Shadows Express - December 2011

Volume 3 Number 4 December 2011

Shadows Express Volume 3: Issue 4 A Paper Doll Gang Publication December 2011

Image: Simon Howden / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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In This Issue

Old Friends , New Challenges Note from Conductress .................................................................... 3

Change Editor’s Note ..................................................................................................................... 3

About Us ..................................................................................................................................... 4

Fiction: Common Story Mistakes Non-fiction ............................................................................... 5

Me and Dad and the Rosebush Fiction ........................................................................................ 6

For Better or Worse Fiction ......................................................................................................... 9

Daggers Poetry ........................................................................................................................... 11

WDC Survivor Competition Introduction..................................................................................... 12

Torn Apart (dialogue) Fiction ..................................................................................................... 13

Torn Apart (sans dialogue) Fiction ............................................................................................. 15

Disconnections (dialogue) Fiction .............................................................................................. 17

Disconnections (sans dialogue) Fiction ...................................................................................... 19

Bud in Bloom Poetry .................................................................................................................. 20

I Dreamt of You Last Night Poetry ............................................................................................. 21

I Hear the Horses Speak Fiction ................................................................................................. 22

Emma’s Prayer Fiction ............................................................................................................... 23

Chess Poetry............................................................................................................................... 27

A Package From Home Fiction ................................................................................................... 28

Wilgar’s Dilemma Fiction ........................................................................................................... 30

Ten Writing No-no’s Non-fiction .............................................................................................. 32

The Cobbler Poetry .................................................................................................................... 35

What Now Fiction ...................................................................................................................... 36

Clouds Poetry ............................................................................................................................. 40

Goodness Poetry ........................................................................................................................ 41

Ohwega and the Eagle Fiction ................................................................................................... 42

Contributors and Staff .............................................................................................................. 45


A Note from the Conductress, Hannah ([email protected])

One of life's greatest pleasures has to be rekindling old friendships. Reconnecting and sharing past

memories, as well as creating new ones, with someone you genuinely love and care about.

Imagine my surprise and joy when I logged on several weeks ago and found an e-Mail with the ti-

tle I'm Back! I saw it was from a newbie named Myst. My heart soared! I knew this was no mere newbie

but was the return of our very own Editor Emeritus, Mystic_writer!

Those of you who are new to Shadows, and have only worked with our wonderful Editor,

Sticktalker , may not recall that this e-Zine was the original brainchild of Mystic, and so, it is with elation

that we welcome our friend back, once again!

Though our format may change slightly, I know each of you will love working with Mystic-Dreams

as we continue rolling down the tracks. Her kind and nurturing spirit is a blessing to all who know her.

Welcome home, dear Mystic

Old Friends, New Challenges

Change is good, change is necessary, and change is challenging. Our little magazine has gone through many changes in the last year. It began as a labour of love, and was focused on showcasing the graduating class of the Paper Doll Gang at writing.com (WDC). Our previous editor had a great vision for this modest endeavour and he reached out to the rest of WDC, opening the doors for more variety in our pages. Now, as I return to Shadows Express, I find myself facing new challenges daily. While we will always be linked to writing.com and the wonderful support for writers found there, we are expanding our horizons. With this in mind, you will notice several variants on the English language. As we attract a broad range of contributors, we want to honour their heritage. Therefore you will see words like color and colour co-existing. We are sure to experience growing pains, but we trust you will be patient. Despite the dynamic nature of this project, one thing will remain static. It is and always will be a labour of love.

Change

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About Us

Shadows Express is a magazine designed to showcase new writers while encouraging

growth and development of the craft.

We accept submissions from all writers, experienced or novice. We expect quality copy and

professional attitudes.

We look forward to reading fiction, creative non-fiction, and informative non-fiction. In

most cases, we prefer 3000 words or less. However, we will consider longer pieces. Please

query.

We are looking for poetry that does not exceed forty lines.

In addition, we encourage submissions of artwork.

Contact us at [email protected] for contributor guidelines. Please indicate

guidelines in the subject line.

Submissions can be sent to [email protected]. Please indicate submissions in the

subject line.

Shadows Express is available as a free PDF file. Publication dates have changed, but we

maintain our dedication to quality.

Shadows Express will be available for your enjoyment four times a year. Delivering new

writers and familiar favorites: March, June, September and December. Each new season will

bring subscribers a new issue of Shadows Express .

Send an e-mail with subscription in the subject line to [email protected]


Fiction: Common Story Mistakes

Revising and rewriting are the most important parts of writing.

By [email protected]

True writing is revising and rewriting. A writer needs to revise and rewrite to discern the subtle tones inside his story and to offer them to the readers with greater depth. Most of us are excited while writing that first draft, but when it comes to revision, we may lose the enthusiasm. Yet an experienced story teller finds great satisfaction in rewriting and reconstructing his story because he knows his finished prod-uct can even excel his expectations. John Irving, the author of inimitable books such as The World According to Garp, Cider House Rules, and The Fourth Hand, said: "More than a half, maybe as much as two-thirds, of my life as a writer is rewriting. I wouldn't say I have a talent that's special. It strikes me that I have an unusual kind of stamina." The first rewrite should include further story refinement and structural changes than what was included in the first draft. After that, at least two revisions may be needed before the final polishing. The biggest mistake a writer usually makes is in not being able to find out the best place or time for the story to begin. If the writer rambles on and on without concentrating on the real beginning, the story becomes a flop right at the start. This happens because the best starting point for a story is difficult to ascertain when the writer is writing the first draft. The se-cond rewrite should give the writer a better idea on this problem. Although there are many ways of starting a story, the real story begins with the main character's first defining moment of conflict, which also identifies the story's premise. This moment is called the inciting incident. This moment needs to oc-cur almost immediately or somewhere within the first few pages of a novel. In a short story, it has to come within the first few paragraphs. State of mind of the character or his inner world is the second beware sign for any writer. The writer has to know the inner world of the character to its finest detail in order to create insight into the story. When insight happens, the reader gets involved in the story. Even if the story takes place in an exciting and constantly changing outer world, the character's reaction to it will be through his unremitting inner conflict. This continuous inner conflict will be the most important thing for the writer to master. Missing an element of a story--such as a moral dilemma or hesitation between two possibilities--will lower the quality of the story, even if the idea is great and the character has a powerful incentive. Missing story points is another problem. Major story points reveal the emotional story that makes the reader identify with the character. Story points are established through the central conflict, secondary characters, and subplots. When some of those are missing, the story has to be missing something also. Not building toward the climax or crowding out the story is another problem. Unless you are writing a mystery and you want to throw in a red herring, unnecessary scenes and false steps arrest the enjoyment of the reader, and do not let the emotional story make its powerful impact. Not developing the antagonist well enough or underwriting him is another problem. A completely original main char-acter is great, but the antagonist should equal him in star quality to create a gripping story. A good tip is: when you are blocked but want to work on the story anyhow, you might as well work on its construction. Here are a few suggestions to get a writer back on track:

Work on your main character. Include his needs, motivation, and subconscious. For practice, write side stories in-cluding this character. If you already did this, experiment with point-of-view changes. Changing the point of view may bring a fresh insight into the story.

Do not waver from the most important plot points for the action of the story once they are set.

Improve upon key story points that reveal what the story's theme is about.

Develop potential plot points, and think of linking them in proper places inside the story.

Establish the moral dilemma inside the main character. Create or enhance his flaw. Create conflict. Create solutions that are character driven. Also, work on his back-story to give depth to his character.

Check over, again, the already assembled plot points. Throw out the ones that seem to wander away. See if you can come up with things more unique and original. When asked by an editor or a reviewer to revise or rewrite a story, a serious writer should never take it as an insult. Rewrites and revisions make the story stronger and accomplish the writer's story goals. If writers remember this, their stories will not go wrong.

mailto:[email protected]

Shadows Express 6

“You want me to crawl in under there,” – I couldn’t take my eyes off the rosebush, which had been slow-ly enveloping the corner of the garden as long as I could remember,” – “don’t you?” “Yup,” answered my father, a man of few words. “And hook that chain around it?” “Yup,” repeated my father, a man of very few words. We had been systematically destroying the overgrown garden at the rear of my late uncle’s house for the last few days. The plum trees were gone, and the scrabbly apple trees were gone too. The big round lemon tree, the only thing in the yard which had ever really been productive, was gone, and the tall almond trees, which had only been useful for the cockatoos to wake us up in the early hours of the morning, were now noth-ing more than sawn blocks next to the fence. The only thing remaining was the huge rosebush in the corner of the yard. “How do you know it’s going to work?” “It’ll work. It’s soft enough underneath. Hook the chain around it, and we’ll pull it out with the truck.” It was one of his more epic sentences. We had let a garden hose dribble around the base of the bush overnight, to soften the ground and make it easier to implement my father’s plan. I stood there with my arms folded, unconvinced. “It has to be huge under there; will the chain even go around it?” “We’ll know soon enough when you get in under there and put the chain around it, won’t we?” A man of very few words and indisputable logic, my father. “But what about the prickles?” I complained, doing my best to avoid a fate worse than a chimney-sweep-kid in Dickensian London. “Roll your sleeves down and they can’t scratch you.” Seeing that appealing to my father’s sense of reason was never going to work, I took a different tack. “I could die under there, you know. Then what would you do?” “That would ruin everything,” he answered. I felt a tiny thrill of triumph rush through me, until he added, “I could never get your mum to go under there.” I decided to push it a little further. “Seriously, I could die under there, and you wouldn’t have a son any more to do your dirty work.” I didn’t want to sound bitter, but I really didn’t want to go crawling around under that bush. “I’d be heartbroken,”—he paused for a moment, and I was sure I had him—“but I could live with the guilt if you managed to hook the chain up before you keeled over.” Stubborn and pig headed are two of the nicer words used when describing my father; fortunately, those


Me

And Dad

And the Rosebush



traits skipped my generation. I prefer to think of myself as determined and goal-oriented. At this moment in time, I was determined to not go under that giant prickle bush, and my goal was for someone other than me to do it. Unfortunately, in the mental and emotional game of “Rock Paper Scissors” taking place in the wreckage of my uncle’s back garden, I was now banging my head against a big rock—a particularly hard one enveloped in sand paper with scissors poking out of it like a porcupine with a drinking problem and a pituitary disorder. I knew, whether I liked it or not, that I was about to embark on a botanical spelunking expedition. The words “dead man walking” rang in my ears as I walked toward the monstrous bush. I stopped and turned sharply to give my father one last vengeful glare. The ominous chant ceased and he favoured me with his most innocent smile. “Well go on then.” He ges-tured toward the enormous pile of thorns. “If I don’t come back out alive, please tell Mum that my last thoughts were of her beating you with a stick,” I added as a last testament before picking up the heavy iron hook at the end of the rusty chain and trudging resignedly to the rough opening we had made the day before. Groaning, I dropped to my knees and peeked tentatively into the leafy cavern before gulping my last lungful of clean living air and plunging headfirst into certain doom. Though I would never admit it to my father, even under torture, it wasn’t so bad under the rosebush. The sun shone very weakly through the tangled overhead cover, creating a dappled shade that I found strange-ly comforting. Under my knees and hands, the mulch of generations of dropped leaves was soft, and even the odd thorn poking out of the mattress wasn’t enough to dim my renewed optimism that I might actually live till lunchtime. After only a few crawling dragging paces, I had found seven tennis balls, the victims of years of backyard cricket brilliance. This left only three hundred and seventeen still unaccounted for, not counting the ones the dog had ran away with and eaten during games. A short distance later, suspended in the tightly packed stems, I found the wreckage of my old foam glid-er. That thing went for miles when you threw it properly. Like all long distance aviators, though, it wound up missing never to be heard of until being discovered years later by some intrepid explorer—me. A few minutes and twelve more tennis balls later, I began to relax a little, the horrific death that I had forecast for myself had failed to materialise, and it was pleasantly cool in the shade. The place had real possi-bilities. All it needed was a hammock and a bar fridge, and it would be a nice little spot. “You gone to sleep in there?” yelled my father from outside in the real world, breaking me out of my reverie. “Yeah, yeah, keep your hair on,” I answered without enthusiasm before taking hold of the rusty old iron hook and continuing my trek, muttering, “What little you’ve got left.” Before long, the light became steadily brighter, and I knew that my job was nearly done. After cheating death so brilliantly, I allowed thoughts of my mum’s roast lamb to distract my attention from my path to salva-tion. I raised my head too far, allowing a stray piece of rose bush stem to poke me sharply in my forehead, making me jump and tangle myself in the thorny sticks. “Ouch,” I exclaimed as I recoiled and swatted the errant twig away. When I looked up, I noticed some-thing very unusual about the stick that had poked me. The offending branch was, in fact, a Tiger Snake. I had just inadvertently head-butted one of the world’s most venomous snakes. It took a second or two for this little bit of trivia to sink in, but it was a long few seconds, and I had plenty of time to gape stupidly at the prickly stick turned venomous killer monster. Snakes aren’t generally considered to be very expressive creatures, certainly not in the league of dogs or cats or even some of the less evolved livestock such as children. I swear black and blue, though, without a word of a lie, 100% truth, scouts honour and hope to die and go to Belgium for holidays, the snake’s mouth hung open stupidly, and its dark eyes were wide and round. It was as startled as I was. We continued staring dumbly at each other until reality went and ruined everything. Letting out a shriek so girlish to make even the most unwilling castrato wince in sympathy, I turned to run and immediately tangled myself up in the thorns. Terrified and expecting to feel the painful stab of venom-

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coated fangs in my neck any moment, I chanced a quick peek over my shoulder. The Tiger Snake was equally entangled. It was knotted around a prickly stem and was tugging urgently to free itself. It looked at me and, with a look as panicked as any creature with no eyelids could ever be, began tugging frantically against itself. After long seconds of frenzied tugging and writhing, both the snake and I broke out of our botanical bonds. I tumbled backwards, still emitting a squeal so high pitched that it prompted a mass whale-beaching several hundred kilometres away. The snake came loose and cart wheeled straight past my head like a lethal rubber band coated in scales, a tiny “eeeeeeekkkkk” falling from its wildly working jaws as it passed by. Here is an interesting fact. A human can run at very high speeds on their bum cheeks. I know this because I landed on them, and they took off without orders, carrying me backwards through the scratchy twigs and branches at world record speed. “SSSSSNNNAAAAAAAKKKKKKEEEEE,” I bellowed as my stalwart buttocks carried me crashing through the side

of the bush into the bright sunlight. From somewhere deep in the rosebush, I heard a panicked wail— “HHHHUUUUUMMMMMMAAAANNNN”—as the deadly snake rushed away on whatever snakes use for the purpose of bum running. Exhausted, my bum lowered me gently onto the dry grass where I lay panting and sobbing, the heavy iron hook clutched to my breast in a white-knuckled death grip. My father had been sitting atop an old “Amoco” petrol tin, relaxing during my life-and-death battle. He was in no pressing rush to come to my aid as I lay grey-faced, wearing a tightly woven suit of rose thorns on the dry grass. “You took your time,” he eventually said. I tried to glare through tears of relief, but it really didn’t have the effect I was hop-ing for. He rose slowly and approached me with the easy languid gait of a lifelong bush-man. ‘When he got to where I was laying, he said softly, “I am really relieved son.” Suddenly this whole ordeal was worth-while; I looked up at my father through the admiring eyes of a loving son as he reached down to me. “I was beginning to worry that you

were right after all and the chain wasn’t going to go all the way round it.” He plucked the iron hook from my clutch-ing hands and hitched it to the tow cable attached to the tow bar of the truck. “You better move before the cable gets tight, mate. Wouldn’t want you to have an accident,” he said absent-ly as he climbed in the cabin of the old Bedford. He gunned the motor as I crawled out of harm’s way. Yup, he always was a man of few words, indisputable logic, and always very demonstrative about his emo-tions, my old man.


For Better or Worse


Lust is powerful. It can drive a man to pure madness, and it can cause him to lose sight of

what is cherished and significant in his life. I knew the instant I chose to cross that line that it was

wrong. I understood the consequences, but the desire, the want...the need, was too strong. Once I

found myself gripped tightly by the allure of it all, I lost all sense of reality.

My mind wanders as I drive this narrow, winding mountain road, a road I have traveled many

times before, but never like this, emotion packed and terrified wondering how this will end. Tears

stream down my face as fond memories flood the recesses of my mind. Memories of Brooke, of our

love for one another and the moments we have spent laughing and loving together at our lover’s re-

treat nestled in the quiet mountains

of Tennessee.

She is the love of my life, the

woman I married for better or worse.

Why did I do this to us?

Yesterday, I worked up the nerve

to call her. It has been a while since I

told her the truth, and we have not

spoken since.

“Brooke,” I said trying to hold

back my emotions, “I will do what-

ever it takes to gain your trust again.

I know I screwed up, and it won’t be

an overnight fix, but you mean so

much to me, honey. I want us to

work this out.”

“Tim,” she said in a near whisper, “I want so much to forgive you, but I’m finding it difficult to

work through. I have been at our, I mean the cabin since your revelation, trying to figure out what to

do next.” By now, her voice had become louder and laced with anger.

“Brooke, it’s still our cabin. We really need to talk. I’ll drive up early in the morning,” I said as

my emotions began to take over, “I’ve learned my lesson and am a changed man, Brooke. Please

give us another chance. I’m begging you.”

“We’ll talk,” was her chilly response and one that gave me hope.

I turn off the narrow road as I approach the lane to our sacred hideaway, a place once full of

blissful memories but now forever tainted. In front of the small cabin, I park the car, cut the engine,

and hesitate. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I look to the right. Nestled between the console and the

passenger seat, the gun glinted in the slanted sunlight rushing through the windshield. This is the

Image: digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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hardest thing I have ever done in my life.

Exiting the car, I pause to take in our haven and the wooded forest that surrounds it. A thick fog lingers

in the branches of the leafless trees. Tranquil, serene, simple, the way our marriage had been, the way our

marriage should continue to be.

I feel I am walking the plank as I climb the stairs to the cabin. Standing at the door, my head hangs low

and my body quivers in anticipation of our conversation. I say a quick prayer for guidance before I knock.

“Brooke? It’s me. Tim,” I say softly as I tapped on the door.

“Hi, Tim.” She walks out on to the porch, closing the door. Her beautiful green eyes are swollen and

wet, and it is all I can do to keep from holding her, consoling her and kissing away her tears.

“Hi, Brooke. I, uh, I am….” I stutter and then stop when she holds up her hand.

“I thought we would talk out on the porch. Here, I made coffee and added the sugar and cream just the

way you like it.” Brooke hands me the coffee mug.

“Thanks.” Wow. She thought to make coffee for me; there may be a chance after all.

This is awkward. We sit together, now as near strangers on the porch. Strangers with a past, hoping for

a future.

“Brooke,” I begin, “I can’t live without you—”

“Wait, Tim,” she interrupts. “I need to do the talking.”

“Okay. Go on. I’m listening.”

“Tim, you were the love of my life—”

“Brooke, don’t say—” I stop when she glares at me.

“Please, Tim, quit interrupting me.” I nod and she continues. “I married my best friend and planned a

long, happy life with you. You were my prince and I wore the glass slipper.” Her sad eyes are rimmed

with wetness as tears began to form.

“When we married, we vowed, ‘to have and to hold… for better, for worse… until death do us part,’”

she said through her tears.

“I’ve thought about those words and I have tried to put myself in your shoes. If this were me begging

for forgiveness, would I want you to kick me to the curb because of one mistake?” She averts her gaze

from my eyes. “Well, Tim, I’ve made a decision. Since we’re being honest with one another, I need to tell

you that I do understand how you feel. I’ve walked in your shoes and, a few months ago, I made the same

mistake.” She turns and looks me straight in the eye.

Brooke continues. “You said it was a momentary lapse in judgment, no relationship involved, just pure

lust and nothing more. It was the same for me, Tim. I knew it was wrong, but I did it anyway. As I see it,

this is our opportunity to wipe the slate clean and begin anew. Let’s forgive each other for our mistake and

move forward. We could even plan to renew our vows and make this a fresh start.”

I am numb as I process and try to comprehend what Brooke has said. Everything is spinning and my

thoughts are discombobulated. Nothing connects. Nothing makes sense. I am now on the receiving end,

and I can’t speak. Renew our vows…until death do us part? Automatically, as if on auto-pilot, my right

hand finds its way to my coat pocket and grasps the handle of the gun.

Love is powerful and it can drive a man to pure madness.


Daggers By [email protected]

Twi, twi, twi

Twist

The dagger has been twisted.

The blade cutting deeper,

etching lines,

intricate lines that cannot be copied.

The pattern is my skin.

The pattern is the ebb and flow of my nightmares,

beating, beating,

pulsing,

twisting and twining.

This pattern is consuming,

overwhelming,

burning, eating.

When will it all stop?

These scars have become my life.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Shadows Express 12

‘WDC Survivor’ Competition Finalists

For six weeks, ending on July 15, several WDC members were wrapped up in the "WDC Survivor" competition styled after the wildly popular TV contest of a similar name. The contestants represent-ed more than a dozen groups on the writing.com site

SaraJean, a WDC Moderator, conceived and ran the contest which saw 30 writers compete in writing assign-ments and voting from supporters to win "immunity" and a chance to move on to the next of six rounds. The writers won a total of more than ONE MILLION GPs for themselves and the group they were representing.

After six weeks of writing, judging and voting, it was down to the two finalists, HetfyNicki and Fyndori-an...names of very active WDC'ers that most site mem-bers have heard of or interacted with.

The final round was a serious writing challenge with an unexpected result. The prompt was simple, yet chal-lenging:

The author, or their character, receives a phone call that contains the unexpected which draws out emotion from the author or character. The catch? The stories had to be written twice. One had to employ only dialogue, both internal and external. The second required only de-scription with no dialogue.

We are pleased to share the finalist entries for you to read and decide...which one should be the winner?

In the competition, there was a real surprise. The voting was tied! Neither contestant had a clear victory and SaraJean elected to split the prize GP's between the two contestants and the groups they represented.

You can check out the list of contestants, the groups they represented, and the amounts won at this url address:

http://www.writing.com/main/handler/item_id/1614142-WdC-Survivor-Competitors.

We are pleased to share the finalist entries for you to read and decide...

which one should be the winner?

http://www.writing.com/main/handler/item_id/1614142-WdC-Survivor-Competitors


Torn Apart WDC Survivor Competition Dialogue.


“There’s a phone right in here, Belle.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Grant. But…um, before you go…I wondered…”

“What is it, dear? Maybe I can just figure it out by myself. Then I don’t have to admit I don’t know how… “Oh… Belle, I think I understand. Have you never used a telephone before? Goodness, I forget how isolated y’all lived out there on that mountainside. Now, don’t you fret, child. I’ll help you! Here, take my handker-chief. There, now. You’ve been through an awful lot this week. A tear or ten is normal. Lord knows if I were just seventeen years old and a twister took away two loved ones and my home? Well, there wouldn’t be enough Kleenex in all the world.” “Thank you, ma’am.” “You’re a brave young woman, you know—getting through that storm the way you did. I’ll bet your Granny and Pappy are smiling down on you right now. Shhhh. I know, I know. But they’re in a much better place now. Sitting around sipping sweet tea with the angels, I’ll bet. Maybe with our Lord Jesus, Himself!” “Yes, ma’am.” But, I’m all alone… “All right, deep breath. Are you ready to make that phone call?” Ready? What’s ready supposed to feel like? I can’t stop shaking. Will I even recognize Mama’s voice? What if she doesn’t recognize mine? I don’t sound twelve anymore. And how’m I supposed to tell her her parents got killed! Maybe she won’t be too sad. Five years is a long time. No, who am I kidding? Look how happy I get when Mama’s letters come. Kids and parents, they just love each other, no matter what… “Yes, ma’am. I’m ready enough, I guess.” “You’ll be fine. Oh! There’s the church bell. Mercy, that’s loud! This room is right below the steeple, you know. Hand me your paper and I’ll show you how to dial the number. Then I have to hustle downstairs for the noon service. I’m assisting Pastor John today. Watch me, now…there. That’s all there is to it. Okay, it’s ringing. Here you go, and good luck, dear.” “Thanks, Mrs. Grant. Bye.” Wish she’d stay with me. Okay, I can do this. Concentrate! The ringing sounds strange, like hearing the ocean in one of April’s seashells. And an actual phone is ringing right now someplace else? That’s so— “Charleston Women’s Correctional Facility. How may I help you?” “Um… I…”

Shadows Express 14

“Hello? Is someone there? Please speak up.” Get a grip, Belle! “Yes, hello, ma’am.” Breathe. “My name is Belle Thompson. And I’d like to speak to my mother, please. She, um, lives there in Block B?” “What’s her name?” “It’s Margaret J. Thompson.” “One moment, please.” Oh no. Did she hang up on me? It’s so quiet; I don’t hear anything in this thing. What do I do? What— “Miss?” “YES!” “I’m sorry. Did you say Margaret Thompson is your mother?” “Yes. I mean, yes, ma’am. And I know I haven’t talked to her in a while, but we’ve had a terrible disaster here at home, and I need to speak to her, like really bad.” “I see…” Whoa, her voice changed. “Honey, here’s the thing…” Why does she suddenly sound so…nice? “I’m sorry to have to tell you this. But your mother was released last November. She’s no longer an inmate here.” “She…wait. What? Well, where is she? Where did she go?” “I have her records pulled up on my computer. I’m so sorry, but there’s no forwarding address.” “I don’t understand. I have a letter right here from her. I got it last month. She talked about how gross prison food is! She has to still be there!” “Please, miss, calm down. You have the letter right there? Look at the envelope. Where was it postmarked?” Baltimore, MD? Oh God, oh God, oh God. “Honey? Are you there?” “I’m…I’m sorry I bothered you.” “Miss—” “Good-bye.”


Torn Apart WDC Survivor Competition Sans Dialogue.


Seventeen-year-old Belle Thompson dragged herself dutifully down the ugly, windowless hallway. She concen-trated on the way her feet skated inside the too-big Crocs that someone from town had donated to her. These days, she had to force her thoughts to linger on stupid stuff like that to keep her mind occupied. It was far better than thinking about serious matters like last week’s tornado that blasted her life to smithereens. If Belle wasn’t vigilant, her mind wandered right to the rescuers recovering the empty shells of her grandpar-

ents’ broken bodies, their souls blown away by the storm’s fierce winds. Or to the matchstick pile of splintered wood that was all that remained of her home. For days now, her body moved only by the grace of invisible marion-ette strings dangling out of a taunting blue sky. They lifted Belle’s arm to re-turn a worried well-wisher’s wave, and they swung her hands together in mimicked prayer at daily Mass. Thank goodness too, because she had zero energy of her own. It was the Divine Puppeteer who pulled up on her knees now so she could shuffle along beside Mrs. Grant in the upstairs corridor of her temporary residence, the Trust First Baptist Church. Despite her best mental efforts, Belle’s concentration strayed from her gliding feet to her hammering heart. Every knock in her chest echoed in her ears and reminded her that she was still alive. Well, her body at least. So when Mrs. Grant stopped at a nonde-script door, turned the gold handle,

and ushered her into the room, Belle clutched the letter she carried and fought to block out all thoughts except counting her racing heartbeats. The sight of the telephone tripped her up, though. She abruptly lost count. She was going to talk to her mother today! Emotions assaulted her like a swarm of gnats converging on a sweaty face. With Granny and Pappy gone, her mama was Belle’s only kin. Just knowing she wasn’t all alone in this world gave Belle an ounce of courage. But her stomach twisted in tight knots. Would her mama even recognize her voice? They hadn’t spoken in five years, since Belle was twelve years old. And what kind of reunion would this be—on a telephone and with the terrible news Belle had to deliver? How did you tell somebody her parents were dead? Mrs. Grant was talking, but her words seeped slowly into Belle’s consciousness like spilled glue into a paper towel. She didn’t expect Belle to operate the telephone, did she? Pinpoints of sweat broke out across Belle’s fore-

Image: George Stojkovic / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Shadows Express 16

head. Pappy hadn’t trusted telephone service. He said people could listen in, spy on you. He’d insisted their con-versations with folks happen face-to-face during their weekly trips into town for supplies. The other six days a week were spent up on their mountainside, isolated from the world. Belle had never even held a phone to her ear. She lowered her head and cast overwhelmed eyes to the foreign device.

Overhead, the church bell summoned pa-rishioners to twelve-o’clock service. The re-sounding peals vibrated the floor through Belle’s plastic shoes and traveled up her body, shaking loose a couple heavy tears from her brimming eyes. Kind Mrs. Grant offered Belle her handker-chief and consoling words. She plucked the en-velope from Belle’s hand on which the church secretary had written a sequence of numbers. Mrs. Grant demonstrated, for future reference, how to punch the buttons on the phone to dial up the Charleston Women’s Correctional Facili-ty. She handed the envelope and the receiver to Belle, wished her luck, and hurried off to assist Pastor John with the noon service. The weight of the handset in her trembling hand surprised her. Like the ocean’s roar in a seashell, a hollow tone rang out from deep in-side and stopped, rang out and stopped again. Belle tried to imagine another phone, in a fara-way room in Charleston, ringing at the same moment. Somehow, she just couldn’t picture it. A woman’s voice spoke. It was so loud and close; its startling force straightened Belle’s

spine. She tried to return the woman’s greeting, but her throat squeezed the words down to an indiscernible wheeze. She scolded herself, commanding her brain to concentrate. The next time she opened her mouth, a slightly more coherent request to speak to her mother, an inmate in Block B, spilled out. Belle tightening her grip on the receiver and listened, the crease in her brow deepening. Surely the voice was mistaken. There was no way her mother had been released from prison a year ago. Mercifully, the tele-phone desk stood against a wall that supported Belle as her world tipped, and she slumped back against it. If her mother had gotten out, she would have come home! This woman had to have her facts wrong. Belle flashed the envelope for the phone to see. Here was proof that the voice was wrong! This letter from her mother arrived just last month. She’d written about the disgusting slop they passed off as food in the “joint.” Mama said Granny’s goats ate better than she did in there. How could her mother have sent this letter from pris-on if she didn’t live there anymore? And then the voice asked for one, devastating piece of information. Belle shook her head no, pulling the envelope closer to her face, blinking to clear her diluted vision. Through hot tears she stared at the tiny print on the faded postmark.


“Hello?"

"Vicky!"

"Oh, hey Mom, it's been a while.” Funny, here I left

these dishes sitting here all night long and the world did-

n’t end because the kitchen wasn’t all cleaned up.

“Yes, it has. Seems like I never catch you at home,

and then you never call back when I leave a message

with Bill.” What messages?

“I know. I’m sorry, Mom.”

“Anyway, I’ve just been wondering how you're do-

ing. When’s Bill due back from his business trip? It’s

tomorrow, isn’t it?”

“He's due in about five tomorrow afternoon. Hang

on a sec, Mom. I need to change phones. Ok, I’m here

now.”

“Are you alright? Last few times we’ve seen you,

you've looked absolutely exhausted. . . you eating okay?”

“Yes, Mom." No, Mom.

“Well, maybe you should see a doctor. Your father

thinks you’ve lost weight, too. You on some kind of cra-

zy new diet?”

“No, Mom. I’m fine. Really. It’s just. . . nothing.”

“Something’s wrong, I can feel it. Talk to me,

sweetie.”

“Mom, how many times have you called recently?”

“I called the day before Bill left for his business trip,

and two days before that. One time, Bill said you were

lying down and the other, he said you were out shopping,

again. I mentioned dropping over while he was gone, but

he said that you hadn’t been feeling well, and he didn’t

want us catching anything, any bug you might have.”

“I haven’t been sick, Mom. And I haven’t been out

at all. I can’t with. . . ah, never mind.”

“With what? Victoria, tell me what's going on.”

“William and I got into this huge fight, ok? You

know how hard I worked to get where I was at Wick-

strom, Fyne & Haggerty? I guess he got used to my be-

ing at home, after the layoffs. Then they emailed me the

other day, asking me to come back. I was so excited, but

William was just pissed. He said I didn’t need to work.

He said my place was here, at home, even without kids

he wants me here.”

“I think if you two had a child to focus on, maybe

you wouldn't be so resentful. . . ”

“I told him the work was important to me, how

much I loved it, but he started yelling how what he want-

ed should be more important. Then it kind of got out of

hand. It was pretty bad. William started asking why I

needed money, even accused me of using it for some

'nefarious' purpose. He actually used that word, Mom.

Nefarious!”

“Well, perhaps he had a bad day.”

“Mo-mm!”

“Maybe things aren’t going all that well for him at

work. Maybe he’s worried about layoffs too, or some-

thing.”

“Then you’d think he’d be happy if I could go back

to--”

“Sweetie, what did you mean when you said it 'got

out of hand'?”

“…” I am NOT going to start crying.

“Vick, what did you mean?”

“…” Damn.

“Look, I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s. . .

Sweetie, are you crying?”

“He hit me, Mom. I got mad and said I could go

back to work if I wanted to, that he couldn’t stop me, and

he just turned and backhanded me, like it was nothing.

Like it was normal. Then he said I was more than wel-

come to go back to work with a face covered in bruises,

or I could just stay at home where I belonged.”

“That son of a . . .”

“He apologized later, but he was still set on the idea

of my being here at home. I don’t know what to do, any-

more. I love him.”

“I know you do, sweetie, but he hit you! He's done

this before, hasn't he?”

“Um. Yeah, he has.”

“Then his apologies don't matter, he’ll just do it

again. You can’t stay there, not with him.”

“But I still love him, Mom. He swore it was the last

time, that he was just scared I would leave him. He even

said we can start planning for kids soon.”

“Oh sweetie, can’t you see he’s just screwing with

you?

“I don’t know, Mom. I want to believe him. We

used to be so deliriously in love. Remember how he got

Grandma’s piano refinished before the wedding? I’m

putting you on speaker, Mom. Listen. Remember this?” I

remember how happy I was; Grandma was playing

‘Pachelbel's Canon,’ and me—traipsing out through the

French doors and down the path to the garden and all of

By [email protected] WDC Survivor Competition Dialogue

Shadows Express 18

the roses were blooming. It was the happ—Damn! Three

of the keys are broken.

“I know, it was a sweet thing to do, but he can't …

… . . . Why’d you stop playing?”

“Just don’t feel like it, I guess.”

“You need to grab what you can and stay here for a

while. You’ll get your job back if you'd like or, if not,

then it's still okay. Your father and I have some money

set aside; it’d be enough to see you through.”

“And then what? He won’t go to counseling or any-

thing. He says they're a bunch of quacks.”

“Then file for divorce. You can’t have kids with

someone like him. What if he hits them too? What if he

kills you next time?”

“He says he won’t do it again. I. . . I believe him.” I

want to believe him.

“No, you don’t, and yes, he will. Victoria Anne,

pack your bags and get the hell outta there before he gets

home.”

“I can’t just. . . leave, and I could never file for di-

vorce.” Me, the fancy rising, young marketing manager

who can talk almost anyone into anything, can’t talk my

way out of a paper bag around William.

“You have to. This won’t get better. It never gets

better. I’ll have your father check into a good attorney.

Now get packing, sweetie, and come home.”

“I still don’t know. Divorce seems so final. How

can I still love him and hate him enough to leave him

forever?"

“Do you like living this way?”

“Well, no. But--”

“Are you happy?”

“I'm. . . no, I'm not.”

“Do you like walking on eggshells around him?”

“No, Mom. Of course not.”

“Does he scare you?”

“…” I’ll still be scared of him. Who knows what he

might do then? That comment about never knowing

when the brakes will fail. Didn’t think about it like that,

but he must have meant …

"Well, does he?”

“…”

“There’s your answer. You know it's the right thing

for you, so do it! Come home, Vicky. Please. I am wor-

ried about you.”

“I will.” It’s getting darker out. I wonder if a storm

is coming in. “You’ll have Daddy check on a good law-

yer for me? I don’t know how William will react if he's

served papers. He’ll be angry.” Angry won't begin to

describe it! “Very angry, but you are right, Mother. I

guess I have just been avoiding it, hoping somehow

things would change, that he would change, and that if I

loved him enough, it would all go away. But it won’t

and he won’t. I love you, Mom. I’ll come home. See if

Daddy can set me up an appointment with a divorce at-

torney tomorrow. Shit! Mom, call the poli………”

Image: photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.net



Vicky was puttering around the kitchen as she drank her

second cup of coffee. Her honey blond hair slipped in

front of her troubled green eyes as she bent forward to

put her breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. Her mind still

on tidying up the kitchen, she reached out and grabbed

the receiver from the old phone attached to her kitchen

wall. She’d left her dinner dishes in the sink last night

and now, cradling the phone on her shoulder, put them in

as well.

She paused, hearing her mother tell her that she’d

been trying to reach her. Shaking her head in frustration,

she finished loading the dishwasher, wiped down the

kitchen counter, dried the sink and polished the kitchen

faucet, all the while, answering her mother’s questions.

Walking as far as the long cord would take her, she was

just able to grab the cordless phone that she’d left lying

on the dining room table. After hanging up the kitchen

phone, she wandered across the dining room and through

the arched doorway into her elegant living room off to

the left of the front stairway.

The morning sun streamed in through the sparkling

clean French door windows. She passed by the floor to

ceiling gilt-framed mirror and looked at herself in it. Her

tawny blond hair was a mess; she hadn’t even dragged a

brush through it yet. Her pink and purple jammies hung

on her slim frame and her eyes were shadowed with vio-

let bruises. Her skin was deathly pale. She shook her

head, rolled her eyes and went to sit in her favorite

chintz covered chair near the usually polished-to-near-

gleam piano.

Phone resting on her shoulder as she continued talk-

ing to her mother, Vicky suddenly felt cold. Tears

welled up in her eyes and even her mother caught the

catch in her throat. Curled in a ball on the chair, nerv-

ously twisting her wedding band back and forth on her

finger, Vicky both verbally and mentally relived the hor-

rid fight she and William had had last week. Tears ran

down her cheeks, unchecked, as she gave her mother the

six o’clock news version of the fight that had raged on

for well over two hours. Unconsciously, she massaged

her bruised shoulder, her fingers gentle on the deeply

purple-d bruise beneath the long sleeves of her lilac silk-

en nightshirt.

Her eyes raised and rested once again on her be-

loved Steinway. A faint sheen of dust speckled the sur-

faces and she, guilty, realized she hadn’t polished it, or

anything for that matter, since her husband had left on

his business trip. Rising, she walked over and sat before

the baby grand, lifted the key cover and flexed her fin-

gers before beginning the opening notes of ‘Canon in D

major.’

A moment later, her finger slid as the cracked ivory

on high c moved under her fingers. Two other keys were

chipped as well. Her head ached in memory of it hitting

the keyboard when he knocked her backward into it. The

discordant sounds of an unholy chord as his fist ham-

mered own on the keys echoed in the sunny room, dark-

ening it as if a large cloud had covered the sun. She shiv-

ered, remembering how he slammed the lid shut, just

barely missing her fingers as she used the keyboard to

help lift herself up.

Giving herself a shake, Vicky walked back into the

kitchen and poured another cup of coffee. Considering

what her mother was saying, she grabbed her notepad

and pen on the way to the breakfast nook. Here, once

again the sun was coming through the windows, the

beams making lacy shadows on the mahogany table.

Now reduced to mostly making appropriate com-

ments as her mother continued talking in questioning

lists, Vicky started to jot down the things she’d need to

pack. Laptop, work clothes, her banking records, the

safety deposit box key, car title, and her jewelry. Her

eyes wandered around the room and what she could see

of the house. His house, really. Although in both their

names, it had been his tastes that prevailed when deco-

rating; his desires fulfilled in almost every piece of fur-

niture, decoration and fabric and his wishes that the

house feel more a stuffy museum than a home.

Lawyer talk now had her paying closer attention to

her mother’s voice. Squaring her shoulders, she made

the decision she knew she should have made after the

first time he’d hit her. The room darkened measurably,

as if to mimic the dark days she knew were ahead. A

knocking on a doorjamb startled her.

William stood there. The casual way he leaned

against the door frame belied the tension straining every

muscle in his body, the fists clenched at the ends of arms

crossed over his chest, and the sneer marring his chiseled

features; one dark eyebrow raised sardonically over steel

grey eyes that glared at her. Seeing her turn towards him,

he started forward, fist raised as he covered the short

distance between them.

By [email protected] WDC Survivor Competition Sans Dialogue

Shadows Express 20

Nervous airs come forward;

caress the heavy warmth that drags down spirit;

blow it forth, from opacity

to a lighter translucency, then

to a clear transparency of mere light.

A less timid breeze coolly approach,

weave yourself between the buds,

loosely fashion yourself as a scarf upon two shoulders,

and sway, as well, their green leaf arms, to and fro.

Do not hinder the buds' bloom with unashamed gusts

that blow away their innocent, youthful petals,

but call to the sky, call to the rain and ask it this:

drench the starved, dry leaves that curl away, broken,

breaking – let life billow from its root.

So, the young winds died down, calling;

as sunlight penetrated the cloud, glowing;

as a drizzle turned to a storm, darkening;

as colours circled the sky, sharpening;

as a rainbow tumbled from the bud

to the end of Earth, smiling as it should.

Bud in Bloom

Image: Nutdanai Apikhomboonwaroot / FreeDigitalPhotos.net



I dreamt of you last night.

You were the white bird perched on the broken tree limb, chirping through my open window.

You were the calm in the raging storm that brewed up ahead while I slept.

You were the knight and shining armor awaiting my arrival.


You were the one that helped them load me into the back of the car.

You were the one that betrayed me and sent me out into the night.

You were my immortal curse, holding no remorse.


And through all that torture you were still the one I woke up screaming for.


I dreamt of you last night

Photo courtesy of dan/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Shadows Express 22

Tony liked this girl. She was a refreshing change,

like a cold beer on a hot day.

“Decide for yourself if I can do the job,” she said.

He felt she was petite to handle twelve hundred

pound thoroughbreds, but he’d give her a shot. They

neared his training field; a layout

of jumps gleamed white against

emerald grass. Sweat and leather

scented the air.

A sharp curse brought To-

ny’s attention to the saddling ar-

ea. He stiffened as a groom nar-

rowly missed losing a piece of

arm to the big horse he’d been

saddling. The black stallion

stamped his forefeet, angry his

teeth had missed. He snorted

loudly, trying to back away as the

groom inched in with a bridle.

“Who’s the black?” she

startled Tony.

“Jubilee,” Tony replied.

“He’s feeling a mite

feisty,” she headed for the horse.” Hand me the bri-

dle.”

The groom complied willingly.

“Wait,” Tony called,” That horse can’t be

ridden.” She ignored him, her attention riveted on the horse.

The stallion stared, nostrils flaring as he shook his

heavy mane. His ears flattened as his head snaked to-

wards the girl. She sidestepped, speaking softly.

“Easy, Jubilee. Let’s be friends. I won’t hurt you.”

Tony watched as the girl reached out a hand to the

stallion towering over her. He gasped as the horse

touched a velvet muzzle to her. Tony felt fear walk up

his spine. He’d planned to have the horse put down.

Tony remembered the groom the horse had bitten yes-

terday. Frozen, he watched silently.

The stallion catapulted backwards to the end of his

tether, eyes rolling white. Teeth bared, he advanced on

the girl. She stood like stone, eyes locked with the

horse’s. Jubilee stopped inches from her. She reached

out, stroking his neck. He settled at her touch. Terry

decided it was time for action. She dropped the bridle

and untied the tether, looping the ends through each

side of Jubilee’s halter. She led the stallion forward to

the mounting block. Tony gasped in shock He couldn’t

speak. With one fluid motion, the girl slid the looped

rope over Jubilee’s head as she vaulted to his bareback.

“Open the gate,” she kept her

voice soft.

Tony swung open the gate, this

girl was nuts. He watched her ease

the horse into a slow canter around

the field. Jubilee pricked his ears as

he obeyed. She rode him in a long arc

around the field. The stallion moved

calmly and smoothly around the are-

na. Terry pulled him to a stop. Jubi-

lee stood quietly.

“He’s warmed up; we’re

ready,” she watched Tony.

“Are you going to jump?”

Tony turned pale.

“He’s up for it,” she grinned.”

You watch us work.” Terry sent Jubilee flying around the arena. She sat

him so easily; they appeared to be one entity. Tony had

never seen a horse and rider so in tune. Jubilee flowed

over the ground as he floated over the jumps.

Tony watched as the big horse was cooled out on

the electric walker.

“How’d you know he wouldn’t hurt you?” he

stared at Terry.

“He told me,” she replied. “He’s been hurt by oth-

ers is the problem.”

“He told you?” Tony shook his head.

“His mouth and withers are both scarred, he needs

lighter tack,” Terry continued. “My grandpa taught me

to listen to horses -- people called him a ‘horse whisper-

er’.”

Tony remembered her staring into the stallion’s

eyes. It was the damnedest thing I ever did see, he

thought.

By: SM Ferguson


Emma's Prayer By: Angelo Dalpiaz

In 1937, the spectacular beauty of the mountains of northern Italy was shrouded in poverty. Germany had in-

vaded Poland and all of Europe was poised for war. The destruction of buildings meant to endure the test of time,

not the trauma of bombs, had begun. A hungry populace watched powerful armies advance through once well-

maintained farms, turning fertile ground into muck and mire.

At night, mothers lying in their quiet beds listened to the sobs of their hungry children, while distant guns of

war shouted out the insanity of the world surrounding them. Many families had been separated, frequently by

death, but almost as often because of poverty.

A five-year-old girl was one of those displaced.

* * *

"Zia Angela, I'm afraid of the noise the planes make at night." Emma's chin rested on the tabletop as she

looked at her aunt through upraised, blue eyes. Curly brown hair framed her thin face.

"Un dolce mio." Angela looked across the small kitchen at her niece. Her hands, rough from fieldwork, moved

pots on the stove as she spoke. "You are safe here with me, nothing will happen to you."

Angela half-filled a bowl with oatmeal then placed it on the rough-planked table in front of her niece. She

wiped a dark curl off Emma's forehead, then bent slightly and pecked her cheek.

"Now eat your breakfast, and off you go."

"When I'm afraid, I miss my mama. When is she coming home?" Her spoon made fading circles in her oat-

meal.

"She will come home as soon as she can, little one." Angela looked away, suppressing a tear. Her wood sole

shoes made a hollow sound on the stone floor as she walked to the window and looked out.

"She is in the hospital. We're trying to bring her home." She used her apron to dry her tear, then turned to Em-

ma. "Now, give me a kiss and off you go."

Alone in the kitchen when Emma had gone, Angela saw the ancient village of Bresimo nestled into the moun-

tainside across the valley. Bresimo is where her sister Emma had lived -- until the fire.

Like the clouds that floated over the craggy mountains, Angela's memories drifted back to a Sunday morning a

year ago when she looked across the valley through this very window. She remembered seeing the dark plume of

smoke rising into the sky, but she didn't know what it meant. She didn't know the fire would send her away and

bring her niece, Emma, to live with her. She closed her eyes, and her memory drifted like the smoke from the fire a

year ago.

* * *

"Gino! Gennero!" Pietro's excited shouts echoed through the cobbled streets of Bresimo.

"Fume! Fume!" Pietro shouted as he ran to get pails to bring water to the house that burned.

"Fire!" He shouted again, "There may be children inside."

The shouts of fire brought people out of the church, disrupting Mass for the first time in the history of Santa

Maria della Assumpcion. A bucket brigade began dousing the smoky blaze, and the flames were quickly extin-

guished.

Pietro ran into the house and found little Emma and her four siblings huddled in the corner of a bedroom;

scared but unharmed. He herded the children outside. Emma saw her children and ran to them.

"Emma, what happened? Pietro wiped soot from his face; black rivers of sweat ran down his arms and chest.

Thin layers of smoke carried the acrid smell of burning wood.

"I was in church, I don't know what happened." Emma knelt in the yard and gathered her children around her.

She looked up at Pietro.

"I thought the stove fire was out, there must have been a spark." She looked up at her home, the walls were

coated in soot, grey smoke seeped through cracks in the walls.

"Emma, the fire was spread out, like it started in more than one place." Gino spoke this time, his words were

filled with accusation. Emma didn't like Gino; he had begun coming around right after her husband had left for

America. He had been stung by her rejection of him.

"This was an accident, nothing more." Emma said.

A small crowd of friends and neighbors began to gather. They looked at the still smoldering house, then at her.

Their faces were veiled in disdain. .

Shadows Express 24

Emma wore the black lace shawl she wore only on Sunday, and only to go to church. It was a gift from her

mother on the day she was confirmed into the Catholic Church, many years before. As she stood, the lace shawl

fell, revealing golden hair matted with sweat. Tears filled her blue eyes as she hugged the children to her waist.

The words emanated from the crowd in a loud murmur and stabbed her like a knife. "She tried to burn her

children!" The accusation pierced her heart. "She must be crazy!"

The crowd ignored her protests. She searched for the face of a friend, but she found only hatred etched into

the faces of people who were once her neighbors.

Emma's stomach clutched with fear and the world around her began to spin. The gathered crowd, her smoking

house, the ground she stood on, blurred. Reaching a trembling hand to a nearby tree to steady herself, she stum-

bled. Pietro and Gennaro grabbed her and lowered her limp body to the shaded ground. No one ran to get the doc-

tor.

When she woke up, her children were gone.

"Where are my children?" Her eyes were wide with fear as she looked around nervously, her gaze bolted from

one group of neighbors to another. "Where are my children!" she shouted.

"It's alright, Emma." A dark form hovered over her. "The children have been taken to safety." A man spoke

softly.

"They are safe with me. Where are they?"

Father Grasso stood over Emma. He wore a red sash around the flowing, black robe that hung almost to the

ground. His short, rotund body was silhou-

etted by the sun going down behind him.

Specks of grey ash spotted his black hat,

his face was pinched with concern. He did

not smile.

"They are with family, Emma. Come

with me to my house. The Carrabinieri

have been called, we'll wait for them there."

"There's no need for the authorities,

Father, I have done nothing wrong." Seeing

a group of her neighbors she shouted, "I

have done nothing wrong; please help me!"

Father Grasso took her arm and helped her

up. As she stood her shawl slipped from her

shoulders and fell to the ground, revealing

her thin white arm.

Standing in the shade of the tree, her

arm in Father Grasso's grasp, she shouted to

her neighbors standing a short distance

away. "Please, help me."

Her cries for help echoed through the valley below where there was no one to hear them. Father Grasso led

her away; her shawl remained behind in a silken heap on the ground.

* * *

Angela blinked away the memory playing on the window. As it faded, her reflection took its place and she

realized she was crying. She took a step back, wiped her tears and drew a deep breath.

She combed her fingers through her thick, brown hair, pulled the curls up and held them high on her head. The

cool air felt good on the warm skin at the back of her neck.

I don't know the truth of that day, Angela thought, but Emma is my sister and I believe her. If she says the fire

was an accident, then it was an accident. She would never harm her children, never!

Too poor to take proper care of her children? Lies! It was just an excuse to use the laws of Pellagra to put her

in that horrible Psychiatric Hospital. What a travesty!

Angela was happy to have her niece, she loved her as if she was her own child, but children belonged with

their mother.

Image: graur codrin / FreeDigitalPhotos.net


She wondered if they would ever win her sister's release from that terrible place, but she and other family

members would continue to work hard to get her out of there. If only Silvio, Emma's husband, would come from

America. Under the law, she would be released to him.

But he would not come.

* * *

By 1949 the world had changed dramatically for the people of northern Italy. The war had ended and the re-

building was underway. Family farms were productive again, families separated by years of destruction were reu-

niting. But for some, the human tragedy continued.

Emma had grown into a pretty, young woman of seventeen. She had not seen her mother since that Sunday so

long ago.

* * *

Angela watched Emma walk into the kitchen. "Buon Giorno, un Dolce mio."

"Good morning, Aunt Angela." Emma's curly, brown hair was now long and fell to her shoulders in waves.

Her brown eyes were warm and inquisitive. Her smile was bright and as fresh as a summer morning.

Angela considered not telling Emma about the news she had received yesterday, but it would be unfair not to

tell her. She turned to her with a nervous smile.

"Emma, are you certain you want to see your mother?" She held her breath.

A smile slowly crept across her face. "Yes, I am...why?" Her eyes remained locked on her aunt.

"You have been asking to see her for a long time, I just wanted to be sure."

"What are you saying," she tilted her head, "will the doctors now let me see her?"

"I have sent many requests for permission for you to see your mama." She walked to Emma and stroked her

hair. "They have finally said yes." Angela couldn't help but smile when she saw her niece's eyes fill with the glow

of happiness.

"When can I go?"

"Un Dolce mio. I want you to think about this. How you see your mama now is how you will always remem-

ber her." She untied the apron from around her waist and tossed it over a chair. "I think it would be better for you

remember her the way you saw her through younger eyes. But it must be your decision."

"Zia Angela," Emma reached her hand to her aunt's face and touched her soft cheek. "You are my mother as

much as anyone could be." She looked deeply into her aunt's eyes. "You raised me, you took care of me -- you

loved me." Her voice faltered and tears filled her eyes. "I want to see my mama so I can say goodbye to her -- be-

fore it is too late." She tried to blink back the tears, but they came, spilling from her eyes and spotting her dress.

Angela swayed from side to side as she hugged her niece to her breast. "I will make the arrangements for you

to visit next Sunday," she signed softly, "but please, think about what I said." She kissed the top of Emma's head

and left her alone with her thoughts.

* * *

The next Sunday, Angela was told to wait in the small lobby on the main floor of the hospital, while a nurse

escorted Emma to her mother's room.

Emma had not seen her mother in more than twelve years, she was allowed 20 minutes to visit with her today.

She stayed for less than ten.

"We can go," Emma murmured as she walked past Angela and rushed through the hospital doors.

Angela stood in surprise. In the brief time it took Emma to walk past her she saw the devastation -- the unre-

strained sorrow, frozen in Emma's eyes.

She caught up to Emma outside and encircled her with her arms. Emma tried to pull away, but Angela held

her tight. Slowly, the resistance ended, and her body sagged into her aunt's arms.

Angela stroked Emma's hair and tried to console her. "Shhh, Un dolce mio." Emma's body shook with sobs.

* * *

Over the next few days Emma spoke little. She spent her days quietly, taking long walks alone and reading.

Angela's heart broke as she listened to her niece crying in her room at night. She wanted to comfort her, but she

knew there was nothing she could say. Emma would have to put the visit behind her in her own way.

That will be so hard for her to do, Angela thought. The smell of death at the hospital was strong.

* * *

Mount Donali has the highest peak of the many mountains surrounding Val di Sol. The rock-strewn, narrow

paths that take you to its crest are treacherous. It is a difficult two-hour climb to the top.

Shadows Express 26

A week after visiting her mother, Emma stood near an outcropping of rocks at the top of Mount Donali. The air

at this altitude was cool and clear. Looking out from where she stood, she saw the lush valley stretched out below.

In the distance she could see Lake Garda; its placid waters sparkled under the morning sun. In the distance, the

sound of cold, pure water rushing over smooth rocks, as a stream made its way to the valley below, was just a whis-

per.

She had left home early that morning, before anyone else was awake. She didn't want to tell her aunt where she

was going, and she didn't want to lie to her if she asked. She knew her aunt was concerned, and would stop her from

doing what she came here to do. No, Aunt Angela would never approve.

She walked along the rocks jutting out into the sky and found a place where she could see the entire valley. The

smooth rock was warm under her hand as she slowly lowered herself to sit. She took a deep breath and looked at the

beauty surrounding her.

Mountain peaks pierced the morning mist that still clung to the valley below. Emma saw church spires rise

above tile roofs in village's dotting the mountainsides. She could not see the village where she lived, but she saw

Bresimo, the village where her mother had lived, before...before being taken away.

Looking to the east she saw ominous, dark grey clouds in the sky. She watched the storm clouds grow larger

and knew she would have to hurry. A strong breeze began to rustle her hair and she pulled it back behind her ears.

She knelt on the smooth rock in front of her. Taking the Rosary beads Angela had given her for her confirmation

from her pocket, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Emma began her prayer by thanking God for the beauty of the land that surrounded her, and for giving her

Aunt Angela. And then she asked for forgiveness for what she was about to ask.

"And now I must ask the unthinkable." Her lips moved with the words of her prayer, the Rosary hung from her

trembling fingers. Her tears began quickly. "My mama is in need of you," she said, "only you can bring her peace."

Emma's shoulders sagged noticeably.

"Mio Dio, I saw in my mama's eyes not a speck of understanding, not the slightest recognition of life. Her eyes

are the eyes of the dead. I pray that you take her to you."

She lowered her face to the warm stone where she knelt in prayer; her body trembled. Her sobs joined the wind

and flew through the valley below her.

Emma returned home and slept.

* * *

Dim light fell through the window in Emma's room. Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of her aunt's whispers.

"Emma, are you awake?"

She blinked sleep from her eyes.

"Un Dolce mio," this time louder.

"Yes, I'm awake." She rolled over and saw the sadness in her aunt's eyes.

Angela reached out and smoothed Emma's hair.

"Is it late?" Emma asked.

"Not very. You have been sleeping a long time."

"I was tired."

"I know. I wanted to wake you earlier but thought it would be best to let you rest before-before I tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"There is bad news from the hospital, Emma, I'm sorry."

"What is it, what news?" She pulled herself up and sat with her back against the wall. "What is it, Zia Angela?"

"It's your mama...she died this morning. The hospital sent a messenger this afternoon. I'm so sorry, Un Dolce

mio."

Emma clasped her hands and brought them under her chin. "Thank you," she whispered, then looked at her

aunt. "Mama is at rest, she is with God."

"Yes, Emma. Her suffering has ended."

With only the sound of their breathing filling the darkening room, the two women embraced as they became

lost in the memory of a woman who was no longer with them.


Chess By Pimsley ([email protected])

Tongues of silver and hearts of gold, that’s what kings are made of.

Beauty of earth and grace of sky, that's what queens are made of.

Resolve of stone and strength of oak,

that’s what castles are made of.

Eyes of clarity and tomes of knowledge, that’s what bishops are made of.

Etiquette of lions and coat of arms,

that’s what knights are made of.

Loyalty of dogs and clothes of paupers, that’s what pawns are made of.

Elegantly carved ebony and ivory dance a dance which many know.

Although, if a king does not lead, then how will his subjects follow?

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Shadows Express 28

A Package from Home By [email protected]

The unopened package lay on the kitchen table where my twice-weekly housekeeper had left it. It was from

my cousin Nicolette, a pretty, young woman I knew only through the pictures and letters we had exchanged since

she Googled my name two years ago. Her mother and my mother were sisters. I would be traveling to Italy soon

to meet my aunt and Nicolette, a meeting made possible by the far-reaching tentacles of the internet.

Because I was scheduled to make a trip to Italy and meet my Aunt Emma and finally see my birthplace, my

curiosity overflowed as I tore the outer wrapping from the package. I found what I thought was a cigar box, but

this was made of wood and carried the scent of cedar; simply constructed, it was not detailed in any way. Time

had smoothed its edges, and the wood felt soft and smooth in my hands. Raising the snug-fitting lid, I saw a letter

and two pictures nestled inside. Removing those, a postcard fell onto my lap, followed by a woman's tarnished

earring.

I recognized Nicolette's handwriting, but the letter had been signed by my aunt's shaky hand, something I

had grown accustomed to. The letters I received over the last two years were written by my cousin, but always

signed by my aunt. I smiled when I unfolded the letter, but soon after I began reading, my happiness turned to

foreboding.

“Ciao, mia Nipote,” it began. “I write this letter because I fear, now, that we will never meet.” I felt my face

flush as I read further.

“I have been told that my ill-

ness has taken a more serious turn,”

she wrote, “and the doctors say I will

not last until your arrival in July. Six

months from now, I will not be here

to welcome you.”

My heart began to race and my

hands trembled at the news. My heart

filled with sorrow as I remembered

that my original plan was to visit the

previous July, but I had put that trip

off for what now seemed like a trivial

reason.

The heart-wrenching words

continued. “I had hoped to give you

this box and its contents when we

met, but I now know that will not be

possible. The pictures are of you with

your mother on the steps of the house

where you were born in the small

village of San Giacomo. You were

her only child.”

The black and white photos

had faded, and time had etched a spi-

der web of cracks into their surface.

She would have been about twenty

years old in the picture. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her neck. Her dark eyes were

bright, even in this old picture. Her high cheek bones and wide mouth were set in the soft expression on her face.

She held a baby in her protective arms as she stood on the front steps of a stone house that appeared old,

even at the time the picture was taken. Her smile told of her happiness.

My mother died when I was three, and I had no memory of her. I had never seen a picture of her before.

Shortly after her death, my father immigrated to America, taking me with him. Possibly because of the pain he

felt over losing her, my father never mentioned my mother to me as I grew up. He never returned to Italy, not

even for a visit.



Putting the picture down, I picked up the single earring and felt its smooth edges in my hand. Made of three

golden scrolls, its burnished surface reflected what little light the room provided. My eyes became pools of tears as

I read on.

“The earring belonged to your mother. She owned only one pair, and they were special. She bought them to

wear for her wedding to your father.” I stopped reading to wipe a tear tracking down my cheek. As I read, the ear-

ring became warm in the palm of my hand. “I hope you don't mind that I kept one earring for myself as a keepsake.

It is my wish to have it with me on my final journey from this world.”

I reached for the postcard and turned it over. The back was covered in handwriting.

“This postcard is a picture of San Giacomo in modern times. If you look closely in the upper right-hand-corner,

you can just make out the house your mother stands in front of in the photographs I sent to you. I thought you

would like to see what your village looks like to-

day.”

Holding up the postcard, I saw the pointed

steeple of St. Georgio, rising above the red-tiled

roofs of a small village surrounded by apple or-

chards. I could see the house where I was born.

A feeling of loneliness and a longing to feel

something of my past overwhelmed me. I picked

up the wooden box and its contents and held it to

my chest. I began to sob. This box and the things

inside of it were a connection to my past—a long

sought-after connection to my mother.

I continued reading the letter. “I have come to

know you through your letters, and I regret that

we will never meet, but God has blessed me with

a full life and many happy memories. I hope that

one day you will come to Italy and see your an-

cestral home, to see the place your mother loved

with all her heart. The mountains, the beautiful

valleys, the farms and orchards are the world she

grew up in, the world she loved dearly.”

She closed the letter by signing her name with

a shaky hand. Below that, Nicolette had written that her mother had died before she had a chance to mail the pack-

age. She also wrote that my aunt was resting in the church yard next to her sister.

* * *

Suddenly I felt alone. Sitting at the table, I put the letter and pictures back inside the box and ran my fingers

along its worn edges. The earring felt smooth and warm in my hand. I looked out the window to see that the weath-

er had changed. Snow was now layering the ground, softening the edges of nature. Sadness filled my heart with the

realization that I had waited too long.

My eyes widened with an idea when I saw the phone, its twisted cord hanging along the wall. I reached for the

phone and punched in the numbers for Continental Airlines. When the agent came on the line, I asked about chang-

ing the date of my flight. I didn't want it to ever be too late again.

"So let me confirm," I said to the agent after the arrangements had been made. "My flight to Milan leaves the

day after tomorrow, and my return flight date is open-ended?" I would rent a car at the airport and drive into the

mountains to meet my past, my heritage... the spirit of my mother.

I have come to know

you through your

letters, and I regret that

we will never meet,

Shadows Express 30

Wilgar's Dilemma By Bertie Williams

Wilgar Ofenstart rolled over on the pile of furs that made his bed. The little cubicle carved out of the stone wall was really very warm and he was loath to leave its comfortable surround.

"Wilgar!"

He heard his wife call him. "Shut up you old hag!" he mumbled into his thick red beard. He rose and planted his feet on the hard-packed dirt floor. He shook his head, then remembered—today they left for the Great Northern Expedition. He would be among a host of explorers, brave conquerors that would go to the farthest edge of the Scurry Mountains to defeat the Snow Trolls. What glory would be his. What fame would he return with. And the booty! Why, the Snow Trolls kept gold and silver. That was known throughout his world.

Wilgar dressed. He pulled on his breeches, his thickest oxen skin tunic, his disk armor, and wound his leggings with ox-hide bands around his bulky legs to secure the extra layer of fur against the freeze he would encounter in the mountains.

"Wilgar!"

He sighed. Grabbing his broad battle axe, which he placed securely in the scabbard behind his shoulders, he shoved his double horned helmet down on his head. He was ready.

Wilgar pulled the thick skin aside that separated the midden from the rest of the house. The skin helped keep the inner room warmer, and he let it fall, closing it behind him securely. He looked around; it would be a long time before he once again saw his comfortable home.

He started for the doorway to the midden, to the outside where he could hear the rowdy assem-blage of his comrades.

"You go nowhere until you take Silver and Snow to do their business."

"Herta . . . are you trying to make a fool of me?"

"You said last night that you didn't need to take them on the raid. You said that they should stay to protect me. That means they will not be exercised. Take them," she said, a thick rod of ironwood in her hand. Herta used the ironwood to roll out bread, but Wilgar knew she used it for other things as well.

“But, Herta, all the men are assembled. You can take them for a walk later on —"

"I will not clean up behind those two wolves! They leave massive piles on the midden floor, and it will not be me cleaning it up!"

"This is ridiculous, Herta! Who will take them outside when I am gone?"

"The youth Amburn from the next village, I have already paid him one silver to do so."

Wilgar threw up his hands. "Then let him do it today."

Herta waved the ironwood rod about in the air and pursed her lips. He did not want to start the


march with a wounded knee, and that is just where Herta would land that damnable rod.

Wilgar sighed, a weary, heavy sound that spoke worlds about his situation.

He grabbed the straps that controlled the wolves and led them outside. Over his shoulder he said, "You know, Herta, a lot would be solved if you kept the wolves outside as should be."

"It's too cold at night for my little dears," Herta said as she patted the heads of Silver and Snow.

Wilgar exited, holding tightly to the wolves' leashes.

"Hoy, Wilgar!" one of his companions yelled. "I thought you weren't bringing the beasts."

Wilgar did not answer, but steered the animals over to a snow drift.

He heard a titter of laughter behind his back and turned to face the others. His frown could kill a man at ten paces, and the laughter subsided instantly.

Wilgar stood by the drift, one wolf's leash in each hand, and waited for them to do what they needed to do.

Sullenly, he returned the beasts to the midden.

"Now," his wife said, "you may go, and, mind you, bring me back something rare and beautiful."

I'll bring you back a Snow Troll to eat you, Wilgar thought and joined his group as they marched off toward the north, toward glory and conquest.

Image: Evgeni Dinev / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Shadows Express 32

Ten Writing No-No's

Emerin shares her writing expertise. Either that, or she got really bored one afternoon.

By [email protected] 2007 modified 2008

For years, reviewing has been a sort of passion of mine. I love reading other people’s works, I love ripping them apart, and I especially love it when someone does that for me in return. But after reading around five hundred works on WDC alone – this doesn’t include my other writing sites – I noticed some odd, recurring trends. As my second birthday on WDC approaches, I came up with the brilliant, twisted idea to compile a list of the top ten most common writing mistakes I see while in-depth reviewing. Now, in no way is this list inclusive, nor is it official, and half of you will probably disagree and give me 1.0 ratings because you do numbers one, four, six, and nine…but hey, maybe we can all learn something from it.

Emerin’s List of No-No’s

No-No Number Ten: (Parentheses) If you can believe it (hardly any people do), while browsing through WDC’s search engine (which, by the way, is fantas-tic), or perhaps picking up a couple pieces in various review forums (or maybe the Plug Page), I come upon lots of pieces (okay, maybe more than a lot, more like a million (but who’s counting?)) that for some odd reason feel the need to put adjec-tival and adverbial modifiers in parentheses when commas will suffice. I even see the egregious double parentheses, capable of ruining the most delectable prose. I love parentheses, too, but only when they’re used for chat-speak prettiness, like (((….::::~eMeRiN~::::….))). * …which leads me to Number Nine.

No-No Number Nine: C|-|a7 sP3aK<3

u mah bff n i <3 u 4eva bebe, ur no n00b That is not a haiku, even if it somehow follows the 5-7-5 syllable count. Please, please, please, type in normal English. I know after ten hours on instant messenger, that’s all your fingers will do; however, it looks unprofessional from a reviewer's perspective. So take a break off the IM, let your fingers rest a bit…and write things out. Yes, I know it’s your blog, your poem, your novel – but that doesn’t make chat-speak acceptable. Rule of thumb: A good percentage of others on the site will NOT appreciate your writing, no matter how well written it is, if you insist on putting in numbers for syllables.

No-No Number Eight: !!!!!!!! ?!?!??!?!! ???????

I don’t care how excited your character is at riding his first unicorn, ten exclamation marks are not necessary. In fact, I don’t even think two are necessary. Just stick to the standard one. The same rule applies to question marks. Adding six or seven more question marks after the first one is cheap. If you want to display that you are especially questioning, do so with your words, not your punctuation. Rule of thumb: Publishers don’t accept ?!, !!!!, and ???????, so if I see it, I will comment on it.



No-No Number Seven: :Colons:

Not that colons aren’t fun; they are useful for a variety of reasons. Like the parentheses, however, they are overused. If you’ve used more than four colons in a sentence, go back and take four of them out. Vary your sentence structure and use semicolons, em-dashes, and commas. They won’t bite, I promise! Rule of thumb: Overusing any type of punctuation mark = bad.

No-No Number Six: Really Completely Annoyingly Unnecessary Modifiers Not that we don’t appreciate that your Princess has golden flowing beautiful curly shining hair, but sometimes it gets to the point when there are so many modifiers that we forget them all. Plus it sounds childish.

No-No Number Five: I use semicolons; correctly, too! Semicolons are used to connect two independent clauses. An independent clause is a group of words containing a subject and a verb and expressing a complete thought, and is also called a sentence. A good rule to follow is this: semicolons should replace a comma and a conjunction. For example: Sally walked home, but she felt sad. Sally walked home; she felt sad.

The semicolon replaced the comma conjunction. The common semicolon mistake is to substitute a semicolon for a comma right before a gerundial modifier.

Sally walked home; feeling sad. Don’t do that.

Rule of thumb: If there’s an –ing, there shouldn’t be a semicolon before it.

No-No Number Four: Unnecessary Passive Verbs

Now, articles upon books upon encyclopedias exist on this subject, so I won’t go too in-depth with it. I would, howev-er, like to give some common examples.

This was given to me by Emerin. Bad.

Emerin gave it to me. Good!

The mouse was eaten by the owl. Bad.

The owl ate the mouse. Good!

I am made sad by the awkward sentences I am writing. Bad.

The awkward sentences I write make me sad. Good!

No-No Number Three: When you use a bunch, like more than it is completely necessary, to talk about something that isn’t really important Wordiness! Verbosity! Really Bad Prose! However you care to call it, it results in comprehensive difficulty, vagueness, and redundant language – basically, your writing becomes boring.

Shadows Express 34

Rule of thumb: if you can say it in three words, say it in three. If you can say it in two, that’s even better. Example: I decided that the tree, which was definitely facing the pond, was more pleasing to me than that other tree that was standing on the side of the fence, which was painted white by somebody. I like the tree facing the pond better than the tree near the white fence. Oh, and before you laugh, go back and make sure I didn’t lift this sentence from a short story lurking inside the inner workings of your portfolio.

No-No Number Two: ‘What are you talking about”? she cried! I never misuse dia-logue punctuation’.

Just get it right, please. There are plenty of free resources available on the web, so look it up and use it correctly. Purdue University has a wonderful grammatical site, with fantastic examples.

http://owl.english.purdue.edu/handouts/grammar/g_quote.html It’ll help you; I promise.

A couple rules of thumb: 1. The punctuation goes INSIDE the quotation marks. 2. Use double quotation marks instead of single quotation marks. Even if the single ones look cooler. and finally…

No-No Number One: Speling Atrocious spelling turns me off to a piece, and Microsoft Word has officially gotten rid of all excuses for it. I dnot crae taht Haravrd Uiverntisy syas popele can sitll raed tihgns if the lsat and the frist ltertes saty the smae. I can’t. Rule of Thumb: If one can’t read it, one won’t like it! *By no sense of the word do I condone “prettiness” in book titles and in-and-out posts and all that jazz. For those of you that have commented against it, just pretend there’s a really big NOT right after the multiple parentheses. Oh, and if you like that kind of thing, don’t read this. Thank you for bearing with me, and I hope I have amused you at least once in the duration of this article. By no stretch of the imagination am I the perfect writer, and I would appreciate any input anyone can give me. All grammatical suggestions in this article refer to American English. If you happen to be British, just ignore a couple of the

No-No's and check out "Kiya's Big Book of Writing Guidelines" by kiyasama @writing.com

http://www.Writing.Com/main/redirect.php?redirect_url=http://owl.english.purdue.edu/handouts/grammar/g_quote.html

http://www.Writing.Com/main/books/item_id/1299892-Kiyas-Big-Book-of-Writing-Guidelines

http://www.writing.com/main/books/item_id/1299892-Kiyas-Big-Book-of-Writing-Guidelines


The Cobbler By Liam O'Haver

You'll find him working every night.

He cobbles shoes till morning light

With no regard to passing time

The left one first, and then the right.

His tiny hammer strikes a chime,

A steady rhythm quite sublime

That sings the tale how wars are lost

Recited in that fabled rhyme.

Foretelling of potential cost

When horses find their shoe is tossed

In absence of the needed cleat.

The vital bridge remains uncrossed

And we resign to face defeat.

So twilight finds him in his seat

Relentless duty incomplete,

So many pairs of unshod feet.

So many pairs of unshod feet.

Shadows Express 36

What Now? By D. R. Prescott

Rodney Trumball strolled along "his" well-worn path. The oak and maple leaves had that fiery au-tumn tinge and fluttered in the biting breeze. It was a crisp, beautiful day. Too beautiful! He loved days like this. It was a shame that there would never be another.

Normally, walking the Institute's grounds freed his mind of mental obstacles and accumulated de-bris. It was not working. His world had become richer, but his mind was bankrupt. He had already passed through the elation, even the ecstasy, of discovery. Then, realization of what it meant twisted his initial excitement into an awful knot. The net effect was resignation. It was inevitable. Strange. You can’t fight it. He should have felt guilty, not indifferent.

A chirp from a sparrow perched in Rodney's favorite old oak tree made him stop. He shivered. Something was wrong. Wrong with the bird? Or, wrong with him? Or both? The bird fluttered its wings as Rodney approached. It suddenly launched itself erratically across the path, head first into a red brick retaining wall. On the ground flapping, obviously injured, it skittered off into the underbrush.

"It's gotten to you already, huh bird?" Rodney whispered, shrugged his shoulders and continued his practiced hike, accompanied by the knowledge that, no matter what he did, he could not undo what he had done.

"Rod!" A grating, feminine voice interrupted his reverie. "I've been looking all over for you!"

He stopped and turned. Cindy Parker charged toward him in her clipped, work-to-be-done strut. She was young, aggressive and had the disposition of a testy Doberman; loyal to only one master; lethal to anyone else. Actually, she was rather attractive, but underneath that slim, buxom exterior was a cun-ning, alert mind of a seasoned power broker. She was the big boy's hatchet lady. You did not cross Cin-dy because she could make your life miserable by remote control. Cindy, oh Cindy!

She caught up with him and stopped with her hands on her hips. "Rod, Mr. Emerson wants to see you now! And, he's in a tizzy! Boy, you’ve done it this time." Cindy deftly transferred power. She irritat-ed Rodney the first day they met, and things had spiraled downhill from there. Yet, now, he felt indiffer-ent. She didn’t matter. In fact, neither did Emerson.


"Lead the way, Madam." He said evenly. She was poised for one of their exasperating exchanges and seemed disappointed Rodney agreed so readily. Rodney smiled and she stiffened. He smiled wider; his indifference took on a new flavor.

"Aren't we obliging today!"

"Anything to please. I’m at your command."

Cindy clenched and unclenched her fists several times. Rodney was not playing the game. Lack of his rebellious servant act to her I'm-the-boss's-assistant routine seemed to really irritate her. Good! A tingle of satisfaction cleaved a tiny niche in his apathy.

She turned quickly and started back toward the Institute. Rodney followed several steps behind. He was still following her as they crossed the transom into the Institute of Special Advanced Studies main building. The guard nodded curtly as Cindy passed and, in turn, raised his eyebrows at Rodney. The el-derly guard had obviously been a former victim of Cindy's wrath. Apparently, being inconspicuous was his best offense.

Cindy stood as far away as the elevator would permit while they were lifted to the third floor office. Neither spoke. Yet, they communicated effectively. Her eyes projected her I’ll-get-you gawk. She looked confused. She nervously adjusted her blazer. Rodney smiled. She winced. Rodney’s smile widened.

The elevator door slid open to the posh, hushed environment of the executive suite. Cindy led the

way to Director Emerson's door, knocked lightly and waited for protocol to grind through its inevitable ritual. Barely a second passed before the door opened abruptly. So much for protocol!

"Get your ass in here, Trumball!" Harrison Emerson growled. His bulbous face was redder than usu-al. Small veins about his nose looked like a street map. His paunchy frame was emphasized by lack of a suit coat that normally hid his robust waistline. Rodney looked at Cindy. Her lips were pursed into a told-you-so smirk. Rodney winked and smiled again at her as he passed by the old man into the cavernous, opulent office. Emerson’s office was a harsh contrast to Rodney's ten-by-ten partitioned, littered play-pen on the second floor.

Emerson slammed the door leaving poor Cindy outside. Rodney was undecided about sitting or standing. Indecision left him standing. Emerson darted from the door to the coffee table scooping up a manila folder as he hurried behind his ornate desk to the leather throne from which he ruled the Insti-tute.

"Christ, Trumball! What in the hell made you think that this piece of crap should be sent to anyone without my authorization, much less, to the Under Secretary?" Emerson thundered. He thrust a sheet of paper toward Rodney.

It was a copy of an e-mail that Rodney had sent to all hands warning them of the end. It was the right thing

to do. He had no regrets about sending it. They ought to thank him. Everyone was a part of the coming collapse. Everyone ought to know. Yet, what was the point? In another few hours, who would care? No-body.

"Harry, it's true. It's all coming apart. None of us can be sure we're thinking clearly right now."

"You're out of your mind! You've always been a royal pain-in-the-ass. Now! Now, you've gone way over the edge! How do I explain why I've let you stay on as long as I have? You're through, Trumball, really through!" Emerson shrieked.

"We’re all through, Harry. Done. Finished. The cycle's complete." Rod countered calmly. Emerson

Shadows Express 38

could not terrorize him. Especially now. All the dreams were coming to an end. The real world was not real after all. Emerson's power was of that world and had little to do with the one Rodney unleashed a few hours ago.

"My God, man! Have you no sense? This is rubbish! You've proven that you are brilliantly stupid! The world is ending! Rubbish! The Under Secretary must think I'm running a loony bin out here!"

"Harry, if you'll calm down..." Rodney said.

"Calm down! Calm down! Shit! You go and send this out, and you want me to calm down?" Emer-son's face reddened further and appeared to be about to burst.

"It has already started. The changes are happening right now. They may be subtle, but they're here and increasing, becoming more visible. I've seen them."

"Crap!"

"Whatever you say boss, but I've checked it over and over again. The rules have changed. Chaos is taking over. It's a force. Once the code is broken, everything gets broken. Didn't realize it until it was done. Consciousness really is linked to reality. It is all there is. This physical universe is ending. Neither of us can do anything to stop it."

Emerson slammed his pudgy fist on his desk. "Trumball, you've lost your mind!"

"No, Harry. I have stumbled upon the trip mechanism. Somebody was going to do it sooner or later. It's been there all the time, waiting, lurking in an obscure mathematical corner. Einstein, Dirac, Lorentz, Mandelbrot, Feynman, Tipler, Abraham, all of them skirted around it but never quite grasped it. I found it!"

"Get out!"

"Theoretical physics has made its best and final offer. Is the cat dead or alive? It is more correct to ask whether the cat exists or not. It does and it doesn't. If it does exist, has it figured it out yet? If it has, it doesn't exist."

"Get out, you imbecile! I've wasted enough time on you! These equations are convoluted dribble." Emerson took Rodney's paper from the folder and threw it across the desk. "I told you not to continue this crap! No! You went ahead! Then, you have the audacity to send this… this stupid warning to every-one in creation! You’re deranged! And, you're fired! Clear out your office and get out of mine! Now!"

"Firing me won't fix it. All it took was for someone to figure it out. That did it. Where we go from here is the only great question left to be answered."

"Ridiculous! I said, 'get out!' Do I have to throw you out! I swear I...” As Emerson reached a crescen-do, his eyes dilated. He grimaced. His right hand clutched his chest. His voice trailed off to a groan. His breathing was visibly labored. He reached out toward Rodney and collapsed on the desk with a shud-der. Rodney ran behind the desk and pulled Emerson into the desk chair. Emerson's head fell to one side. His eyes were glazed. Rodney felt for a pulse. None.

"Cindy!" Rodney yelled as he clumsily put the huge man on the floor and tried to revive him. After a few minutes, Rodney was sweating from his futile efforts. Emerson was dead, beyond help.

The door opened. Cindy froze momentarily in the doorway. "My God, what have you done?" She screeched.

Rodney could not help himself; he almost laughed. The old man looked like a beached walrus. Cin-


dy looked stunned. The desk disappeared with a loud pop as air rushed in to fill the void. Rodney shiv-ered.

"Jesus! Oh my god! Oh my god!" Cindy yelped, her cutting demeanor supplanted with terror. She stood rigidly in the doorway choking back sobs.

"That wasn't very subtle, was it?" Rodney said as he walked toward the doorway across the matted carpet that once held Emerson's desk. Cindy looked like a statue, sculpted at a bad moment. "Cindy, it's all over. What say we take a little walk around the grounds before it's all gone too?"

"Ah..." Cindy’s tears began tumbling down her cheeks and her teeth were gnawing at her knuckles.

"Never mind. I wouldn't be very good company either." Rodney said. He patted her on the shoul-der as he walked from Emerson's office. He took the stairs down, avoiding the elevator. The building structure appeared canted. Maybe it was just his imagination but nothing seemed quite square. It left him slightly nauseated. He reached the lobby and found the guard frantically searching for something. The guard looked bewildered. "I know it was here, Mr. Trumball! It was!" The guard said pleadingly as he pointed at the empty spot where the guard's desk had been.

"Of course, it was." Rod said matter-of-factly.

"You... don't understand..."

"Oh, I understand. I am the only one who does. Unfortunately, the only one."

Rodney left the guard fumbling for words and headed toward the main exit. One of the glass doors was crazed. The glass gave way, playing a chaotic melody as it fell to the floor. At least, gravity was still operating correctly. The glass tumbled downward, not up or sideways. Rodney opened the door and walked out into the sunshine over the pile of crystalline debris that crunched comfortingly under his feet. It should sound like that.

Outside, the day was beautifully strange. It was the kind of strangeness that alerts the hair on your neck and sends a shiver up your spine. It tingled. Strange. It all was familiar but different. The path. His path.

He shrugged, pulling his collar up against the biting breeze. There was nothing more for him to do

except to walk. He headed down the path. Well into his walk, he passed that familiar old oak and the

brick wall. He wondered about that sparrow. Poor thing. Was it still fluttering around helplessly? Had

some cat eaten it not knowing that the bird was its last supper?

His thoughts flitted from one thing to another almost randomly. Cindy, Oh, Cindy. Perry Como? Where did that come from? The final derivative? He focused on the old oak tree. He wondered how long it had stood its ground against wind, rain, and pollution. No more. He had a thought. It eluded him. What now?

"I'll be damned!" He suddenly knew. It was there all the time.

And, the world changed again.

This short story has been published in an online publication and in an International print publication.

Shadows Express 40

Image: nuttakit / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Flying with wings made of dreams

Open wide as I soar into and amongst the clouds

Ruffled, white clouds like whispers

Enveloping Earth soften

Views of golden sunset and rainbow sunrise

Evermore wondrous is this expanse of life I see

Resting atop my hopes and dreams

Clouds



Goodness

Goodness comes and goes

God the good Lord knows

The kindness we find in

The hearts of others is sublime

Life goes on to look and find

The goodness in its truest form

It is not always easy to seek

To find those with a good heart

Years may pass not knowing the true

Goodness in world we live

It is there although it may be faint

A good deed is done unknown to anyone

We need to know that goodness grows

In the hearts of those too blind to see

The truth is there right there you just have to look

It’s the heart with its every beat from where the goodness seeps

Shadows Express 42

By Kitty Sutton

Originally published in “Legends and Rhymes, Stories and

Poetry of the First Peoples” Reprinted in its original form with

permission from Inknbeanspress (Inknbeans.com)

In the before times, when Ohwega's grandfather

brought his family down through the ice sheets of the

north, they met many types of animals they had never

seen before; tame and docile, with no fear of the hun-

dreds of people emerging onto a great plain of grass,

with far off mountains to the west. With this abundance

there was no worry about food. Many edible plants

grew there, the streams teemed with fish and the People

were content.

Calaha', his grandfather and Chief of the tribe, was

sorry to see that after a few years the animals began to

be wary of these creatures who walked on two legs.

Ohwega used to love to sit at the feet of his grandfather

and listen to his stories about the land, the animals and

how the People began to make themselves at home.

He used to say, "When your mother Anathi woke

up each morning, the first thing she would do, would be

to greet the animals living in the glade close to our

camp. She was such a trusting young maiden in those

days. Anathi would come home after the sun went to

sleep beyond the mountains, and tell me of her excite-

ment for new discoveries of this animal or that. Your

grandmother would throw her hands up and storm back

into our hut. 'A daughter should stay home with her

family,' she would say as she went.

"Then one day, something strange happened to

Anathi in the glade. She told us that she had been feed-

ing a cat of some sort. She had been talking to him

about her family, and where the People had come from.

Presently, she heard a word or two. There was no one

else there, and she soon realized that she must be hear-

ing the animals. She told me it was not like talking, but

knowing."

Ohwega liked to hear this story, because, he knew

he could communicate with the animals too. But, he

knew better than to say anything to anyone of the tribe,

even Calaha'. He knew the People did not understand

and hearing of it made them feel afraid.

For some years they lived near the glade, and

Anathi found a mate, his name was Alacond. They were

happy and she gave birth to Ohwega. She continued to

go and see the animals in the glade, and one day she

of the tribe, even Calaha'. He knew the People did not

understand and hearing of it made them feel afraid.

For some years they lived near the glade, and

Anathi found a mate, his name was Alacond. They

were happy and she gave birth to Ohwega. She contin-

ued to go and see the animals in the glade, and one day

she discovered that a few were missing. As the days

went by, more and more of her friends in the glade dis-

appeared, and Anathi became very sad. She decided

that she would sneak off in the middle of the night, go

to the glade and watch to see what was happening. She

dreaded the possibility she would see one of the tribe

killing off her special friends. The People had started

to have a craving for meat, and wanted it more than the

plants and fish that were so abundant and close by.

As she waited in the bushes, she began to hear a

conversation between a tawny colored bear and a large

spotted long toothed cat. After hearing the conversa-

tion, she was so upset that she ran home and burst into

Calaha's hut, crying and talking so fast he could not

understand her. Her father finally got her calmed

enough to say what had made her so upset.

She said, "Do you remember that I told everyone

that the animals were going missing, more and more

each day? Yet, I did not find extra meat in the camp,

only the buffalo meat from the plains, to the west of

the camp. So I decided to go to the glade in the middle

of the night, and watch to see who was taking our

friends away."

The strange lesson learned from the animals, given to a boy named Ohwega, of the first peoples


"Well, what did you find out girl? You woke me

from a sound sleep just to tell me this?" Calaha' said.

"Father, I am sorry that I had to wake you. You are

Chief and you need to know about the change that is

coming. Coming to all of us," Anathi explained.

"Change, what change?" Calaha' said loud enough

that some in the tribe were stirring, and coming to see

what was happening. He waved the crowd away and

led her into his lodge where they could talk privately.

"Father, the animals have decided to make a pact," she

said in a whisper. "The bear said that he had watched

as our men ran after the buffalo to kill them and then

eat them. He warned the long-toothed cat that someday

soon the animals walking on two legs would get tired

of buffalo meat, and then want to eat the animals of the

glade," Anathi said.

"You said a pact, why would they need a pact?"

said the Chief.

"Because, the animals had all met together and de-

cided that they each had different abilities, and so they

would each do what they could to warn us away, even

if it meant harming us. The cat told the bear that he had

very sharp claws, and it would be nothing for him to

make a wound on our skin that we would not forget.

The bear said that his great strength would be a match

for us, and if we would not listen to reason, then he

would use his large claws and his strong teeth to pro-

tect himself.

"As I listened, more of the animals came forward

to say what they could do. The deer and the antelope

both said they had a good set of horns most of the year.

He said it would be painful if they used those against

the two-leggeds. The wolf said his strength was in hav-

ing more than one of his kind around to help, for they

go nowhere without each other.

"The raccoon said that although he did not have

great claws, he did have needle-like teeth to help him,

and he could climb high in a tree.

"Then after almost all the animals had finished, the

great eagle swooped down and landed on a branch

above them. He told them that he had the best ad-

vantage, and that he could be a help to them all. He

said, that he could see better than any of them and

would warn of our approach. His high pitched screech

could be heard for a long distance," Anathi stopped to

take a breath.

"But, you said all the animals were disappearing

one by one. What does that have to do with all of this?"

said Calaha'.

"That is the part that is most strange father. It was

the eagle who said that each of them needed to go out

to other parts of the land, and find a place to live with

their own kinds, away from the two leggeds. And that

they should go at different times so that they would not

alarm us. That is why they are gone father. They are

afraid of us," finished Anathi.

Ohwega was just a small boy then, but he remem-

bered what happened when Calaha' made Anathi ex-

plain it to all of the People. But, they did not believe

his mother. They said that no one could talk to animals,

and shunned her. Anathi and Alacond decided to leave

Ohwega with his grandfather, and go to live with the

animals. Ohwega needed to stay with his grandfather

because someday he would be Chief, and there was

much to learn. He had not seen nor heard from his

mother and father, so as far as he knew, they were still

out there.

The next day, Ohwega decided to visit the glade

that his mother used to love. Alas, there were very few

animals there. So he sat under a large tall tree to rest,

and tossed stones over the surface of the large pond.

Suddenly, he felt someone was watching him, but

could not see from which direction.

"Looking for someone?" the voice said. "Look up."

Ohwega looked up and there on the branch above

him was a large white headed eagle sitting proudly.

Ohwega looked around to make sure no one from

the tribe was there.

"Hello, are you the eagle that my mother used to

come and visit here?" asked Ohwega.

"Yes, I am that one. Who are you to come looking

for me?" said the eagle.

"I am her son. I was hoping that you might know if

my mother is alive out there in the land. Did she find

her friends?" Ohwega asked.

"Yes, she found us, but why should I tell you any-

thing. You are one who walks on two legs. You could

be just as dangerous as the others," the eagle screeched.

"I would not harm you. As you can see, I can un-

derstand you, and I have no weapon. Please tell me if

you have seen her, and is she alive?" pleaded Ohwega.

After thinking for a few moments, the eagle faced

to the east and said, "Your mother lives many days that

way. She helps us and is teaching us the ways of your

kind, so that we can avoid you and protect our kind.

She is the only one we trust," said the eagle.

Ohwega breathed a sigh of relief. "That is good.

Please tell her that I am pleased she is helping you and

grandfather will be too. Thank you for telling me. Now

I do not have to wonder," Ohwega replied.

The eagle began to flap his wings and his body began

to lift off the limb, but soon he settled back on his

branch. He turned his regal head toward Ohwega, pon-

dered a moment and then said, "I have a message for

you to take to your kind. Tell them that from this day

on, there will be a wariness of you and your kind by all

of the animals in the wild.

"We know one day you will become so numerous,

you will fill the land. There will be so many of you,

and some will not want to be our friend. All the ani-

(Continued from page 42)

Shadows Express 44

mals know that some of these two-legged animals will

put all of our kind in danger, and some of us will be

hunted until their kind is no more. We will do what we

can to protect ourselves, but there is much that you can

do to help your kind. Tell them to treat us with respect.

If they need meat, then only take what they really need,

give thanks to the one they killed for food. They need to

know that if they kill us all, they too will die. That is all

I have to say," said the eagle and he lifted off of his

branch and was gone.

Ohwega went back to his tribe, and told his grandfa-

ther the message. Calaha' seemed to know just what to

do. He said, "Ohwega, do not mention this to anyone.

Never speak of it again, for they will not believe you,

and they will make it hard for you to stay here with me.

But, I will begin to teach my people how to live at peace

with our friends the animals. I will not forget what the

eagle said, and from this day forward I will teach these

ways so that our kind will also survive along with the

animals."

* * *

Many years passed. The Chief was true to his word.

He taught the People all the lessons he had learned from

the message, and when Ohwega was old enough, he be-

came Chief and he too taught the people how to live

with the animals in peace.

Time slid forward, generations passed and a new

kind of two legged came to the land of the People. Their

Chief would not listen to the stories and lessons the Peo-

ple had learned long ago. And so they began a great

slaughter. This was not the taking of meat for food, no,

it was much worse. These white skinned people took the

hide from the animals they slaughtered and left the meat

to rot on the ground.

Decade after decade, century after century the

slaughter continued until one day the white people real-

ized that they had killed all of certain kinds of animals

and there were no more. And some kinds were very few.

He had almost slaughtered all of the buffalo that had

sustained the People since their coming through the ice

sheet to this beautiful land.

Then one day the oldest Chief of the People saw that

the white men were wondering what to do, the calamity

was so great it made some of them faint with fear. So

the old Chief gathered all the Chiefs together, the Chiefs

of the People and the Chiefs of the white men, and when

they were all seated around the fire circle he began to

speak.

"Many centuries ago, long before we kept account

of the time, our ancestors came into this land, beautiful

and tame. The animals were not afraid of us, nor we of

them. The longer we were here, the more we began to

abuse this wonderful gift the Creator had given to us.

The animals began to be weary of us and they learned

ways to protect themselves against our hunters. And as

the years flowed by we learned to take only what we

needed and that if we did that, we would be able to feed

our children.

"For all those many years, our weapons remained

the same. The spear, the bow and arrow, and the knife;

they were all the tools we used to help us make meat for

our families. When the White man came, he brought

with him new, harder weapons. Weapons that did not

break upon the first use and we became better at killing

the animals. Then the ones who came over the sea to

take our lands offered the People trinkets and fancy

things, and the worst of all, whiskey, if we would begin

a great slaughter of the animals and give over the pelts

and skins to them to make a profit.

“The People had never known hunger, had never

seen the plains in the summer without the huge herds of

buffalo running wildly for no apparent reason. They had

never known a winter without the dams the beaver built

which helped to give us large pools where we could eas-

ily catch fish. But we were too eager to have the things

your people offered us and the whiskey that degraded

us.

“Now, your people and mine have looked up and all

of a sudden, wondered where these animals have gone.

They may as well have never been here, for some we

will never see again." said the old Chief. Then he told

the gathered Chiefs the story of the boy, the animals and

the eagle. This time they did not look with scorn upon

the story, but finally saw the wisdom of the words.

Many plans were made that day to find a way to

help the animals that were in danger. Some it was too

late for, but they began that very day. As the crowd dis-

persed, a wizened old White Chief meandered over to

the old Chief of the People.

"Mighty fine talk Chief, mighty fine. You said many

things I have been thinking for some time. I believe we

will succeed as long as we remember the things you told

us," said the White Chief. As he turned to go, he remem-

bered a question he wanted to ask the old Chief of the

People, so he turned and addressed him eye to eye with

respect.

"I have been meaning to ask you Chief, what is your

name? I don't think you said," he asked.

The old Chief of the People turned to look at a glade

close by, he hesitated a moment, taking in the tall trees,

the calm soothing feel of the place and saw in his mind's

eye the large white headed eagle sitting overhead, then

he turned and said, "My name is Ohwega."

(This story is part of “Legends and Rhymes, Stories and Poet-ry of the First Peoples” by Kitty Sutton, [email protected] by Inknbeans Press. Copyright 2011. This story is not to be published or posted in whole or in part without the names of the author and publisher attached. For more information about Kitty Sutton, author of the upcom-ing “Wheezer and the Painted Frog”, or Inknbeans Press, visit Inknbeans.com)


Author of Ohwega and the Eagle

Kitty Sutton

Kitty Sutton was born Kathleen Kelley to a Chero-

kee/Irish family. Both sides of her family were from per-

forming families in Kansas City, Missouri and Kitty was

trained from an early age in dance, vocal, art and musi-

cal instruments. Her father was a Naval band leader.

During the Great Depression, her mother helped to sup-

port her family by tap dancing in the speakeasys even

though she was just a child; she was very tall for her age

but made up like an adult. Kitty had music and art on all

sides of her family which ultimately helped to feed her

imaginative mind and desire to succeed.

Kitty married a wonderful Cherokee artist from Ok-

lahoma, in fact the very area that she writes about in her

Wheezer series of novels. After raising her family, Kitty

came to Branson, Missouri and performed in her own

one woman show there for twelve years. To honor her

father, she performed under the name Kitty Kelley. She

has three music albums and several original songs to her

credit and is best known for her comical, feel good song

called, It Ain't Over Till The Fat Lady Sings.

Kitty has been writing for many years and in 2011

we accepted her manuscript of a historical Native Amer-

ican murder mystery. First in a line of stories featuring

Wheezer, a Jack Russell Terrier and his Cherokee friend,

Sasa, it is called, Wheezer And The Painted Frog. Kitty

lives in the southwestern corner of Missouri near Bran-

son with her husband of 40 years and her three Jack

Russell Terriers, one of which is the real and wonderful

Wheezer.

Shadows Express Staff

Contributors

All of our contributors have granted us one time

non-exclusive rights to publish their work. The

copyright remains with the author.

We would like to thank them for their professional

demeanour and for granting us the right to publish

their work.

Without these talented writers, our pages would be

blank.

Publisher Hannah

[email protected]

Editor Mystic

[email protected]

Assistant Editor Laura

[email protected]

Editorial Assistant Pepper

Contest Editor Sariah

Article Editor Joy

Fiction Editor Winnie

Poetry Editor Liam

Distribution Manager Puja

[email protected]

Editor Emeritus Lyle











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Shadows Express - December 2011