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Table of Contents Short Stories
Artwork
Leah Blackwell A Parable ................................... . 2
Martessa Conover (Etching) ...................... 1
Anne Bourne
Lee Tyler (Drawing) ......................... 3, 23
Seasons ofMyself.............................4
Christine Kakascik Hourglass ....................................7 Diane Caldwell A Visit to the City ............................ 16 (First Prize for Fiction) Carolyn Handy Rescued ....................................24 Victoria Magliano Changing ...................................30 (Second Prize for Fiction) Joan Sevick Brave Reward ...............................39
Poetry
Darren Steiss (Ink Sketch) ....................... 17 Scott Oxley (Drawing) ..........................20 LuAnne Eggleston (Ink Sketch) ..................37 George Bowles (Ink Sketch) ......................38 Dale Serroka (Etching) .........................41
Photography Greg Jones ........................7, 11, 15, 21, 43 Pete Hartman ..................................9 Eddie Bevis ................................... 14
Mary Jeanne Shaughnessy /Am Water ................................. 10
Selina Elswick .................................26
Mark Clingenpeel Sanibe/Island Paradise ....................... 12 FerOcious L'ions.............................. 13
Don Vtipil ....................................34
Sandra Davis Coming Home ...............................21
Stacey Baxter ..............................40, 42
Peter Sweetland Realite .....................................27 Pete Thornhill Harvest .....................................33 Grey Toned .................................33 Connie Swift The Sun Lowers Itself.........................36 (First Prize for Poetry) Leah Blackwell Haiku ......................................37 Christine Kakascik Perception ..................................37 Gotta Get There ..............................42 (Second Prize for Poetry) Jeannette Lacoss La Cle (The Key) .............................37
Kastner ..................................28, 29 Sandra Mankins ...............................35
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A Parable nce upon a time there were two eggs. From all outward appearances these eggs were the same. O Both were little, brown and spherical. Both were
-Etching by Martessa Conover
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Turning around to check out his feet, the little green caterpillar gasped with astonishment. Four huge orange and black things were sticking out of his back, or what used to be his back. It was formerly green. Now it was black! And his short, stubby legs had become incredibly long and slender! The former little green caterpillar cried wonderingly, "What has happened to me? I'm beautiful! It's a miracle! A miracle of the hard shell!" He then remembered his friend and began searching for him. Those four huge orange and black things fluttered automatically and the former little green caterpillar lifted himself off the leaf. "Wow!" he cried. "This sure beats crawling!" When he looked down at his take-off leaf he saw his old cracked shell and another uncracked shell beside it. He landed beside it and waited for his friend to emerge so they could share the miracle. He waited. And waited. Weeks passed and the uncracked shell remained so. The sad former little green caterpillar grieved for his friend. "If only he had had hope too. If only he had looked beyond our ignorance and accepted his fate." The former caterpillar drew a deep breath, fluttered his new wings, and flew away to his new future as a beautiful monarch butterfly. The moral of this parable: The mark of your ignorance fs the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.
clinging tightly to the same milkweed leaf. One day both eggs hatched and two little green caterpillars crawled out together. These caterpillars chewed on leaves together and crawled up and down stems together and explored their world together. Many moons passed. Changes began to take place in the two little green caterpillars' bodies. Their outer skin began to harden and slow their movement. They were molting, but they did not know it. The first caterpillar cried, "What is happening?! I'm dying, I know it! It isn't fair! I want to live! This is so horrible! Oh, woe is me!" The second caterpillar said reassuringly, "Relax, friend. This strange thing is happening to both of us, so maybe it's natural. Who knows what will happen after this is all over? Besides, neither one of us can stop it." By this time their skins had completely hardened, except for their heads. The first caterpillar screamed hysterically, "What can we do to stop this thing?! Why me? I was so good! I don't want to die! Oh no. It's over, all over ... " And with this his head-skin hardened. The second caterpilfar watched his friend sadly while his own head-skin hardened. It was strange and dark inside his new shell, but the second caterpillar felt quite resigned to his fate. He was even hopeful and a little excited about the future. Many moons passed. One day the second caterpillar's shell began to split and open. It was a most fortunate event, for the little cramped caterpillar was rather tired of having no room in which to move. When the little green caterpillar crawled out of his shell he was very glad, but surprised because this world was just like the one he had left. "Oh well," he thought. "I'm happy to be able to crawl about again." As he started to crawl, he felt unusually awkward.
(Excerpt from Messiah's Handbook)
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which each may greet the morning with a burst of song. It harbors many and gives protection and food to all who ask. But, alas, the giant is vulnerable-to fire, to man, t� tiny insects who invade and burrow, to microscopic dise�se spo�es. It will fight for its life. It may win for awh!le, but m the long run it must give in grudgingly and fall, leaving a gap which will soon be taken by another reaching for its place in the sun. But even as it" it still supports the living - the beetles, lies in death, _ the fungi, the ants, the algae. They all do their work until at last the microchemicals which sustained the great tree's life are released back into the soil to be taken �p again by tlie roots of yet another seedling �tr�gghng for survival. The giant is gone, but in going it hves on. Clouds: Science says a cloud is a floating mass of water vapor held together by electrical ions. To me, a cloud is many things, none of which is a floating mass of water vapor. Clouds are brushstrokes of white across a baby blue palette - dark gray plowed furrows in an off white field - rows of muddled gray explosions on a background of silver - piles of deep peach whipped cream on an azure blue canopy - long salmon streaks on a royal blue eternity-heavy laden swirls that try to reach down and envelop you - small puffed-up bellows on a perfect clear blue. Many, many things, but not a mass of water vapor. Thunderstorm: The clouds come up - boiling, tumbling, cascading over one another - a light gray turning dark gray, then cha�coal gray. The wind comes next - lightly at first, tossm_g the _ leaves -then stronger, bending the limbs and kickmg up small eddies of leaves or dust. In the distance the thunder sounds, a series of low rumblings from one side of the sky to the other. No lightning yet, but the sense of great force is there as if a fury is soon to be unleashed. ;"hen it is here - the wind pitches, tosses, strains, anx10us now to rip, tear, bend - the lightning flashes c�angmg from sheet lightning to strong, bold vertical zigzags_ - the trees fight, bend, whip, toss - the rain comes m a sohd sheet, beating in first one direction then another. Gradually, the wind abates and the rain ceases to be a torrent. The sky evens out to a putty gray - the trees stand tall to the refreshing wetness - the soil greedily s_ucks up the water until it can absorb no more, letting nverlets run and small pools form. Then the sky lightens and the rain eases into a gentle soft wetness. Abruptly the clouds bunch to?eth�r leaving pa_tches of brilliant blue sky. The misty ram ghstens and glimmers as the sunlight reflects each drop and then it, too, ceases. All that is left of the turbulent storm is the gleaming beads of water on the grass and leaves and flowers, and the clean refreshing
cool air. The River: It started a mere trickle here and there, seeping from a jumble of rocks high in the mountains. A small pool formed in a depression at the base of the rock outcrop. Gradually this small pool overflowed and gently ran down the slope. After a while, a slight groove wore under its path confining the clear water. As it worked its way further down hill, another tiny spring crept in and then another and another until the first mere trickle had become bold and dancing. It did not know exactly where it was headed but on it went - winding, twisting, turning, following the path of least resistance, slipping and sliding over rocks and working its way through valleys. It carried many passengers, brightly-colored leaves, stray fallen branches, tiny water beetles, water spiders with long, legs, wind-blown flower petals, schools of tiny skinny _ mmnows, groups of tadpoles, large fish, small fish all traveling - going somewhere - going nowhere. Sooner or later it will come to the end of its journey, itself joining a larger body; but it has left its mark on the land it has traveled through. As a poet once said about a river: "Men may come and men may go, but I go on forever.'' FALL r---..-,, � Fall is beauty - fall is brilliant - fall is radiantfall is an explosion and riot of color set against the bluest of skies and the whitest and fluffiest of clouds. One tree can contain hundreds of shades of the same color, browns or reds or yellows or greens. They seem to be trying to outdo themselves with loveliness in the few short weeks before the final brown overtakes them and their leaves tumble to the ground to cover the forest floor. The evergreens grow a deeper and more emerald shade of green as if putting on an extra coat for the cold that lies ahead. Then there are the flowers. The fall flowers are of a different breed - a sturdier breed even while managing to look delicate. In many cases they are in the earth colors - dark yellows, light browns, deep oranges - with vivid blues and pinks and whites scattered at random. There is little as lovely as coming across scattered patches of fall pinks on the edge of the pasture pushing their pink and rose heads above the tall weeds - or groups of brown-eyed-susans, glowing brilliant gold and yellow, sprinkled here and there among the trees and along the road - or tiny, but stout, purple heal-alls growing helter-skelter in the barn lot-or the small snowy white daisies that seem to see how many fine petals can be crowded onto one head - or the small deep pink lengths of knotweed wandering in sprawling clumps around the watering tub - or the delicate lavender of the fall astors in tall groups wherever the afternoon sun is sure to strike. At this time of the year the world is so beautiful that to look at it fully causes an inner pain.
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To an Ant: Scurry-scurry- run - here - there - up down-around - hurry - hurry-tiny little fellow never seemingly to pause or rest - always runningwhere are you going - what are you hunting for - a tiny grain of food - a fallen fellow insect - hurry tell your brothers -run back to the home nest - lead the other workers - hurry - hurry - is this the way your whole life is spent -when do you eat-when do you sleep - does your life have any order -do you run around aimlessly chancing to come across whatever it is you are looking for - do you love - do you hate - do you think-do you see any part of the world around you--! feel sorry for you, little ant, so, here, I will put a small pile of sugar so maybe you will not have to run so far or hurry so fast. A Squirrel: The squirrel was there on the porch rail so suddenly it was as if he had instantly materialized. Only the glass of the door separated me from the beautiful, small, furry bundle of energy. His eyes, bright and shiny, missed no movement. The walnuts and bread enticed him, but caution came first, for caution is the key to survival in the wild. As I watched him investigate the nuts and food-nibbling at first one and then the other - I compared him to man. He lives to live, enjoying each day. First the quest for food and then with hunger satisfied and some put away for alter, he will scamper, run and play, content and happy just to be alive. When tired, he will rest when hungry he will eat -when danger arises he will draw upon a storehouse of instinct and knowledge for survival. How simple and lovely his life is. How much man could learn from him. Take only what is needed and be happy to be alive. He cares little that man has classified him, divided and subdivided him. He is content to be a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed little animal in love with life and exercising his right to live in his small place in this big world. �--:, WINTER C"'•..:i Winter - the opposite of summer - coldness bareness - dormancy - but with a wonderfulness all its own. People say winter is a time of death. This is not true. Winter is merely a time of resting, a time of gathering inner strength for the new growth of the spring. Winter is beauty in a stark, uncluttered, naked, cold way. The bare branches of the trees stand still and hard against the cold as if saying, "Look at us closely, we are naked for you to see our beauty and structure, we are the backbone and essence of the trees." On a cold, clear winter day you feel as if you can jump and sail forever in the crisp air. Your breath is clouds of smoke drifting around your face. Then, there are the close, cloudy, foggy days when you seem to be alone in the world. The mist wraps around you and
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hugs you and separates you from the landscape. Winter has many faces, some harsh, some gentle. Take a deep look into winter. It is worth the look. Frost: In the early dawn hours the frost comes, silently, carefully, beautifully, its crystal essence materializing with only the help of water vapor and temperature shimmering in the early prelight of sunrise incredibly tiny brushmarks of icy loveliness destined for only the shortest of lives -each exquisite pristine crystal trying to catch a glimmer of sunlight to reflect and re-reflect and counter-reflect until each sunray is broken into the seven colors of the spectrum. There is no Jewel in the world as lovely as the jewel of frost on your windowpane. Look quickly, for it is quickly gone. Snow:
Snow. Fluffy, white, soft, glistening snow. Catch a snowflake -a tiny, perfect jewel of elegance-lovely and fragile. Stand and look straight up into a snowfall, millions of spiraling, whirling, white flakes falling, tumbling. It's like looking into infinity, breath-taking, awe-inspiring. Watch the weed stubble in a field as the snow first starts to fall. First nothing changes - then a flake catches on this weed and then on that weed - then another and another, interlacing the dry petals of the flowerhead to form a lace work - then the fragile stems of the weeds themselves begin to catch and hold the dainty flakes until the entire mass of withered dry foilage is a white, spidery web of beauty. Look out across the field after a snow fall, a solid white expanse without a blemish. Walk through a forest on a still day while it is snowing. The pines and cedars and hemlocks catch and hold the snow in white, fluffy mounds, sometimes covering the branches to their tips letting the dark, ebony green show through only here and there. Look closely at the beauty of the snow whenever and wherever you see it, for all too soon it will be gone, never to return in the exact same scenes again. Rain and a New Year: � I watched the rain today, the first day of the New Year. It seemed symbolic, cleaning and refreshing. It is a cold rain and stands in shallow puddles where the earth is no longer absorbent. The sky is a beautiful leaden gray, not an even color but pearls and putties and slates. As I watch through the window a lone stray raindrop hits the glass and runs down - slowly - then speeding up - cascading - tumbling. It is a beautiful thing, clear, ever-changing in shape, its mission to water the earth and in turn the animals, including man. Rain is God's way of saying to the earth, "You will never thirst." The New Year. The new cycle. There is so much we can learn from the seasons of our lives. The seasons of ·ourselves.
Hourglass by Christine Kakascik W
hile walking along the shoreline of my dreams I met a soul, a humble soul who walked in time to the tides. He looked content and full of love. It seemed as if he had just met peace and was retur'ning homeward from his visit with her. A number of thoughts flashed through my mind. I felt anxiety at first, anxiety because this man had something I wanted-something I needed to survive, and I, I could not find the gates to the place where peace resides. Then I felt anger, the anger that comes with knowing, for I had walked up and down the shoreline of my dreams a thousand times or more and not once did I encounter peace. I was now in talking distance with this humble soul. I was angered. I wanted to steal his peace from him, for I needed it much more than he. Strange, for the closer he came to me, the weaker the emotion became. As we made contact with each other, the feeling of hate and anger almost totally disappeared. I begged the man to stop and converse with me for a while. He nodded and said, ''Yes, we shall talk, but not for long, for the sands of time are sinking quickly to the bottom of the hourglass, and the seagull flies overhead." I understood nothing of what the man had said, but I did not concern myself with it. I thought of the man a prophet, and I began to search myself for some questions to ask him to better my life. Then, finally, the question came to mind and I asked, "Sir, where must I go to find peace? I have walked up and down these beaches for centuries and still could not find her gates." I looked upon him as he glanced about the sky, until he dropped his head so that his eyes could meet with mme. "Child," said he, "peace lives not in a shack along the shoreline, nor does she live within a cabin in the wood.'' Upon hearing these words I became very upset. "Sir, you have to tell me, I need to know. I need her peace. I promise I will do no wrong.'' With that, silence fell over the sky, land and sea, and the echoing of a promise lasted for over a million years. Now the man stood smiling while looking out over the stars. He bent his body ever-so-slightly and cupped his hands together. Then, as slowly as the waves roll
back and forth to shore, he walked over to me and handed me a tiny hourglass and placed his hand upon my shoulder. "Child," he said pointing out over the ocean, "straight forth lie the gates to peace. They are now open." I looked at the man with confused eyes. "Sir there is nothing to see but the sky and sea ahead, nothing but the horizon. I see no gates." Dawn was breaking and silence filled the air. No one disturbed the peaceful stillness the humble soul had brought. The hourglass would have to be turned soon; the sands upon the top of it had almost totally diminished. The sky above me was black and the stars and moon were waning. Directly above the ocean the sky was of a pinkish hue and as I followed it upward, it became bluer, and bluer until darkness. Once again, the man looked toward me and spoke. "How far upward can you reach?" I raised my hands upward and exhibited my limit of reach. The man looked up to my hands and whispered, "Peace is just beyond your fingertips." Once again we gazed out over the ocean. Soon afterward, a gull appeared; not from the right or the left, but from the center. "He has been there." Upon hearing that statement I realized how I could find peace. ''Child, the gull that flies from the horizon must also fly from beyond it. The man who looks to the horizon must also look beyond it. For peace lies just beyond the horizon of the land, sea, and mind." A powerful wind was building over the ocean. Silence filled the sky except for the sound of one gull soaring. Within my hand an hourglass without any movement of sand. Oh, no. The sand. I turned so frantically to tell the man that the sands had diminished that I fell. The hourglass shattered and the wind swept up the remains. With tear-filled eyes I lifted my head so that my eyes could meet once more with the man's. But when I looked up and about me, he was gone. And the sands of the hourglass were cast among the land, sea, and stars. And I, in my mind, was at peace. 0
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-Photo by Greg Jones
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I Am Water i am water i can take many forms: sometimes i am a waterfall swiftly moving through time, passing many things; angry, sometimes i crash down then resume my flow. sometimes i am a small stream lightly rippling my way through the countryside, meandering in and out, observing the details of the places and people i pass, motivated by movement of time and open destinations on the horizon. sometimes i can become a droplet splashed onto the land surface, and there i take part till it is time to go; and so i evaporate, but i can take pieces of where i've been with me. sometimes i am rain the sky is dark with clouds i teardrop down my exterior till the clouds go away and the sun comes out. and then sometimes i am a rainbow vapor of water catching the sun a shower of color the different parts of me. -Mary Jeanne Shaughnessy
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