sandee Lyles

Sun Sneezing

He had that Autosomal Dominant

Compelling Helio-Ophthalmic Out-

burst Syndrome, which just meant he often sent

Saliva streaming sunward out his spout.

He wore dark shades and hats, enjoyed the rare

Clouds over California, and brought shame

Upon the defense, sneezing everywhere

As their opponents scored to win the game.

When heading home, he drove along the 10

But found he’d left his glasses at the field.

So turning east, he headed back for them

And reached the Hoover exit, where you yield

To merging traffic, when by chance the sun

Appeared. He sneezed, they braked. Too late. He's gone.

—Holly Painter

Also in the dream he was an important person whose

every minute of the day was closely budgeted and

scheduled weeks in advance. To be so busy, it did not

follow that he was sleeping through important phone

calls during business hours. But in dreams,

incongruity is the rule rather than the exception, so

Nigel slept on, with full confidence in his staff's ability

to manage his affairs.

—K.C. Wilson


Destined to become an iconic history of Alaskan life

along the Glenn Highway during the latter part of the

20th century, this book details the daily activities of

Norman and Sylvia Wilkins (and frequently, of their friends

and neighbors) including the struggles and frustrations of

living on the frozen tundra.

Norman Wilkins and Slovenia-born Ladislava Kolenc

(Sylvia to those who know her) met in postwar Gorizia

Italy in 1946, marrying there in 1948. Norman had long felt

the pull of the north, drawn to the mystique of Alaska—

“The Last American Frontier” many said, and once the

children were on their own, that desire to go north grew

stronger. He made more than one hunting trip to Alaska

before the 1978 expedition included in this book, and as

the trips unfolded, so did Norman’s desire to make Alaska

his permanent home—to be a part of the expansive

wilderness and yes, explore for gold!

They did find gold in Alaska. They found it in the air, the mountains, the wildlife and

especially in the people—the people they worked shoulder to shoulder with and

shared their table with, each one weaving an independent piece of the tapestry of

everyday life along the Glenn Highway during those years.

The contents of this book have been transcribed from Norman’s notebook-style pages

as originally written with the exception of occasional edits and insertions for clarity.

Book two, the second part of this story is already in the planning stages.

For info go to: www.10000daysinalaka.com

The Hunter

The vale, a mini grand canyon, most of

the time, cloaked in the opaque fog of

obscurity, was clear today. The floor of

the dale is flat and scattered with large

boulders, crippled bushes, weedy, slimy

plants and an imponderable, stillness that

follows sins of willful nonappearance.

Was here, with my dog Stella, to look

for and hunt rabbits, by a boulder I saw

a rabbit bigger then a red fox, I shot it

in the head with my 22 calibre rifle;

still convulsing when I came up to it,

kicked it to death with the rifle butt and

saw it was not a gregarious mammal.

Hundreds of them, hairy monster rats

looking at me from every boulder and

holes in the ground. I moved backwards

didn’t dare turn my back, but they came

closer I panicked and fled; Stella stood

her ground defending me till I could get

up on the road of cowardice yet again.

Friday Night Blues.

The stab of a stiletto pierces my heart,

stop now remember to walk slowly,

do not dance to the music of your mind

it fools you to think that the fat man

you see in the shop window aren’t you,

but an old dupe bad on his feet.

Quick step and tango, no big deal I do

dance at home when alone, close my

eyes and sway, yeah, baby I’ve got

rhythm, in the night when they have all

gone to bed; a bottle of wine and dreams,

you wouldn’t know I was old.

I shot into the melee of rats till I had no

bullets left, but I could not save my dog;

fine rain a foul smelling miasma filled

the ravine packed with phobias, odium

and fear of the indefinite; one day I will

be back hunt and kill nightmares, clear

the valley and built a temple to purity.

—Jan Oskar Hansen

Demeter’s Daughter

I know what you see when you look at me;

you see a big woman...

a woman confident and able,

roomy, red cheeked, and lush,

comforting and comfortable,

soft, yet solid and wide of girth.

My eyes tell you

I am a woman you can trust.

Opinionated and outspoken,

I am an honest woman with a big mouth,

and a big heart,

who speaks what’s on her mind;

a woman of wit and wisdom,

sarcasm and mirth...

sometimes an angry warrior;

an Amazon you do not push,

...a real Mother Earth.

What you do not see, when you look at me,

is the little girl, the timid child

who hides behind the big woman.

The child who does not laugh,

who does not cry,

who does not speak;

a black velvet painting child

with huge haunted eyes,

always watching,

who clutches at the hem

of the big strong woman.

But sometimes, if you look

very close and very hard,

you can see the shadow

she casts as she tiptoes past,

behind the eyes of the

big Earth Mother.

Now! Quick! See her there?

Persephone...

quaking in the corner.

—Elaine Pedersen

Documents

Mississippi Crow Issue 8