FORWARDIAN A LITERARY AND ARTS MAGAZINE GOING FORWARD WITH YOU VOL. II ISSUE: 1
Just Hangin’ Around by Melissa Benzinger-McGlynn
TAKE A LOOK INSIDE WHILE GOING FORWARD WITH US. Published by www.ForwardianArts.org Like us on Facebook. We already like you.
FORWARDIAN VOL II ISSUE 1 WHO THE FORWARDIAN ARE COVERING THIS ISSUE? FRONT COVER: “Just Hangin’ Around” Melissa Benzinger McGlynn is a self-taught artist of many mediums and self-professed swamp hermit hailing from the Pocono Mountains. Her business, Dancing Vulture Designs, was lovingly named after the animal that guided her into wildlife art. She specializes in the art of needle-felting, and finds that wool adds that extra bit of life to her animals. Melissa's work has been showcased on Channel 13's Talk of the Town, WNEP's Home and Backyard, the Pocono Record, and Local Flair Magazine. Her art has been featured in galleries throughout the Poconos, including Origins Gallery and the Kettle Creek Environmental Education Center. Melissa is currently a member of the Pennsylvania Guild of Craftsmen. Dancing Vulture Designs can be found at: www.dancingvulturedesigns.com
BACK COVER: “Cherry Valley Barn” Jody Singer has lived in Stroudsburg, PA for the past 51 years He has created works in several mediums including pen and ink, clay, fiber arts, painting, photography and mixed media. In early 1996, Mr. Singer established the Hands In Art Community Arts Center in East Stroudsburg, PA and, in 1999, became Cultural Arts Director for Hemlock Farms Community Association in Lords Valley, PA. He currently serves the creative community as Director for the St’ART Stroudsburg Program; Director of Origins Gallery, the Downtown Business Community Council, and as Secretary for the Board of Directors of Pocono Arts Council. Mr. Singer recently received “The Unsung Hero Award” given out by The Pocono Cinema and Cultural Center in East Stroudsburg, PA. You'll be able to find The Origins Gallery at: www.facebook.com/OriginsGalleryStroudsburg.
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FORWARDIAN VOL. II ISSUE: 1 THE WORDS AND IMAGES OF OUR CREATIVE FRIENDS. PAGE 1
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Craig Roberts’ Reunion (Part One)
Paul Adam Smeltz’s The Bird of Wisdom Chapter V: The Little Prophet (Part Two)
Pat Berryhill’s Sneak a Peek Into the 1800's ~ closed 4th floor Main Hall Salem College
Joan Polishook’s Agua Verde PAGE 6
PAGE 2 Herb Weber’s Spring Thaw PAGE 3 THE FORWARDIAN PAGE OF POETRY
Putera Muhamad Ashraf’s An Enigma of Screams PAGE 8 Robyn Brown’s Dancing In The Rainbows
Frank DeSena's Storm Richard Heby's March Tony Kwame Ansah Jr's My Legacy Randy P Orso's Boats at the Docks Lake Wallenpaupack PAGE 4 Matt Braynard’s The Trees of Echols County (Part Three)
Laurie A. Guzda’s Holy Man Of The Ganges PAGE 09 Dave Kaphammer’s Poetry of Trees PAGE 10 THE FORWARDIAN GALLERIA Yolanda R. Goldsack’s Midnight Zen
Nancy Tully's Sunflower Andrew Casey's AGE
Marc C. Slootjes’ There's Always Tomorrow
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FORWARDIAN VOL. II ISSUE: 1
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Reunion Part One Craig Roberts Rick Painter sat with a pile of mail, mostly bills, Rick flopped onto the sofa. Reading from the card lying unopened in his lap, as he sipped a can of he dialed the number. beer. Uncombed and unshaven, wearing a stained A female voice answered, “Rogers and T-shirt and sweat pants, he bore no resemblance to Associates. How can I help you?” the high-flying, mortgage broker he had once been. “Cliff Rogers, please.” That Rick wore buttoned-down shirts, silk ties and “Who’s calling?” Rick gave his name. Italian shoes. He had unraveled two years ago, my “Is Mr. Rogers expect ing your call?” untimely demise, Rick called it. Since then he’d “No ma’am, he sure isn’t,” Rick chuckled. “This become sloppy, languishing with no job and no is a personal call.”The receptionist put the call money, sloppiness that included letting his mail through. pile up for two weeks at a time. He finished the “Hello?” Cliff said. beer, tossing the empty onto the coffee table, and reached into a plastic cooler on the floor next to his “Mi Patrone! How you doing, boss?” chair for another. One-handedly popping open the “Rick? Is that you?” can, with his free hand he picked an official “In the flesh. What’s going looking envelope. He saw by on?” the return address it was from Cliff shifted in his chair, the Domestic Relations tugging at his collar, his necktie Division. Rick let out a heavy suddenly feeling too tight. They sigh. Scanning the letter his had met in AA, Cliff had been face darkened into a frown as his sponsor. During that time he read, Failure to pay within they spoke almost every day fifteen days will result in the and met twice a week. He issuance of a warrant for your winced, remembering Rick’s arrest. Rick downed the fresh nosedive into relapse. How beer, tossed the empty, and long had it been, two years? stared at the bold-faced type, And no word in all that time. his head spinning. He needed a Cliff answered, “Not much chunk of cash, and he needed going on, same old thing. now. How could he pull that off? Where are you?” He stared blankly for a full “My Mom’s,” Rick said, minute, then another. Reaching looking across the living room for another beer, he stopped. at the shabby furniture he’d His eyes narrowed as his faced tightened, his thin lips drawn Sneak a Peek Into the 1800's ~ grown up with. “In Peckville?” into a tight grin. Desperate closed 4th floor Main Hall Salem College times call for decisive action. “Yup. How’s Rebecca and the Tossing the mail aside, Rick Pat Berryhill kids?” Rick asked. hurried to the hall closet and “Fine. How you doing? You sober?” snatched a cardboard box from the clutter. The box, “Listen, I’ll be out your way day after tomorrow. stuffed with business records and stationery items, Let’s have lunch.” held everything he’d cleaned out of his desk when “Ah, okay. How about we meet at my office. he split with his wife. Rummaging through it, Rick Around one o’clock. There’s a spot next door we cursed and dumped the box out on the floor. He can grab a bite. Anything in particular on your stirred the mess with his hands until found what he mind?” was looking for. “Got you,” he said, extracting a “No, just catching up. See you then.”Rick hung dog-eared business card from the pile. “Time to make a phone call.” up the phone. So far so good, he thought. He picked up the powder blue princess phone The lunch had gone well. Rick told his story. He from the coffee table and dragging the cord sent a had taken a hard fall, losing his business, his house half dozen empty beer cans clattering to floor. foreclosed, his marriage over and his kids a thousand miles away. He had separated from
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FORWARDIAN VOL II ISSUE 1 Marilyn a year ago. She had taken their three daughters and moved to be near her folks in Florida after the story came out that Rick had gotten his secretary pregnant. Now Rick said he was on the mend, off booze and drugs. He had ended the affair with his secretary, was living with his mom and talking about going to church again. Can he make a go of it this time, Cliff wondered. What’s he doing for money? Suddenly Cliff struck on an idea. He’s a hell of a salesman. What if Rick were to come work for me? Not here, of course, but over in Peckville. Cliff picked up a legal pad and drew a line straight down the middle of the page. He wrote a plus sign over the left column and a minus over the right. He paused, gathering his thoughts, then in a stream of consciousness, started scrawling out the pros and cons of hiring Rick, each under its corresponding heading, positive or negative: strong business contacts, high energy, home turf, quick thinking, shifty, ethics?, unstable, BAD REPUTATION, highly motivated, CHASES
Spring Thaw Herb Weber As dawn breaks at winters end a new beginning is promised; light penetrates night’s shroud; sunlight filters through morning’s mist Dew glitters on nature’s canopy as cold blooded creatures stir and stretch; liquids abandon their constraints flowing unencumbered through cracks and crevices; solids embrace radiant heat and gasses expand into limitless voids Warming light saturates the natural world wrapping itself around all that exists; so pervasive is its luminous patina that all it touches bask in its splendor Lengthening silhouettes eclipse the day and dusk tempts quiet repose; light retreats as our sun descends casting shadows for all to witness; contemplating the fall of night unwinding from prior efforts we rest for expectant renewal As darkness erases light, sleep consumes us, revitalizing mind and body, allowing choices of tomorrow’s hope to materialize or not
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RAINBOWs, liar, strong closer, RESTLESS, SOBRIETy?, understands the customer, fast talker, requires monitoring, THEFT RISK?, skirt chaser. Cliff stroked his chin, considering the potential, good and bad. It was a risk. But Rick had made a small fortune in the mortgage business. He was a pit bull on the street, Cliff thought. I know he can make big things happen. Can I keep him on an even keel? That’s a long shot. But if I pull this off, I could turn some serious money. Besides, Rick’s pretty low right now, maybe I can hire him on the cheap. Cliff reached for the phone and dialed Rick’s number. They met the next day at Cliff’s office. Undeterred by snow that had accumulated overnight, Rick showed up right on time, wearing a navy blue overcoat, white shirt, a red and blue striped tie and khaki pants. Cliff saw him as he entered the reception area and waved him into a conference room. “Mi Patrone! Como esta?” Rick said, extending his hand, a wide smile on his face. “I’m doing good, Rick. You’re Spanish is impressive. Mi patron, what’s that?” Cliff closed the door and motioned Rick to a chair. “It means my patron, a term of respect. I picked up some Español back in the Navy. Bien, amigo?” he chuckled. Settling into a chair across the table from Rick, Cliff studied the legal pad in front of him and bit his lip. “Rick, I want to talk to you about coming to work with us.” “Really?” Rick asked, a wry playfulness in his voice. “I thought maybe this had something to do with a job. You think you can make an insurance man out of me?” “Rick, you and I both know, you can sell anything.” Rick nodded and smiled. “Let me tell you what I have in mind,” Cliff said Over the next two hours they hashed out a plan to open a sales territory in Rick’s old neighborhood. It meant starting over for Rick, but he had plenty of contacts in his hometown. He’d get a base salary, enough to get by on, plus commissions. And an option to buy an equity stake in the new office, in a year or two, when it was on its feet. They agreed the plan made sense and had a decent chance for success. Cliff stood up to shake Rick’s hand.
Continued on Page 07
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FORWARDIAN VOL II ISSUE 1
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THE FORWARDIAN PAGE OF POETRY Storm Frank DeSena
March Richard Heby
The trees sway violently in the rustling wind And leaves fall helter-skelter in torrents, Blowing up, down and around crazily Before falling finally to the ground, Carpeting the forest floor with splashes of yellow.
Of all the frozen fingers privileged with a body for marching and defrosting on warm skin, only mine make your curves a canyon for counting far-away freckles that you call beauty marks and I call a map of the stars. One such star, below your navel where my fingers don’t yet march, waits for the strongest hands that can be most gentle. Today— sweet sweat, rain, and other wet make this March more dangerous. It is not yet warm to me, soon it will be. Is that your winking eye or the stigma of spring’s earliest flower?
The rain soaked, black-barked trees Seem sinister counterpoints to the golden ferns And the burgundy and rust leaves that cling tenaciously To the wildly swaying branches, are unready to release their beautiful autumn coat. The day belongs to the powers of wind and rainThe wind master of all. Dark clouds obscure the sun, Making day into night And dampening the spirit briefly to the core. Thoughts of death-the forests yearly dress down Remind us of our own mortality: The mighty storm a dark preludePowerful reminder that there is a season to all… The natural world and man’s brief, often beautiful sojourn here.
COMING SOON The Forwardian Poetry Contest. The winner receives a place on this page.
Boats at the Docks Lake Wallenpaupack Randy P Orso
See Website for details.
My Legacy Tony Kwame Ansah Jr There comes a time in a man’s life where he must provide for his daughter and wife through financial independence multiple sources of income in order to achieve a long-term outcome for future generations think futuristic plan strategic ways and means to make ends meet stop eating red meat random thoughts could be interpreted as distraction but are really decisions and actions for better health for better wealth self-sufficient self-reliant self-dependence become your own boss set the president for permanent prosperity throughout the family tree aka legacy Copyright © 2016 by Tony Kwame Ansah Jr
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The Trees of Echols County Part 3 Matt Braynard Tree Six. December 21. This is the tree of a truly happy family. The decorations are simple and homemade, and heir concentration on the lower branches suggests the tree was dressed by children. The gifts beneath the tree are clumsily wrapped and have a variety of names on the ‘To’ and ‘From’ lists. Seven stockings are hung nearby. The multicolored lighting scheme breaks with regional tradition of white-only l ights. The tree is near a window, but the adornment favors the interior, unconcerned with the outside world and turning inward towards the family. While the tree itself is fake, its needles plastic and branches malleable wire, the authenticity and spirit it expresses could not be more real.
people who were accustomed to being ignored. The county’s two hair salons were booked for weeks in advance as women feared being caught unprepared by roving cameras. Men were rehearsing what they would say to the morning show if their house was the next one chosen by the blogger. The family at the ‘Tree One’ house was offered a reality TV show. More people began to openly carry firearms in public. The press conference became a daily routine for the sheriff and his deputy. The number of cameras and microphones increased with each day’s pronouncement that there was nothing new to report. At two A.M., believing himself too tired to drive safely, the sheriff returned to his own home on a gloomy dirt road. Entering through the back door, The sheriff drove in random, he walked past a garbage bin thoughtless circles along the overflowing with boxes from quiet and unlit back roads of low-calorie, microwaveable Echols County. meals. When he first started Charlie had put up a map on purchasing them, he’d buy their office wall and marked twenty and stack them into his each of the five known homes freezer, only to end up eating hit by the blogger. Only Tree ten at a time. Three remained unclaimed. His new strategy was to buy The others were scattered in all only enough food to eat each corners of the county, each on day and to have nothing in his Sunflower a street with little traffic and house except for the very basics, Nancy Tully unilluminated by lights. like oats and milk, the kind of Wiegel’s eyes slowly scanned food no one liked enough to the evening horizon for a tall, slender shape. False binge on. It had so far gone unnoticed, but he’d positives abounded. Not just deer and dogs, but, to lost ten pounds in the last month, though when the sheriff’s displeasure, armed members of the Charlie brought the leftovers from his fifty-person Citizens Watch looking for the same thing he Thanksgiving feast into the office, it set him back a was—but with more malevolent intentions. little. Still, he was only two holes away from using Early each morning, a new post would show up the original notches on his belt, and he was feeling on “The Trees of Echols County,” and then a mad less stress on his knees when he walked. scramble to find the homeowners would begin The window above the kitchen sink gave him a among the burgeoning international media view of the backyard as he rinsed his plate clean enveloping a county that didn’t even have its own after finishing a four-hundred calorie dinner of newspaper. The blog updates had already become lemongrass coconut chicken. a regular segment on several cable programs, and, Continued on Page: 09 attempting to boost its low ratings, one network started broadcasting its entire AGE morning show live from the Andrew Casey county. Its viewing audience Do not pity me for you will soon be old too doubled. Just as Charlie’s collision had do not think because I stoop and shuffle and sigh caused much less destruction that I was not once as lithe and supple as you than the noise that followed it, I may well be lined, wrinkled and grey the media attention that followed but not so long ago I was young, innocent and keen the break-ins was agitating a picture yourself in years to come and you will be what to you I seem.
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The Bird of Wisdom Chapter V: The Little Prophet (Part 2) Paul Adam Smeltz Wormtongue and Vortigern sat upon their horses overlooking Snowdown. The seeds sown by Father Germanius were beginning to sprout. The long march had fertilized them with doubt, and the flower of dread began to blossom in his face. He looked toward Vortigern and the evil smile upon his face consoled him a little while longer. "Shall we meet our Master's enemy here, my Lord?" asked Vortigern without averting his gaze sensing the eyes that were upon him. "Yes," answered Wormtongue. "We shall build a fortress here, upon that mountain. Tell the men to begin at once." "I shall, my lord," obeyed Vortigern turning his horse. Wormtongue raised his hand to stop him. "One last thing," he began when Vortigern's attention was upon him."Remember, I am your master here. It is not our Master whom I serve, but mine alone. You will not share the fruits of my labors. Do you understand?" "Yes,my Lord,"came the reply as Vortigern reared his horse resuming the gallop toward his men."Nor shall I share your Master's disapproval when your plans go awry," he thought to himself. Wormtongue looked after him as fear continued to Agua invade his being.
tires and so do Father Ambrosius and myself. We must rest." "As you must," replied the mounted warrior. "I shall arrange for an encampment to be established. We have forgotten the need of rest. It shall be several of your days until we meet the enemy at the place known as Snowdown. We shall try to remember our needs in order to provide for yours." "How is it you know of the enemy's location?" asked Father Ambrosius. "We have been here before," came the answer. Uter looked upon the lands around them. "I know this place," he began."Snowdown is but a short distance from here. Why would it take several days for us to reach it?" "For we do not travel the land," replied the warrior. "We travel through the realms of time. Now it is time for you to rest." A chill came upon the three mortal men who suddenly found themselves standing before the mounted warrior. Along their feet a mist began to form and rose as to engulf them. A fear of being abandoned grew within them as the great army seemed to fade away but this was soon replaced by a peaceful feeling entering each man's heart. Their souls were Verde filled with the certainty they Joan Polishook would never be alone for all things were within them. Father ***** Ambrosius cried in this realization. As their eyes grew heavy in the mist, visions of The young High King, Aurelius Pendragon, silken canvases encircled them. Upon the ground swayed sleepily upon his horse as the great armies formed soft, flowing mounds of material awaiting under his command continued their seemingly the touch of their bodies. Lying upon them, the endless march. Father Ambrosius' concern for the men found the material to be also made of silk. youth increased as he suddenly began slipping Cool to their touch and soothing to their thoughts toward the ground. Luckily, he was caught by his they were as eyes closed entering a deep,dreamless cousin Uter who angrily looked upon the warrior sleep. who was leading them. "Is this how you serve your King? "asked Uter. ***** The host ceased their movement as he continued."I The sun's reflection shining off the shimmering know not what magic we have come under these lake caught Merlin's attention while he pondered at last days, but I do know we are mortal and the Vivian's grave. He turned his attentions toward a needs of our bodies must be met. The young king sound he heard within the light's energies. He
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FORWARDIAN VOL II ISSUE 1 walked toward the shore, sat upon the nearby ground, and closed his eyes to intently listen to the sound. Soon he was with her. A sensuous mist surrounded them. They were outside the boundaries of all realms. She was more beautiful than the last time they had met. Her long hair, dark cascaded along her soft shoulders. Her lips were full and moved as to whisper his name speaking words found only in his quickening heart beats. Her breasts ached for his touch as her thighs swayed gently in their invitations entreating him to enter. He moved slowly toward her. His mouth became dry as the moistness of her anticipation filled him with hardening desire. He looked into her eyes and in that moment saw his own reflection deep within the darkened abyss of her soul. They were no longer children, but had taken a more mature form in order to experience the fullness of their love. Tentatively, their lips touched in a gentle kiss. Their open mouths separated only to be rejoined by each others cheeks, foreheads, eyelids, and necks. As their passions grew, so did the areas of their lips' embrace. Their slow frantic movements searched each others forms until their desires were met by the means of their release. Their forms rose to become elevated as they exchanged the pleasurable tastes of their sexes. When their palates were full of their preliminary elixirs, Vivian moved to bring her Beloved Merlin into the fullness of her form and felt his lust enter her awaiting desire. His hips began to move toward a rapid pace as his breathing became shallow. With each pulsating movement he felt the smooth velvet wall of womanhood engulf his being. Her hips moved in rhythm with his as her breathing became shallow as well. Within her gasps she experienced the sensations of fullness from deep inside her being. As their breathing momentarily stopped, their bodies arched as a great spasm shook them toward an ecstasy to be repeated several more times until exhaustion touched them both. "Thank you, my Beloved," said Merlin awakening from his sleep, "for being all you are to me."Vivian smiled in recognition of her own love being reflected in his eyes. "I shall continue to see your face in my dreams, Beloved," she said moving to kiss him, "for you and I are the same." Their kiss was soon accompanied by a gentle embrace. Although it did not match the intense passion of their previous encounter, it did not bestow less love. The deepness of their love flowed through them, sustaining them until their next rendezvous.
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"There is something you must know in the days ahead, my Beloved," she said ending their kiss. "You must learn how to fly before you can walk." The call of a black bird brought Merlin back to the shores of the lake. Tears began to flow from his boyish eyes as he looked upon the waters while his Beloved faded away. Slowly he rose to his feet and strolled home glancing back forlornly at his Beloved's grave. The black bird flew down perched upon a small tree which now stood at its head.
An Enigma of Screams Putera Muhamad Ashraf I never thought, that I could dream, Beyond the blinds of these endless screams. Yet here I am, conscious of my sins, From the time I learnt a dirty word. All this wisdom, an enigma, Let us fear now, it’s vexatious. Moderation, separate us, Let us fear now; call the preacher. I oft pretend, that I’m no liar, An asphyxiation to these endless screams. But there’s no way else, to fit in the seams, Of friends that I’d only turn to scare. All this data, an enigma, Let us lie now, it’s contagious. Classification, separate us, Let us lie now; be a denial. I lost myself, to the changing times, Through a stream of endless screams. For what it’s worth, I found myself, Now I’m good and just as bad. All this solace, an enigma, Let us laugh now, it’s audacious. Purification, separate us, Let us laugh now; reanimate me. Here I am, so proud to be, The enigma I once chose to cease. But there’s no other stone, for me to turn, To pull the binds that blinds these endless screams. All this ego, an enigma, Let us preach now, it’s malicious. Unification, separate us, Let us preach now; I am my hero.
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FORWARDIAN VOL II ISSUE 1 ***** The rains had become a raging storm. The craftsman and the soldiers began slipping from their scaffolds as they tried to chisel the mountainous walls of Snowdown. Vortigern watched the work, becoming angered by its lack of progress. From the corner of his eye he saw Wormtongue approaching. He stood defiantly as his master dismounted. "What of this building?" asked Wormtongue angrily."What incompetence have you placed in action?" "None, my Lord," answered Vortigern bitterly."I build the fortress as you have instructed, my Lord. It is to your specifications, is it not?"His words were met by a blow to his cheek. "You shall not speak to me thus," he screamed."I must prepare to battle my Master's enemy, and you place the blame of your failure to carry out my instruction upon me? I have sent for you from the place of great torment and I can send you back." "Without the Master's approval?" mocked Vortigern standing upright. His lip bled a dark stream of liquid which burned his clothes as they were touched by it. "Do not depend on my Master too much," replied Wormtongue."You hold no favor with him." "Nor will you if his enemy prevails upon this landmark," stated Vortigern. "How would you proceed in order to secure this land?" asked Wormtongue. "I have seen the blackbird, known in this land as a merlin, flying among the clouds, my Lord," began Vortigern."This is the Master's doing. We must bring the fatherless child here. He is still a boy and it shall be easy to destroy him." Wormtongue nodded his head in agreement."Send out your men in pairs. Search the countryside. Have your men kill the boy." "But, my Lord," began Vortigern."It has been commanded that you kill him by your own hand." "I shall transcend the command," replied Wormtongue."Now obey me!" Vortigern bowed as his master mounted his horse and quickly rode away. Vortigern then moved to carry out the orders given to him.
To Be Continued....... Thank You for Reading Part Two of Chapter V: The Little Prophet From the novel The Bird of Wisdom by Paul Adam Smeltz
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Thank you for continuing to read Reunion By Craig Roberts Still seated, Rick said, “There’s something else we need to talk about.” “Okay. What’s that?” Cliff said, returning to his chair. “I’ve got some financial issues to get a handle on before I can move forward.” “Go on,” Cliff said, pursing his lips. “Child support arrears, the judge is going to swear out a warrant if I don’t get caught up.” “How much?” “Eight grand.” “Why so much?” “Three kids with Marilyn, one with Cindy.” “Cindy?” “My secretary. You remember her.” “Yes, of course,” Cliff said. “You’re right, they’ll slap cuffs on you if you ignore child support. Besides, you can’t get an insurance license with unpaid support.” “And a car. I borrowed my mom’s Diplomat to get here, but I can’t…” “I understand. You will need a car. We can lease one, something modest,” Cliff said, glancing at the numbers on his legal pad. “It doesn’t have to be new. A used car is all I need to get started.” “That takes a chunk of cash. How much you think?” “Six thousand, maybe less.” “So how much we talking about, child support plus the car?” Rick glanced up, calculating in the air. “Fourteen grand should cover it.” He nodded confidently, his lips pursed. Cliff glanced at the figures on his legal pad. “It doesn’t make sense for you start out fourteen-thousand dollars in the hole to the company.” Rick froze, unblinking. Cliff looked at the floor, rubbing his neck. An uncomfortable pause ensued. Finally, Cliff said, “What about a personal loan? From me to you, just between us, leave the company out of it.” Rick gave no reply. “You can start paying me back when you’ve got some commissions coming in. Not right away, but when you can.” “Let’s do it,” Rick said, leaning forward to shake Cliff’s hand. Cliff wrote out a check and handing it Rick, he said, “We’re all set. I’ll pull your training material
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FORWARDIAN VOL II ISSUE 1 together, that’ll take a day. We can get started day after tomorrow. How’s Friday morning at nine?” Rick slipped the check into his shirt pocket. “I’d like to,” he said, looking at his watch. “But I’ve got to make arrangements, the car, some new threads. I could use a few days head start.” “All right. Get yourself prepped this week and come in first thing Monday. Nine o’clock.” Cliff stood and started to extend his hand, but stopped. “I almost forgot.” Picking up a briefcase from behind his desk he handed it to Rick. “You can’t peddle insurance without one of these. It isn’t new, but it served me well. It’s the one I used when I first hit the streets. Much success!” “Gracias, mi Patrone.” Rick said, snapping to attention with an awkward, exaggerated salute. “All right.” Cliff waved him off. “See you Monday.” Rick left the office and drove straight to a nearby branch of his bank. At the teller’s window he glanced at the young woman’s name tag and said, “Hi, Nancy. I’d like to deposit this check into my account as cash.” She looked at the check and offered a sympathetic
smile. “I’m sorry, sir. This a personal check. Those funds won’t be available for two days. That would be Friday.” “Friday, huh? How much is available today?” Rick asked, returning the smile. “Five hundred dollars. The balance will be available Friday. Will that be acceptable?” Rick smiled and nodded, looking at his watch.
To Be Continued....... Thank You for Reading Part One of Reunion By Craig Roberts
Dancing In The Rainbows Robyn Brown I saw you dancing in the rainbows You was with my Uncle Jack You looked down to me from heaven And told me you'd be back. Don't shed sad tears for me my dear Look your mother is with me too And dear old Auntie Cathy With Nana Pelham and the crew. Uncle Jeff and Uncle Johnny And Auntie Myra's here as well And so many other family members Have so much to share and tell. Communication here is different yet so familiar now I'm here we see you all and hear you like a crystal ball so clear. The patterns here are different But I will work them out Or I will make some new ones that make the heavens shout.
Holy Man Of The Ganges Laurie A. Guzda
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Just like a knitting pattern The tension will be just right Like me dancing in the rainbows With your Uncle Jack tonight.
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FORWARDIAN VOL II ISSUE 1
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Thank you for continuing to read The Trees of Echols County Part 3 By Matt Braynard Tree Seven. December 22. Despite their best efforts to make it stand straight, this Norway Spruce remains crooked and was probably purchased at a deep discount. There are no lights, just a few strings of stale popcorn hung clumsily from branches that have already lost most of their needles. A scattering of mixed ornaments, some inexpensive and store-bought a few made by children from paper, are placed at uneven intervals. Beneath the tree are four presents wrapped in newspaper with the edges rolled and crinkled, perhaps to make them appear larger than they really are. Robert Kearney stood in front of the cameras. The membership of the Citizens Watch behind him had quadrupled, and he’d exchanged his calfskin jacket for camouflage fatigues. He spoke with the air of a governor reporting on a national disaster. “Because we’ve not heard from the Tree Three homeowners, they are now presumed dead, or possibly kidnapped. I have instructed the Citizens Watch, in which I am hereby brigadier general and the commanding officer, to begin canvassin’ all of the homes in this here county to try to find the missing homeowners. We are proud Georgians, proud of our heritage, and if we continue to live in fear, this terrorist, who is likely a foreigner with no respect for God-given rights to private property, will win. I would also like to take this opportunity to say that I have headshots available. Please speak with Lieutenant Boatwright to get one or to schedule a one-on-one interview. I’ll now take questions. Only serious questions, ya hear?” A correspondent for a shock-jock morning radio show shouted the first question. “I thought you were president of the Citizens Watch. Now you’re a brigadier general. What happened? A coup d'état?” The crowd laughed, and even a few of the Citizens Watch members smirked. Kearney’s face reddened. “What the hell do you think this is? A goddamn comedy show? Do I look like Mr. Jay Leno to you? Press conference over!” The sheriff and his deputy were observing the theatrics from across the street. “This isn’t good, sheriff. Folks are already on edge about some fool sneaking into their house at night. Last thing we need is an armed paramilitary knocking on doors, dammit. Christmas can’t come fast enough.”
Poetry of Trees Dave Kaphammer “No, it can’t.” The sheriff bit into an apple and chewed a bit. “Got anything from the state on that Internet stuff?” “No. They say he just keeps moving around. He’s certainly wise to tracking. They say something we could do is have that blog taken down.” “What do you think about that?” “Don’t think it would help. He’d just post another one. Maybe several new ones would pop up, claiming to be the original, inviting even more weirdoes to start creeping around folks’ houses.” “Yeah. Figured as much.” “A whole lot of hullabaloo over misdemeanor trespass.” That evening, after the sheriff dropped Charlie off and began his evening patrol, his cell phone rang. It was Charlie again. “Got a call from dispatch. Someone called in saying they shot a guy sneaking into their house.” The sheriff circled back, picked up his deputy and sped to the address. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d put the sirens on. They flashed and screeched, breaking the peacefulness of dusk. In front of the house, the two lawmen saw an ambulance and a couple of news vans. They pushed the reporters and cameramen out of their way as they rushed up the steps of the modular double-wide. Her mouth gaping beneath bifocaled eyes, a woman grabbed Charlie’s shoulder “I swear I thought he was gonna kill me. I swear I did and that’s why I shot him.” Her hands were still clamped onto a shotgun, and her finger was on the trigger. Charlie gently took it from her and could feel the barrel was still warm. The air tasted like gunpowder and blood.
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FORWARDIAN VOL II ISSUE 1 On the floor, three medics worked furiously on the body of a tall, slender kid, no older than eighteen. He was wearing a black, long-sleeved hoodie and sweat pants, and a dark blue, woolly hat covered most of his long, blonde hair. His face was narrow and, now still, angelic. The shot had torn apart his mid-section, and the sheriff wasn’t sure where the kid’s entrails ended and the red, shag carpeting of the double-wide began. “That’s his bag. It ain’t mine. He done come in here bringin’ it. I thought he had a gun in there. That’s why I shot him, that’s why.” The woman, fingers quaking, pointed at a black duffle lying near the door. Charlie slipped his gloves on, opened it up, and began pulling things out. A camera. A laptop computer. A spiral-bound notebook with the logo of an art college in Miami. Charlie leafed through the notebook. “Looks like this was some kind of class project. Helluva thing to die for. Damn shame.” “Excuse me a minute.” The sheriff was having trouble breathing. He found his way to the bathroom and was barely able to fit through the narrow door that he slammed behind him. He tried to hold back his tears, but he couldn’t escape seeing his reflection in the mirror. Witnessing his own eyes beginning to well up, he surrendered. Waves of emotions, built up over decades, overwhelmed him like a fisherman’s dinghy in a typhoon, and he capsized under the crush of loss. He knelt down in front of the toilet and threw his guts up. Over and over, his stomach emptied until he was left with nothing but dry heaves. He thought of James, only of James. But the boy dying on the carpet outside the bathroom wasn’t James. James died twenty years ago. Elmer’s son was driving home late after photographing his high school’s football team at an away game. On a narrow, two-lane road, a driver in the other lane fell asleep and swerved gently. He was rustled from his slumber by a soft explosion as his semi-trailer truck turned the boy’s small Subaru into a collage of broken scrap metal and human tissue.
To Be Continued....... Thank You for Reading Part Three of The Trees of Echols County by Matt Braynard
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THE FORWARDIAN GALLERIA
Midnight Zen by Yolanda R. Goldsack
There's Always Tomorrow By Marc C. Slootjes These are the winners of our on line art competition. Please visit our website to learn how to enter your work to be considered for our next issue.
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FORWARDIAN VOL. II ISSUE: 1
WHO THE FORWARDIAN DID THIS? Sarah Jane McCready, Forwardian Editor in Chief
Andrea Robbins Rimberg, Forwardian Assistant Imagery Editor.
Sarah was born in Dover, NJ and grew up in Stroud township, PA. She graduated from Stroudsburg High in June 1999 and later decided to pursue a writing as a career. She enrolled at Northampton Community College in their Journalism program. She is presently a certified Pennsylvania Emergency Technician, candidate for graduation from Northampton Community College Journalism program, freelance writer, amateur photographer, animal lover, and world traveler.
Andrea is a sculptor /artist whose recent photographic journey has opened up the world as her studio, rather than the confines of her physical studio. She brings to her photography the spirit of her free-flowing, uninhibited style. Her sculptures are in the permanent collection at The National Arts Club in New York City, photography at the Monroe County Historical Society Stroud Mansion, and she is in the archives of the National Museum for Women in the Arts in the Washington, D.C. www.sohointheburg.com
Manford C. Blacksher, Forwardian Literary Editor. Manford received his M.A in Professional Writing from Carnegie Mellon University and served as the Assistant Editor for The Birmingham Poetry Review at The University of Alabama at Birmingham, AL.Recently, his work appeared in Measure: A Review of Formal Poetry. His "Valediction Against Mourning" was a Finalist in Able Muse's 2015 Sonnet Bake-Off.
Lindsey Plemmons, Forwardian Assistant Literary Editor. (No Bio Information Available)
Kristina LoBracco Marcisak, Forwardian Imagery Editor. Kristina is originally from Brooklyn, New York. She currently resides in South Florida, and frequents New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania. She has been married for sixteen years, and has three children between the ages of seven and thirteen. When her family is not driving her crazy, she loves the beach, reading, writing, and photography. Her passion is shooting the scenic beauty outdoors, as well as portrait photography. There is something so gratifying about capturing a moment in time. www.klmpics.com
Paul Adam Smeltz, Forwardian Publisher Paul was born in Stroudsburg, PA and has lived there all of his life. He was introduced to the theater when he played a reindeer during the singing of “Rudolph The Red Nose Reindeer” in his Kindergarten Class Christmas play. He then wrote a poem for a pretty girl who said she would give him a kiss if he did. He did but she didn’t. However, a much prettier girl kissed him after reading the poem (thinking it was written for her) and Paul continued to be encouraged. Photograph taken by Andrea Robbins Rimberg.
Richard Heby, Assistant Forwardian Publisher (No Bio Information Available)
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FORWARDIAN VOL II ISSUE 1 FORWARDIAN'S MISSION, EDITORIAL POLICY, AND HOW YOU CAN BE A PART OF OUR PUBLICATION Forwardian is a literary and arts magazine serving the Creative Community as an extension of The Forwardian Arts Society. It will present high quality art, short stories, poetry and more to its readership. We would like to invite you to be a part of "Forwardian." In keeping with the principles of The Forwardian Arts Society, Forwardian will encourage poets, writers, and artists to contribute the best of their work to be shared with our readership. It will also support poets, writers, and artists, by assuring contributions accepted for publication will be presented in Forwardian as they were intended. We value the intelligence and maturity of our readership in that we feel censorship should not be necessary. Furthermore, while we may not publish all the material we receive, Forwardian will accept all contributions with a loving respect, because it is our intention to encourage all writers, poets, and artists to explore and share their talents in their endeavors. No material sent to Forwardian will be distributed further or used in any other manner without express permission in writing, from the author, poet or artist. The author, artist, or poet retains all copyrights. Publisher/editor assumes no liability nor responsibility for the opinions, posts, comments, reviews, articles, poems, photos, drawings, etc. contained herein. The publisher/editor assumes no responsibility for the origin of any work reproduced here and is not directly or by implication verifying the owner of the intellectual property herein, making the assumption that the by-line or credit is correct as represented when submitted for publication.
Content not otherwise denoted is copyright of Publisher/editor. To have your work considered for inclusion in our literary and arts magazine, please follow our submission guidelines. All work must be original and the Authors, Poets, Artists, and Photographers retain all rights to their work. Photographers and Artists may submit up to 3 Hi Resolution JPEGS of their images. The title of the image along with the name of its creator must be given. Writers may submit Short Stories, Essays, and novels to be considered for publication. Novels will be presented in chapter installments. The title of the work along with the name of its creator must be given. Poets may submit up to 3 poems. The title of the work along with the name of its creator must be given. All submissions are subject to editorial review. We reserve the right to reject any submission we deem not appropriate for the publication. Submission will be accepted for the 2nd Issue of Volume II is from March 5th to May 15th. Our next issue is planned to be available in July 2017. You may send all contributions and inquiries to: forwardian@hotmail.com. Thank you for your desire to learn more about our literary and arts magazine. We look forward to sharing our next issue with you. We'll keep a good thought for you until then.
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FORWARDIAN VOL I ISSUE 11 “Take me home, Country Roads ......
Cherry Valley Barn by Jody Singer
... To the Place, I belong.” From the song titled, “Take Me Home, Country Roads” co written by John Denver and is on his 1971 album titled, “Poems, Prayers, and Promises.”
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