Vol ii issue 2

Volume II Issue: 2

FORWARDIAN

A LITERARY AND ARTS MAGAZINE THAT IS GOING FORWARD WITH YOU

Let’s Take A Peek Inside, Shall We? Published by www.forwardianarts.org

Volume II Issue: 2

WHO THE FORWARDIAN ARE COVERING THIS ISSUE? FRONT COVER: “Tye Dye Ripples”

Eric Goins always had a passion for photography but obligations to family and job always got in the way. After retirement he was able to put all his effort into mastering the art he loves.

BACK COVER: “In the Year 2525” Richard D’Ambrosia is an artist who works in mixed-media including historic and salvaged wood creating one of a kind boxes and urns with vintage and modern hardware, to his own quirky photographs where he uses the same historic woods and newer wood to build unique frames, and most recently he’s been getting his hands dirty with plaster of Paris by crafting masks and mannequins that he adorns with a hodgepodge of materials and textures from 1950s gumball machine toys to exotic feathers.

Richard has shown at Art on the Mountain, the Milford Craft Show Gallery, UpFront Exhibition Space, Festival of Wood at Grey Towers, Pocono Environmental Education Center (PEEC) and craft and art exhibitions in the tri-state area. Richard also he also uses his artistic talents online for websites and social media promotions, creating ads for businesses and non for profits that will most definitely catch your eye. Richard is the proud owner of a restored 1904 farmhouse that was once part of an estate in Dingmans Ferry known as Huntingtower. He lives with his husband Keith Kriha at what they’ve aptly named, “Roosters at Huntingtower”.

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Volume II Issue: 2

SO WHERE ARE OUR TREASURES? PAGE 1 Meenaz Amreliwala’s By the River of Bhalukpong

PAGE 6 THE FORWARDIAN GALLERIA Yolanda Goldsack’s Bird 13

Maria Filosa’s Lone Pine by the Lake Mario Ascueta Aguado’s Paper Boats

Randy Philip Orso’s Ducks in Formation on Lake Wallenpaupack

PAGE 2

Dedra Decker’s New Neighbors

Lindsey Plemmons’ Beautiful

A Highres’ Cartoon

Yolanda R. Goldsack’s Splash

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PAGE 3 THE FORWARDIAN PAGE OF POETRY

Paul Adam Smeltz’s The Bird of Wisdom Chapter V: The Little Prophet (Part Three)

Tony Kwame Ansah Jr’s Go with the flow

Laurie Guzda’s Mother And Sons

Herb Weber’s The Sixth Sense

PAGE 09 ANOTHER FORWARDIAN PAGE OF POETRY

Richard Heby’s Waiting A. K. Clavell’s On Misreading Sharon Olds’ The Bra During Eve Ensler’s V-Day Event, Beloved Community Church, Birmingham, Alabama

j. e. paradee’s Novelty Valerie Cruz’s The Audition

Troy Barker’s Venting

Dr. Jeri Danielle Walker-Boone’ s The Visage

PAGE 4

PAGE 10

Matt Braynard’s The Trees of Echols County (Part Four – The Conclusion)

Lauryn de Leeuw’s Ode to Love Andrew Casey’s She

Dedra Decker’s A Snowy Walk in the Woods PAGE 11 PAGE 5 Kyle Rebar’s Steve Jobs Craig Roberts’ Reunion (Part 2 – The Conclusion)

Pat Berryhill’s My city Surreal~ Wachovia Building Downtown Winston Salem

Ally Riddle’s Hands Saying Goodbye

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Page 1

Volume II Issue: 2 By the River of Bhalukpong A Personal Essay by Meenaz Amreliwala Kameng’s gloriously diverse shorelines take in some truly outstanding scenery, from soaring cliffs to rugged rock stacks, as well as beautiful estuaries, coastal woods and forests.

After a short downhill walk along a craggy path, a sense of arrival was felt when I first set eyes on the babbling river that streamed through a wide natural channel. The pleasant flow of enchanting ripples was relaxing and beautiful to see in the evening light. It carried severed sediments, and barren soil from the forest. A stroll along the bank of Kameng near Bhalukpong allowed us to enjoy diverse sights from lush evergreen rain forest to bamboo brakes, and perched horn-bills to songs of River Lapwings, all in their glory and peaceful ambiance.

Lone Pine by the Lake

by Maria Filosa The harmonious fusion of the verdant forest, and the charismatic sound of trickling water served as the perfect setting to shut my eyes, take a deep breath, and absorb the sacred elements of nature. This river has large pockets of undeveloped and protected land which preserve quiet scenic vistas of coastal marshes. Despite my limited botanical knowledge, I attempted to identify some of the widespread Nameri’s tree species across the river. The virginity of the woodland —adorned with dense growths of trees, thick moss, ferns, shrubs, and wild orchids— was readily observable.

Over the years, influx of local communities for farming, the brick & mortar clusters on the western side of Kameng River has hindered the corridors used by wild animals to access the river and the Nameri Division forests. The Kameng River (known by this name in Arunachal Pradesh and as Jia Bhoreli in Assam) originates from a glacial lake

in Tawang district and flows through the Bhalukpong circle.

Kameng receives a remarkable annual rainfall of 1,300 to 1,800mm. As a consequence, the river grows larger and gives birth to innumerable perennial streams; that drain into tributary systems such as the Tenga, Bichom, and Dirang Chu, to name a few. These provide water to Nameri Forest’s inhabitants and irrigate vast swathes of agricultural fields. The wildlife together with downstream human population is directly dependent on the well-being of this river belt. However, the stench of river exploitation exists, as the Resin and Citronella factories based in Tippi (4km from Bhalukpong) pollute the pristine water with their foul effluents.

We all picked our preferred spot along the riverside and we were ready for some sort of contemplation. As I sat there on a small semi-submerged boulder in deep silence, I could identify with the congenial environment that surrounded me. It dawned on me that our bodies and its needs haven’t changed since humans first evolved; therefore most of the present problems are based on the fact that we’ve created a world that vastly differs from the one for which evolution designed us. If the river reflects life and if it somehow bears our soul, we seem to have lost touch with it due to our extravagant modern life.

Across the river, the immense wing fanning of three Lapwings reverberated in my ears. Beside me a group of young folks had turned up the radio and were screaming at the top of their voices. The river reflected two of India’s faces here in one place. I sat there quietly listening to both worlds.

Thank you for Reading Meenaz Amreliwala’s “By the River of Bhalukpong.”

Paper Boats

by Mario Ascueta Aguado I smile when I think of the river banks where we crafted myriads of paper boats out of unused sheets from our high school notes.

We would watch them float freely yet slowly they drowned when they could no longer resist the temptations of the blissful waters.

True. Flirtatious wind of wild summers could make us sway, dance or glide heedlessly but only a while, cause like paper boats we had to surrender to the dictates of circumstances and of willful times.

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Volume II Issue: 2

Page 2

Beautiful Beautiful ByLindsey LindseyPlemmons’ Plemmons By

Splash by Yolanda R. Goldsack from her Good Ole Days Series.

It’s a girl!” exclaimed the doctor with a smile as she pointed to the sepia toned lump on the monitor screen. I smiled too, shifting uncomfortably as she continued to press the cold transducer over my swollen stomach. My husband gripped my hand tightly as we walked out of the office, photos in hand. A girl. I was going to have a girl.

The gender reveal party came and went with congrats, hugs, and tears of joy. Baby showers were held, corny games were played, and soon, diapers, bottles, and hoards of pink clothing began piling up in what would soon become the nursery. I refused to paint her room pink, to put her in a room stereotyped by gender. We finally decided on light grey walls with teal polka-dotted accents. Everyone around me was so happy.

As my stomach grew larger, I made more frequent trips to the bathroom. Pickles dipped in peanut butter became my new favorite food, and my husband was making constant late night trips to Walmart in an attempt to feed my crazy cravings. During the day I would sit on the porch looking out across the yard, watching as my neighbor’s daughters played tea party with their dolls and teddy bears. I tried to be happy. I truly did. But I couldn’t stop myself from worrying about my future daughter. My mind began to wonder. My heart started to worry. But I just didn’t understand why. A girl. I was having a girl.

While preparations were being made, the due date drew nearer. Everyone was excited. Everyone was ready. Yet my mind still wondered. As my belly grew larger, my fear grew stronger. I was going to have a little girl. A girl! But what did that mean? What makes a girl a girl? Flashback.

Twelve-year-old me stands in front of a mirror staring down at my flat chest, hoping that at any moment breasts will magically appear. A single tear slips from my dark brown eyes and slides down my acne scarred face.

The brief moment of memory made me shiver. Why was I so worried? What was I so afraid of? The questions continued to haunt me as I began to wonder what truly makes

a girl a girl. Is it her love of pink? Her well manicured nails? Her perfect hair? Or is it simply the fact that she was assigned a girl from birth? These questions plagued my mind as I began to remember my own childhood and what it was like to grow up as a girl. Flashback. Sevenyear-old me stares down at my pretty blue church dress.

It’s stained with red mud and dirt from a long afternoon spent making mud pies and rolling down hills. My furious mother looks at me sternly and says, “playing in the mud is not ladylike.” I avoid her eyes and stare shamefully at my dirt encrusted white shoes.

I never had been a very girly girl. Growing up with two brothers had made me tough. I wrestled with them, played cowboys and Indians with them, and was never afraid to get dirty. My hair was usually chopped short and tied back away from my mud streaked face. My mother tried so desperately to instill in me her love of pink and all things girly, but my tom-boyish behavior continued all the way up until middle school. Flashback. I’m running to the girls’ bathroom, tears threatening to spill from the corners of my eyes, as a group of older girls’ chants at me from behind.

“Tomboy, tomboy, you’re an ugly tomboy!” As I step into the stall, the hot tears begin to fall.

Middle school changes people. It was a tough three years.

My confidence in myself quickly faded, and I began to retreat away from the harsh reality known as middle school.

I grew out my hair, painted my nails, and tried everything in my power to fit in with other girls. I started to talk like them, dress like them, act like them, until I had lost all sense of who I truly was. Flashback. Fourteen-year-old me stands looking in the mirror, makeup of all sorts spread awkwardly across the counter. In my mind, a soundtrack of insults begins to play. “Only filthy girls get pimples.”

“Do you ever even wash your face?” “You look so gross!”

“Thank God I don’t have acne.” The bright red acne scars soon disappear as I begin to smother my face with concealer for the first time.

I had so many worries. Here I was, nine months pregnant and nearing the day in which I would meet my little girl for the first time. I wanted to be excited, I truly did. But I was so afraid, afraid of what she would have to go through, afraid of the bullies, the tears, and the heartache she would have to face. How would she be able to handle all of it?

How could I help her in a world that was so cruel, in a society that rates women based on their beauty? I worried and I worried until…

To Be Continued on Page: 10

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Volume II Issue: 2

THE FORWARDIAN PAGE OF POETRY Go with the flow © 2016 by Tony Kwame Ansah Jr I author jewels and gems for him, her, and them With loose leaf sheets and ink from a pen My hobby my buddy my very best friend Forever I write based off of past present trends and events Going on in and around my mind, body, and soul Since I was roughly seventeen years old Became intrigued by the art of playing bailey with words To serve to the people like they were hors d'oeuvres Bon appetite mix the bitter with the sweet While digging deep to the roots under my feet I’m still standing above the grammar Because poetry allows for stanzas And double entendre In other words similes and metaphors Before this I was an amateur And after this consider me a master Of going with the flow Because that’s all I know I’ll continue to go with the flow And forever go with the flow

On Misreading Sharon Olds’ The Bra During Eve Ensler’s V-Day Event, Beloved Community Church, Birmingham, Alabama

by A. K. Clavell I don’t think anyone noticed that in the twenty-fourth line I left out Acteon.

How long did Olds hunt the word before she put it down?

Once, a woman I loved undressed in the other room and forgot to pull to the second door while she changed into her dress.

Though, I told her I didn’t see, I confessed to a poet; now it’s a joke between us two.

He sends me a voice memo with the word over and over— Acteon, Acteon, Acteon.

The Sixth Sense Herb Weber They can see, but they are blind to our suffering; They can hear, but they are deaf to our cries of hunger; They can smell, but they will not sniff out corruption and deceit; They can taste, but they cannot savor our diverse society; They can touch, but they cannot feel our hopelessness; They are those among us who lack a sixth sense: morality

Waiting Richard Heby Still burning— contemplating the trade of slow death for train track fatalism— his cigarette tossed from impatient lips grows into ash among stagnant thoughts, extinguished like this butt (not waiting as he is for the Hudson Line running ten minutes late.

It will soon be here.)

Venting Troy Barker Say that I’m crazy, Maybe nasty as you please; I’m clearing my mind!!!

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Volume II Issue: 2

Page 4

The Trees of Echols County Part 4 – The Conclusion

By Matt Braynard Tree Three. December 18. It’s a small, artificial tree with no lights and sparse ball ornaments. But what’s most strange is that the ornaments, the needles, and the base stand are covered by a thick coating of dust as if it’s all been left out here for months, if not years. The tree is resting in the corner of an empty room, and here are no presents, decorations, or photos. It seems forgotten. Perhaps the previous owners of the home left it here, and the new owner didn’t bother to take it down or didn’t notice it at all. The only sign of life in this house is a trash bag filled with microwavable dinners.

Charlie offered to drive the sheriff back to his place, but because they lived close, within a mile, and because his doctor had been getting on him to exercise more, Elmer decided to walk home that evening.

Elmer never bothered to lock his house. Who would rob the sheriff? When he entered the front door, he and the boy looked at each other as each recognized who the other was. The boy was dressed in black and holding a camera.

Elmer was wearing his uniform.

It was a fleeting truce that the boy broke first, grabbing his duffle bag and bolting for the back door. Elmer started after him and began yelling, not in anger, but in desperation.

tions, tried to pull himself over the fence, only to fall back to the ground. Through his gasps for air, he shouted into the darkness. “You’re going to get yourself killed! Come back!”

In the double-wide’s bathroom, Elmer pulled himself together in front of the mirror. Someone knocked on the door. “Sheriff? You alright?”

The sheriff splashed water on his face, reassured himself that he was back in control, and squeezed out of the bathroom. He looked at the floor where the boy’s body had been lying and saw it was gone. The medics were gone, too.

“They’re loading him into the ambulance and taking him over to the hospital in Valdosta. Lucky bastard,” said Charlie. “Because he was injured while committing a crime, the medics say they need a law enforcement escort.”

“You said he’s alive?”

“Barely. Want me to ride along, sheriff?”

“I’ll take care of it, Charlie. You go home and take care of your family, you hear me?”

Elmer climbed into the back of the ambulance. The boy was strapped down to a gurney with an acre of gauze wrapped over his stomach. His eyes were closed, and an oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth. A medic sat on one side of him and monitored his vital signs. Elmer took a seat on the opposite side.

On the hour ride to Valdosta, every bump in the road rattled the medical instruments like a drawer of silverware.

“Can he hear me?” asked Elmer.

“Sir, I don’t know,” answered the medic. “I believe he’s semiconscious.”

Elmer leaned over the boy and snapped his fingers. “Hey, you there, boy?”

He heard a quiet groan from behind the oxygen mask.

A Snowy Walk in the Woods

by Dedra Decker “Stop, you got to stop this! You’re going to get yourself shot! People here, they have guns! Just stop, I won’t hurt you, I’ll let you go, just stop! Stop!”

As Elmer got to the back door, the boy had reached full speed and was sprinting across the backyard to the tall fence that marked the edge of the Wiegel property.

Elmer hadn’t run in years and was out of breath by the time he reached the fence. The boy had already hurdled it and was disappearing into the woods. Damn, he was fast.

Elmer, ignoring both physics and his own physical limita-

To Be Continued on Page: 07

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Volume II Issue: 2

Page 5

Reunion Part 2 - Conclusion

By Craig Roberts “I’m so glad you could come,” Rebecca said, long ravenhaired curls framing her spark- ling smile, as she held open the door for her Saturday evening dinner guests.

They stepped through the door on-to the Italiantiled floor of the spacious foyer and slipped off their coats.

Rebecca was pleasantly surprised when Cliff told her that Marilyn and Rick had gotten back together.

Marilyn was aglitter with dangling jewelry and wafting sweet perfume. She was a Nordic beauty, flaxen hair, expressive iceblue eyes and an arresting smile. Her Hands Saying Goodbye dress fit snugly, displaying her lithe figby Ally Riddle ure. Her legs were tan and shapely, nicely turned in a pair of razor-sharp stilettos.

Wiping his hands on a towel, Cliff walked in from the kitchen and joined the group. There were hugs all around as the foursome settled into the living room. The newly-reunited couple, smiling and effusive, were eager to recount their unexpected reconciliation.

“Ricky called me in Florida, out of the blue,” Marilyn said, gesturing with her hand in the air. “I hadn’t spoken to him in, what?” looking at Rick. “Two or three months?”

Rick nodded, smiling.

“Then he told me about this great job. Thank you so much, Cliff,” Marilyn paused, fluttering her eyes. “This means so much to us.”

“I’m happy for the opportunity. Rick’s worth it and he’ll earn every penny.” Cliff gave an encouraging nod.

“I know he will,” Marilyn said. She paused to sip her mint iced tea, a crimson half-moon showing on the lip of her tall glass as she returned it to table. “Well,” she said, throwing her hands up, “the next thing I know Ricky’s wiring me plane fare, that was Wednesday afternoon, right?” she asked, turning to Rick. He nodded again, still smiling.

“Wow! That was fast,” Cliff said. “Rick, you must’ve called Marilyn right after our meeting.”

“Yeah, I really wanted to share our good fortune,” Rick said, giving Marilyn hug.

“By the way,” Marilyn said. “Ricky told me about the money you loaned him. You two, you’re terrific. This is a second chance for us, a fresh start. We’re so grateful.”

“Grateful.” Rick nodded, glancing at Cliff, then Rebecca, then at his watch.

Growing uncomfortable with the expressions of gratitude, Cliff stood up. “Come on. Let’s eat some steaks.” He waved them toward the dining room.

Monday morning, Cliff was eager to start Rick’s orientation. Glancing at the wall clock, it read 9:05 a.m. Cliff checked it by his watch, surprised that Rick was late on his first day. By nine-thirty Cliff was ticked, no Rick, no phone call, nothing. He called Rick’s number.

“Good morning, Mrs. Painter,” Cliff said, recognizing the older woman’s voice. “Is Rick in?”

“No, he went with Marilyn,”the elder Mrs. Painter answered. “She licked him up in her new car for the weekend. Not back yet. You want to leave him a message?”

“Yes, thank you. Ask him to call Cliff. He has my number.”A knot formed in his stomach as he slowly hung up the phone.

Two days later the phone call came “Sir, Rick Painter on line three,” the receptionist said.

Drawing a deep breath, Cliff answered in an even tone, “Mr. Painter. How in the world are you?” Cliff winced at the dis-ingenuousness of his greeting.

“Hey, CR. Sorry I missed our meeting,”Rick said, with a slight slur in his voice. Gazing out the window, he watched a dog relieving itself on the thin strip of grass in front of his mom’s row-home.

“Missed it by three days and counting. What’s going on?

Have you been drinking?”

“Nah, maybe a couple of beers,” Rick said flatly. “Listen, Marilyn took the car.”Out the window the dog kicked grass on the little pile it had left on Mother Painter’s yard.

“Took it where?”

“Back to Florida, I guess.”

“Florida?” Cliff paused. “I thought you two were back together.”

“You and me both.”

To Be Continued on Page: 07

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Volume II Issue: 2

Page 6

THE FORWARDIAN GALLERIA i

Ducks in Formation on Lake Wallenpaupack by Randy Philip Orso

Bird 13 by Yolanda Goldsack From the Birds of a Feather Series

A Cartoon by Highres

New Neighbors by Dedra Decker

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Volume II Issue: 2 Thank You for Continuing to Read “Reunion” Written By Craig Roberts “All right. Tell me what happened. Tell me all of it.”

Placing the phone on speaker, Cliff placed his hands behind his head, making himself comfortable. The best way, he thought, to appreciate good storytelling. Rick spun his narrative over the next half-hour. After dinner Saturday night Marilyn had packed up and left for Florida. She wasn’t coming back. Rick had titled the car in her name because of his DUIs. Marilyn had also taken Rick’s cash advance.

DUIs? Cash advance? Cliff thought. What’s he talking about? What good is a car with your license is suspended for DUI? And there was no cash advance, just money for child support. And why did Marilyn fly up from Florida just to leave the next day? Shaking his head, Cliff remembered something he had learned in the Rooms – grifter arithmetic don’t add up right for civilians.

“How much of my fourteen grand do you have left?”

Cliff asked.

“None,” Rick said, fingering a wad of hundred dollar bills in his pocket.

“You knew she was leaving, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess I kind of did,” Rick said as he plopped into his mom’s easy chair.

“What about all that stuff at dinner Saturday night about giving you two a second chance?”

“You did. We were in a tight spot. No wheels, no money, bills to pay.”

“But this was all under false pretenses,” Cliff stopped speaking. There was no sense going into detail, the reunion dinner, the plans the promises. “Enough said. Let’s leave it at that, huh, Rick?”

“Yeah, sure.” Reaching down by the side of the chair for another beer, Rick’s hand bumped the briefcase causing it to tip over with a thump. “Oh yeah. What about your stuff? I should get it back to you.”

“Stuff?” Cliff asked.

“You know, the business cards, the brochures. And I’ve got your briefcase.”

“No, Rick. Keep the briefcase.” Cliff slowly hung up the phone.

Thank You for Reading The Conclusion of “Reunion” Written By Craig Roberts

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Thank You for Continuing to Read “The Trees of Echols County” Written By Matt Braynard “That was a very stupid thing you were doing. Very stupid. If Miss Irene was a better shot, you’d be riding in a damned hearse right now. Very stupid… Kids. No appreciation for how precious life is… Well, I see you like photography. You know, I had a son. He died in a car accident a long while back, but I tell you what, if there was one thing he loved more than anything it was taking pictures.

We even had a dark room for developing pictures in our basement. This was before everything went all electronic...

That’s a good thing, you know, to have a skill you can turn into an honest trade. Just don’t do it so stupidly, you know? Don’t go sneaking into houses in a state with more guns than people. And just so you know, in Georgia, criminal trespass is a class-A misdemeanor, and you committed seven counts of--“ For a split-second, Elmer thought he saw a slight curl at the ends of the lips under the mask, what might be considered a smirk. Elmer leaned close to the boy’s ear so the medic could not hear what he was saying. “Yes, boy, you and I know it’s eight, but we’ll just let that one go. Consider it a Christmas gift, on account of me being a Christian and it being Jesus’ birthday and all.”

Elmer sat back up. “Anyway, that’s a long stretch of prison time and a mess of money in fines. But the state’s attorney’s an old friend of mine. So this is what I’m fixing to do for you. I’m going to draw up an agreement whereby you promise, and I mean you really promise, that you’ll never do something so damn stupid ever again, and I’m going to make you sign that agreement. And if you sign that agreement, in good faith, then I’ll talk to the state’s attorney, and you’ll get off with some probation and community service. Maybe they can have you teach photography to the kids down at the middle school. That sound alright to you? If not, you can prepare to be the longest-serving prisoner in the county jail.”

The boy groaned again and gave the best head nod he could muster.

“Good decision on your part.” Elmer leaned back and felt at ease. He patted the boy’s leg. “I know you’re really a good boy, son. Just got off on the wrong track.”

Thank You for Reading The Conclusion of “The Trees of Echols County” Written By Matt Braynard

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Page 8

Volume II Issue: 2 The Bird of Wisdom Chapter V: The Little Prophet (Part 3)

by Paul Adam Smeltz The bells of St. Peter's church rang throughout the countryside. The people of Carmarthon gathered together in the town's square. A young boy lay dead before them as Merlin stood bound beside him.

"He is the one," a woman cried out."He pushed my son off the wall and killed him."

The crowd became restless as their violent thoughts focused upon Merlin.

"He fell in an accident," Merlin proclaimed silencing the mob. "I was not there."

"Prove it," came an angry voice.

"I shall," retorted Merlin as he freed his hands and waved them above the dead boy. To the crowd's amazement, the boy's lifeless form began to move until he was standing before them. His mother moved to run toward him.

"No Mother," said the boy stopping her advance. "I am no longer yours. I belong to our Mother now. Why was I brought back?"

"To tell these people," answered Merlin. "If I had anything to do with your death."

"No," said the boy."You were nowhere near me. I fell off the wall in an accident. I'm sorry I disobeyed you, mother."

Sorrow overwhelmed the woman as she fell to the ground sobbing. Her husband came to her side and their tears flowed into one as they held each other.

"You may sleep now," said Merlin. The boy lay down and breathed no more.

Some of the town's men approached the body. They picked up the boy to begin preparations for his burial.

Merlin asked them to pause long enough so he may kiss the boy upon his forehead. The men resumed their sad journey after this was done. ***** Ulfin and his companion sat upon their horses overlooking the distant event. The experience of their part in the attempted rape of Queen Hengist and the events that followed flooded their minds. They saw two more horsemen from their legion at the other end of the street and began moving their horses slowly toward the young boy as the people fled at their sight.

The boy looked into Ulfin's eyes as he came upon him.

Ulfin felt a strength from this child he had never encountered before. One of the other horsemen draw his sword.

"Stay your sword,"Ulfin said, stopping him. The horseman looked at him in surprise.

"Were we not sent to kill the fatherless son?" he asked.

"Are you certain this is he?" asked Ulfin.

"I saw the miracle he had performed. How could this not be the boy?"

"It would be a shame to kill a child," came a voice.

The men looked around them and saw a man wearing a long hooded robe standing beside a building. He walked toward them. His movements were gentle yet powerful in their deliberateness. Ulfin was reminded of Father Germanius.

"Who are You?" asked Ulfin.

"I am as the boy's father," He answered removing his hood. Ulfin recognized the hairstyle of a priest's.

"He is my teacher," said the boy."I am the one you seek."

"Then you must die," cried the horseman, wielding his sword. Merlin raised his hands and the hilt suddenly became hot. The horseman allowed the sword to drop from his burning hand. The priest picked up the sword and handed it back to him.

"I am known as BlaisĂŠ," he said."All of you are welcomed to join us. We are having a feast tonight to prepare the boy and his mother for their journey tomorrow."

"What journey?" asked Ulfin. BlaisĂŠ gently turned his attention toward him.

"The one they are to take with you," he answered. *****

Mother And Sons by Laurie A. Guzda The sun shown in Uter's eyes. He awaken to see the mysterious warrior standing above him. He turned to see his comrades asleep aside him. The dwellings he had seen manifested around him were gone. He looked quizzically into the warrior's face as he spoke.

"It is time to leave this place," he said.

"What has happened to our surroundings?" asked Uter.

His voice awakened the other men.

"They are whence all things have come," he answered as the armies slowly materialized around them. Uter suddenly saw the warrior upon his horse. Alongside him were the horses he and his companions rode upon. The men mounted their steeds and led the vast mysterious armies toward Snowdown.

To Be Continued on Page: 10

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Page 9

ANOTHER FORWARDIAN PAGE OF POETRY Novelty by j. e. paradee An idea has to be struck like a piano, and pulled chord by chord into the seat of the soul, where abstraction begets form and form follows function.

Perhaps I should go in there sporting a sandwich board, caption to read, “External validation needed here.”

Auditions are like potato chips, not to be taken one at a time.

Better ingested in clusters, to mitigate the ill effects and greasy residue left behind.

I watch as the blonde girl walks in the direction of the stage, like a lowly seaman being forced to walk the plank for some perceived infraction.

Her performance concluded, they proceed with the autopsy.

Each one carving their respective piece, in turn.

The blonde girl never exits the stage.

Instead, having been ground to the consistency of a fine powder, she is promptly swept under foot.

This, to make all seem in order before the arrival of the next hopeful.

The Audition

by Valerie Cruz I see the dream pass across their faces like a cloud blotting out the sun on a somewhat questionable day.

This is art.

The life and breath of it.

The surreptitious surrendering of ones’ soul, to it.

Perhaps, only to end up spent having nothing left to offer.

Each time I reinvent myself for a group of strangers, I wonder.

Does it count in heaven, how hard we try?

A disembodied voice calls out a number.

No time for philosophical contemplations, I’m up next.

Focus, focus _ breathe, focus.

“Did they call for 34?”

Asks the heavily made-up blonde girl seated next to me.

Her expression, one of pleading, epitomizes the single-minded prayer echoed throughout this living mass.

Let it be over, let me be good enough.

A palpable wave of tension sweeps the room.

Number 35, the voice calls.

“Oh God, that’s me.”

Focus, focus _ breathe.

THE VISAGE Dr. Jeri Danielle Walker-Boone At her dressing table she looked into the mirror.

A wizened face was the reflection seen by her caregiver.

Yet to the woman, the face she saw was young, captivating, and lovely.

Young men dreamed of her with them everlastingly.

The withered hands of a 90-year-old, were once again youthful, strong, and bold.

Thinning white hair, standing in tangled shreds, to her were long, golden curls which adorned her head.

Sagging skin with spindly arms, legs; oh so cold to her were perky, tan, taunt, and warm to enfold.

The nursing attendant smelled old, rotting flesh.

The woman was enraptured by perfume so fresh.

Everyone else viewed her in a soiled house dress.

To her she was ensconced in lilac satin and lace; her very best.

The nursing shift corralled her into bed.

Yet, sweet youthful dreams played in her head.

The nursing home may have housed her body.

But her mind and soul were her own commodity.

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Page 10

Volume II Issue: 2 Thank You for Continuing to Read “The Bird of Wisdom” Chapter V: The Little Prophet (Part 3) Written By Paul Adam Smeltz Ulfin and the other soldiers finished loading the wagon.

Merlin and his mother sat upon its seat. Blaisé sat upon his horse to bid them farewell.

"Won't you change your mind and accompany us, our dear friend?" asked Merlin's mother as she held her son in her loving arms.

"I wish that I could, my Lady," answered Blaisé. "But, I must return to the place of my birth in Northumberland for it is calling to me. Your son shall visit and continue his instructions from time to time."

"Farewell, Father Blaisé," called Merlin as the wagon began its journey.

"Farewell, our dear friend," called Merlin's mother. "Until we meet again."

Blaisé looked upon the company as it moved from his sight. A tear began to form in his old eyes. He has done much to hide his dreaded vision from his protege. He heard the caw of a Merlin which soon appeared in the sky.

He raised his hand as it searched for a place to rest. Once the bird had landed upon its perch, Blaisé began his journey toward his final home.

Thank You for Continuing to Read “Beautiful” Written By Lindsey Plemmons Flash forward. I peer down at the sleepy-eyed little girl cradled tenderly in my arms. Her eyes sparkle and, for the first time in a long time, I feel truly happy. She wraps her tiny little hand around my pale finger and lets out a small sigh.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper as she drifts off to sleep.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Thank You for Reading “Beautiful” Written

By Lindsey Plemmons

…… To be Continued……

Ode to Love

by Lauryn de Leeuw

SHE

by Andrew Casey Glittering tears cascade through tangled hair innocent eyes torment as fingers grasp at a drowning mans straw clutching to the bitter end that naive disastrous faith regretting a hundred lonely moments, a millennium of heartache, the agony of life.

Still she dreams of what could be refusing to accept the reality of what is brushing aside stark unpalatable facts which she sees as the only hindrance to her goal Stretching her imagination to breaking point, the future success and ultimate triumph assured eyes blinkered, ears deaf, mind manacled, friends unnoticed in the inevitability of the end until that final shattering blow of complete disaster defeats her utterly as she always knew it would

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ode to love

by Lauryn de Leeuw

Volume II Issue: 2

Page 11

Steve Jobs

By Kyle Rebar Sensei schooled me in the art of raking apples one midday afternoon, though his Tree's harvested bare these three years past, she's fertile this time around the wheel Her red and yellow orbs dot the muddy canvas like Chronos' kids that blaze bright once Helios rests his head“Toss em' in the box” I shovel deep, roll them with the rake- I'm breaking their orbits desecrating that drop from the treetop I'm pissing on Mother NatureI don't care about Her epicyclesThe garden needs fertilizer and I need onionsMy apologies, you fibrous Helionyou can shed your pigments elsewhere and bind with one of a lesser steel and degrade degrade, degrade, burn out, burn out, burn out, and make me onions.

Sensei said that darkness always gives way to light, and looking at these apples, I incline to disagree.

They'll rot in his veggie plot and we'll trade their vigor for fresh onions next fall, and that's nice and all... but my light bulbIt wouldn't come on this morning and my favorite starIt didn't come out last night It blinked out last night burnt out last night burnt out, burnt out, Its Helions will mate with someone forged of a lesser steel and it'll blink back a lesser hue and that lesser hue will blink out and upstart an even shoddier hue and then it bats its last lash and breathes its last breaths and it's gone.

No seed in Sensei's garden, no onions for me I plant my rake down, upsetting a guardian bee he looks up at me from his applaic home unsheathes his sword-like syringe and waves it “You don't know a thing, Piss-Ant”I read this in his gaze- he'd kill me, but his microscopic wings are too heavy, he's too high from that cider swigA-HA! I get the upper hand today and I crush him- I crushed himbeneath my boot, that poor, poor, bee.

Sensei asked me: “What's worse than a bitter apple's carrion grey?”

I said I didn't careand I still don't carebecause my bulb's burnt out and this sickening brown beneath my boot used to be valiant, and my star's burned itself out and I'm no man of metal, I'm no steeled soul I'm staring into a void and there are monsters in the void with names like “FEAR” and “MISFORTUNE” and “JELLYFISH” -Alas, I've wet myselfSensei doesn't know this, butChronos ate his children, and then they cut up his gut and their own children came back and planted spears in their chests, then someone raked their husks away and someone else harvested some delicious onions, then the demi-gods had children whose names we forgot, but the flies ate them and thought they'd won the day, but the new flies ate the old flies and raked the husks away, but then the new flies ran out of new flies and so the flies truly lost the day.

“Sensei, I had a vision of which I'm afraid of what I sawIt was that daemon who used to be a bee“JELLYFISH” -laughing, sitting against your tree, as our Helios, the only bulb that matters, blinked out and stayed out. All the bulbs wentZ out.

Then “JELLYFISH” grabbed my rake and muttered “Stupid Piss-ant.”

Sensei responded: “Get raking.

You need to fill the box.”

My city Surreal~ Wachovia Building Downtown Winston Salem

by Pat Berryhill

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Volume II Issue: 2

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)

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 Kathy Steiner.

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

Richard Heby, Assistant Forwardian Publisher (No Bio Information Available)

Published by www.forwardianarts.org

Volume II Issue: 2

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 3rd Issue of Volume II from March 1st to May 15th. Our next issue is planned to be available in July 2018. 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.

Published by www.forwardianarts.org

Volume II Issue: 2

SOME OTHER THINGS WE DO The Forwardian Gazette Forwardian’s sister magazine, “The Forwardian Gazzette” is an Art News Magazine that is published on line monthly. It contains articles and listings of upcoming art related events. We invite you to write articles and send in information about your future endeavors. Please explore our Website to read our current issue.

Our On Line Art Competition We invite photographers and artists to participate in our online competition to determine whose work will be included in a special section in the next issue of Forwardian. You'll be able to submit your work on Facebook from the 1st to the 14th of every month. Winners are chosen by individuals who view the images on Facebook and vote for their favorite one from the 15th to the 28th of the month. Please explore our Website for details.

Festivals

HOW CAN YOU SUPPORT OUR ENDEAVORS Our Publications’ existence (as well as all The Forwardian Arts Society’s endeavors) relies upon the prayers and good thoughts of all who would like to offer them. For this, we are most grateful as we appreciate your good energies and your friendship. Thank you.

However, to publish our publications in a printed form, we do need something in the way of financial supported to give to those who would print it. So, we would like to humbly ask those of you who are able and willing to provide us with the necessary funds to do so.

Please visit our Website to learn about The Ways You Can Support Our Endeavors.

Note: Neither The Forwardian Arts Society nor any of its endeavors are registered as a non profit or not for profit entity. Therefore, your donations are NOT tax deductible

The Forwardian Film Festival presents the original cinematic endeavors. The festival includes an Art Show and an Awards Ceremony.

The 2016 Forwardian Film Festival received The Monroe County Image Award.

We would like to present more art related festivals to the community. These include The Forwardian Folk Festival to present folk music and folk art, The For-word-ian Festival to present the work of writers and poets, The Forwardian Fringe offering a creative free for all, and The Forwardian Theater Festival presenting well known and original plays. Please feel free to contact us for more information.

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Volume II Issue: 2

But through eternal night The twinkling of starlight

1

In the Year 2525 Richard D’Ambrosia

So very far away Maybe it's only yesterday.

From the song titled, “In the Year 2525” written by Rick Evans of (Danny) Zager and Evans and is on their 1969 album titled,“In the Year 2525 (Exordium & Terminus).”

Thank You for Reading this Issue of our Magazine Published by www.forwardianarts.org