Art, Humor, Poetry, and the Pleasures of a Writer’s Life
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WinkWriters.com Publisher/Managing Editor Nadia Giordana—Cloud 9 Publishing iinadia@msn.com In her other life, Nadia is a community TV producer and host/cohost on several shows. Among them: Generations, It’s a Woman’s World, Women of the World, QC Cooks, and That’s Odd. Her primary website is WhereWomenTalk.com.
Short Story Editor Lynn Garthwaite—Blue Spectrum Books Lynn has another life too. She is the owner of Blue Spectrum Books at BlueSpectrumBooks.com, and the founder of the non-profit Books on Wings. She authored the Dirkle Smat children’s book series and also Our States Have Crazy Shapes. When she’s not busy with these things, she co-hosts with Nadia on That’s Odd TV show.
Copy Editor/Proofreader William (Kerry) Parsons Kerry and his red pencil will make sure we have all our i’s dotted and our t’s crossed. Kerry was a regular contributor to our previous magazines, “Poetry in Motion” and “Mississippi Crow.”
Final Proofreader Connie Anderson—WordsAndDeedsinc.com Connie is a professional book editor (among other talents) and she heads up Women of Words (WOW), a Minneapolis-based writers’ networking group to which both Lynn and Nadia belong.
Sponsorships and Advertising Chuck Kasun—cekasun@gmail.com Chuck’s past lives include: investment banker, stockbroker, VP marketing, money manager, options trader, and sales manager. He also enjoys lunar photography, road trips and bicycle riding.
Cover image: Proud Peacock, by Mary Deal, photographer, artist, and poet.
Contributing writers and artists alphabetical by first name: Alex Nodopaka—Lake Forest, California Amy Jauman—Maple Grove, Minnesota Barbara La Valleur—Edina, Minnesota Batik Sabang—Pula Weh, Aceh Indonesia Cole W. Williams—Newport, Minnesota Connie Anderson—Edina, Minnesota Deb Weiers—Alberta, Canada Denise Jaden—Vancouver, British Columbia Denny Marshall—Lincoln, Nebraska Emily Glossner Johnson—Baldwinsville, New York Fabrice Poussin—Rome Georgia Ilan Milch—New York, New York Jack Granath—Shawnee, Kansas Jennifer Copley—Barrows-in-Furness, England Jim Zola—Greensboro, North Carolina John Grey—Johnston, Rhode Island John T. Olsen—Scandia, Minnesota John Wellers—Clinton, New York Justin Hyde—Des Moines, Iowa Lenore S. Beadsman—Palatine, Illinois Lauralyn Sciretta—Tucson, Arizona Laurie Byro—Hewitt, New Jersey Lynn Garthwaite—Bloomington, Minnesota Maria Zach—Kerala, India Mary Deal—Scottsdale, Arizona Michael Felix—Prior Lake, Minnesota Michael Rossberg—South St. Paul, Minnesota Nadia Giordana—Dayton, Minnesota Patrick O’Regan—Inver Grove Heights, Minnesota Richard Calo—Saratoga Springs, New York Rick Blum—Bedford, Massachusetts Scott Archer Jones—Angel Fire, New Mexico Stephanie Sorensen—Isanti, Minnesota Teresa M. Riggs Foushee—Plymouth, Minnesota Thomas Larsen—Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
To buy print copies of WINK: go to WinkWriters.com. Copyright @ 2018 Cloud 9 Publishing, ISSN 2573-7996. No portion of this magazine may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form—electronic, mechanical or other means without prior consent of the publisher and/or of the authors of the individual works. All rights revert to authors when issue is published.
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Abandoned No more children playing In the hayloft, No horses neighing In their stalls No farmers scattering Cracked corn for the chicks, No more activity— No more life. How many years ago Did the barn have life? How many seasons ago Did a home stand near the barn? How many fur babies were Born into this ancient barn? How much sadness has The barn watched over? Abandoned, now it stands To be captured on film. Weathered walls leaning, Straining to stand tall. The hayloft stuffed with Unused bales of hay. Abandoned…until that day When it was torn down. –Connie Anderson Photo and poem
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A Teacher, a Poet, and a Murder Suspect Raise the Bar
—Dr. Amy Jauman
As an educator in the 21st century, blogging was a wonderful tool for me. I had an easy way to post short bits of information that could help a variety of people. By early 2017, I had written a textbook. And in just a few months my second non-fiction book will hit the shelves of university bookstores across the U.S. It seems I’ve found a writing groove, but some might be surprised where it came from. As much as I have learned from listening to my editors, completing writing courses, and being a voracious reader, one influence still stands out at as a unique contribution to my success. I’ve learned how to be a better nonfiction writer by spending time with artists who write in other genres. Poetry in Terrifying Motion Desperate to experience a writer’s retreat, I searched the internet for a getaway to an international destination. A wonderful opportunity to write in Spain fit my timeline and budget, but I was suspicious of the description. It seemed to be geared towards poets–and a poet I am not. After a few phone calls, I was assured it was a great opportunity for writers of every genre. And let’s be honest, it was a trip to Spain, so I had pretty much already decided I was going. When I arrived, I learned I was one of three nonpoets in a group of about 20 writers. Our schedule consisted of lecture, discussions, and time to write. And we’d all have multiple opportunities to read what we had written for the group. I assure you, not even the most artful haiku could express the level of my anxiety on the first day of our retreat. I had never done a reading like my poet and fiction -writing friends had done. Textbook writers don’t really attract crowds in coffee shops with our wellorganized glossaries and logical delivery of information. We get plenty of feedback and spend a great deal of time fact-checking, but readings, though not unheard of, are a far less common way of developing your work. This was the most daunting piece of the schedule for me, and I felt compelled to be more interesting than I normally am if I was going to read to a room full of poets.
But as I listened to the other writers and considered what I’d share with them, I could feel how intensely they wanted others to be interested in their work and their message. My anxiety faded. Their word choice was artful and intentional. It seemed not a line, word, or letter was taken for granted. What I was learning was beneficial, but it was also soothing as I became more comfortable in this new environment. Writing blogs, textbooks, and case studies, I write first for clarity. The majority of the time, the reader and I have a shared goal: information delivery. As I sat enveloped by the fluidity of the words of the poets, I realized their goal was the same as mine. We were both seeking to reach our reader in a meaningful way. Poets work diligently to find the perfect word, and I’ve learned to pay more attention to my word choice–no longer shying away from creative language. They write and rewrite the same lines, changing a word only to change it back again two revisions later. I stopped seeing edits as fixing what I didn’t get right the first time, and rather an opportunity to reach my readers in an even better way than I had originally imagined. And, most importantly, it dawned on me that just because my goal was to educate, didn’t mean the work I was creating shouldn’t be treated as art. As I continued to share pieces throughout the week, I was emboldened by the poets’ feedback and support. My educational materials morphed into honest information from a caring teacher. In the Library with the Candlestick After I returned from Spain, I continued to write and I kept on looking for opportunities to learn new techniques. I attended a conference for writers of every experience level and genre. There was a vast array of sessions available and, surprising many, I chose to spend time with fiction writers for almost the entire day. I had a few people ask if I was writing a new piece and few others who asked if I was in the wrong room. But I had chosen to spend time with fiction writers to see if–like hanging out with poets–a different part of my non-fiction would flourish. Spoiler alert: It worked again. A good portion of the way into my non-fiction book, I looked back and realized I had interviewed wonderful people who helped me solidify all the concepts discussed throughout the book. They shared their personalized best practices. I heard funny anecdotes. Some shared how lifelong struggles had shaped their lives. I collected all of this and yet it wasn’t until I was in a room of fiction writers that I realized I didn’t tell a single story in my book. I returned to the textbook I was writing and layered in stories–some fictional, some true, and some Continued on page 22
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Dish Washers and Wood Choppers—or How an Amish Baby Got His Name —Stephanie Sorensen
W
hile I was living in Wisconsin in the mid1980s I attended several Amish births while serving as a midwife. The Amish don’t use modern farm equipment, electricity, or indoor plumbing, and also don’t have telephones, much less computers, cell phones, iPods, or things like that. They decided several centuries ago that in order to live a holy life, you need to separate yourselves Image courtesy of Pixabay from the sinful world, and so they began by drawing the line when it came to certain worldly influences surrounding their little settlements. By the 19th century, they had decided which new-fangled ideas should not be allowed into their homes, and by the 20th century they added cars, TVs, all motors, fashions, radios, and birth control to the ever-growing list of forbidden fruits. So, when a baby announces his or her imminent arrival, the mother has to first locate Pa somewhere on the farm, get the children to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, find a teenage neighbor to agree to do the morning or evening milking that day, and have Pa go to the nearest friendly English (meaning nonAmish) neighbor in order to use the phone to call the midwife or doctor. Emma and Joel were expecting their seventh child. She had easy births with the others and remained in good health throughout this pregnancy. She had carried the baby to term; he was growing nicely, she took good care of herself, understood good nutrition, kept her house clean and tidy (one of the things I observe closely when I consider a family’s suitability for a home birth). They were excited that they had been blessed with yet another baby, though they didn’t know yet if it was another little “dish washer” or “wood chopper,” –terms they use when announcing a new baby girl or boy to their Amish family and friends.
I carried a primitive kind of pager back then and had the dads call me as early as possible. The Amish settlements stretched for over 50 miles in all directions. There were perhaps half a dozen of us midwives covering this area and would often assist each other at these births. Often I would start out at Elizabeth’s house and help her hitch up Alice, her mare, to the buggy, and we would check in with each of the expectant mamas in the neighborhood. I was always especially glad to see Rosa doing so well. She had had two previous full-term stillbirths when I first met her, but by referring her to a specialist in a nearby city, they had figured out that she was RH negative, and was now finally being treated appropriately and would go on to have 5 healthy children. When Joel finally called me one sunny day about noon, I quickly called my husband David who helped me pack up our five children (he couldn’t leave them home alone) so he could drive me to the Lehmann’s farm. When we got there Emma had everything all arranged: the farm and kids were all taken care of, she had done the dirty dishes, the bed was made with a plastic sheet under fresh linens, with another full set under that for after the birth, and she was walking around the house in her homemade nighty and handknit slippers, grinning from ear to ear. She was blowing little puffs of air along with the contractions while Joel was nervously trying to work on a jigsaw puzzle she had assigned to him (just to keep him busy and occupied, I suspect). She walked around for a while, sipping juice and taking short trips to the outhouse every hour or so. The bedroom had a freshly painted commode by the bed so she wouldn’t have to leave the bedroom after the birth for ten days. A nightstand was set up with everything she would need to care for the baby and herself right there: diapers, a diaper pail, baby clothes, her personal items, and an oil lamp. Things slowed down around four in the afternoon. I suggested she use the time to nap, but she was all business and suggested using “the combs.” I had never heard of this so she showed me the pressure points along the base of your thumbs which can be stimulated to help with contractions. She made two fists around two small hair combs and, sure enough, Story continues on page 7
Christopher Woods—www.moonbirdhillarts.etsy.com 4
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Samhain Tarot
Old Hands
Perhaps he was a bit different from other people, but what really sympathetic person is not a little mad? —Isadora Duncan
You have old hands, she said Looking at them dubiously That was ‘71 I was twenty-two Just out of the navy
Inside the cabinet that still sticks when it’s humid, you wait inside a deck of cards just as I thought we were through playing games. A monk shuffles through his meditations in silence. I cut the deck as fall turns into itself in its own way, unable to change its vision to satisfy me. I spread our lives all over the floor. Cross-legged, Corfu-sun mad, I am a grubby queen, loyal but not faithful, my braid something you would tear to keep as a tributary to you. A hermit queues up to lead the procession of dead. His heart is a winter hive that I have scraped free of sticky honey. It’s the time of year, when clothes are rummaged through and bagged for the poor. I can’t bear to lose the last scraps
She lived in a loft In south Minneapolis We went to the Guthrie sometimes (the old one) And once to a Gene McCarthy rally It was raining We got wet My hands still look old But they work just fine They conjure ghosts My hands still work all right I just can’t remember the last time I cried —Michael Felix
of your smell. I watch your breath rise in the morning. Nights before I fall asleep, I lose sight of your masked face. The dead hold their shoes and tiptoe past our beds while we sleep. Lately, I light all the lamps in the house to warn you off. You won’t hold still long enough for me to crawl inside your dusty coat and release your demons into the wild air. As I finish my supper, you place a piece of bread onto my tongue. I spread the cards to reveal a better future. Tonight, I will stuff your patched flannel shirt with leaves in their patterns of splattered blood. I’ll surround you with every hanged man in the deck and force your hand. Tomorrow, I will sit with you as we doze on the porch. The buttons I’ve sewn on
Image courtesy of Pixabay
for your eyes will glitter madly as if you know for certain what will become of us. —Laurie Byro
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He’s Very Nearly Perfect He’s very nearly perfect Those pearly whites, steady income. That charm and humor. I may have finally landed the prize in this one. Everything is great. Well, except for that rat-nasty dog of his. The drooling and that smell. Did I just feel a flea on me? But they say you have to compromise. When you’ve found a true prize you need to cherish it. Accept the teensy, tiny little flaws because, after all, you’re asking someone to accept your tiny little flaws too. So I’m crazy about this guy … Except for that rat-nasty dog And his blood-sucking brother. Perpetually in between jobs and in need of “a little cash.” You don’t marry the family, you marry the guy, right? It’s not fair to judge him by the sloth of his brother, or the smell of his dog. I can be bigger than that. He’s the guy I always pictured as my life’s partner. I better lock this one down before he gets away. It’s all good … Except for that rat-nasty dog. His blood-sucking brother. And that suspicious stash of empty whiskey bottles, Hidden in a cabinet in his garage. Maybe he collects old whiskey bottles … all of the same brand. Maybe they were left there by the previous owner. I’m not even going to look at the date stamp on them to figure out if they were all bought this year. I’m bigger than that. And this guy is nice to my girlfriends. One told me he’s maybe a little TOO nice. It’s just nice to be with someone who gets along with everybody. Yep. I’m all in. It’s all good.
—Artist, Batik Sabang
Except for that rat-nasty dog. And his blood-sucking brother. And that stash of empty whiskey bottles. And that look he gives my girlfriends just before he reaches in for a really long, warm, overly familiar hug. Am I overthinking this? He’s perfect right? His mother told me he is. And his mother should know because she knows everything. About everything. And reminds you endlessly how right she is. I wonder how hard it is to change your name and just slip out of town? In the dead of night. —Lynn Garthwaite
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Dish Washers… continued from page 4
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she got the contractions going again in no time. About an hour later she made a bee -line for the bedroom, had Joel light a kerosene lamp and hold it up for me, propped herself up on the bed, though I could not detect by her breathing that things had picked up that fast, and after a couple more rather sedate, lady-like puffs, started pushing. Before I could dribble some oil on my hands to support her perineum, out barreled an 8pound wood chopper and promptly howled his arrival. Leave it to efficient Emma! I should have been more prepared. They hadn’t really needed me at all. They knew exactly how to do this. Joel picked up and held his baby while I helped deliver the placenta which they would bury under the eaves of the house, an old Amish tradition. Then Joel spoke for the first time all day: he told me how with their first baby he had been so afraid of poking him with a pin while diapering him that when he finally finished and tried to pick up the baby, found him stuck to the bed–he had pinned the diaper to the sheets. Then Joel looked down at Emma and said in his slow drawl, “Well, Ma, what should we name him?” And she said, “Oh, Pa, I dunno. What do you wanna name him?” And he said, “Well, I dunno.” After seven kids surely they knew how to do this, I thought to myself. After a minute or so he added, “Maybe we should get the hat.” So he got his black Sunday hat from its peg in the kitchen by the woodstove and laid it on the bed. Then he cut up little pieces of paper, and they both wrote down their favorite boy names and folded them up and dropped them in the hat. I still didn’t know where this was going. Then he picked up the baby and gently put the baby’s hand into the hat. When he did that, the baby’s hand opened up as his arm was extended and then shut into a fist when it touched the bottom of the hat. He was supposed to pick his own name. His father pried the scrap of paper out of the tiny fist, opened it and announced, “His name is Elmer!” They both positively beamed at each other; then a long, loving look into each other’s eyes. So that was how they did it. He could never blame them for some
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name he didn’t like. He had chosen it himself. Grandma Elizabeth came early the next morning after Elmer arrived and made us all coffee and a wonderful breakfast of oatmeal topped with homemade granola and fresh cream. Midwife-turned-author, Stephanie Sorensen seems to swim seamlessly through cultures, religions, superstitions, raw fear and ecstasy to the first breath of a new baby. She knows and believes how birth works and invites her readers to join her, taking us on a tour to the innermost workings of another world. She lives among one of the most diverse populations on earth, and has given birth to a book that takes us on a bizarre journey, giving us a rare, intimate glimpse into her daily life. With graphic prose we enter with her into the Land of Birth. Midwife, mother, grandmother, doula, world traveler and author, Sorensen lives and breathes birth. She has five children scattered around the world, grandchildren, and over a thousand babies she calls her own, even when she cannot pronounce their names correctly. With stories so graphic you will feel your own contractions again, she guides us through her world of Amish bedrooms, hospital labor rooms, birthing suites, and operating theaters. Get your scrubs on. It's time to push!
Ma Doula, A Story Tour of Birth, North Star Press, St. Cloud, MN, won as a finalist in the Midwest Book Awards, 2015.
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The Onion Poem
The New Driveway
I suggest when you have a writer's block start peeling each overlapping line of your poem and create a paper ball that can be fitted inside a tube of thickened paper also called cardboard, i.e., hardened tubular papier-mâché like those
In my morphemic state of mind I was a giant. Twice taller than the rest of the party attending my recently built alleyway celebratory grand opening. During the whole process I felt physically uncomfortable suspecting it was the leftover scar tissue of the crazy glue that was used to suture my torso to my lower trunk
sophisticated in the French tongue would call it. It goes like this with the first line spelling, how do cars avoid driving straight to the beach? Were they to use a metaphor like the abysmal undulating void it would be so much more poetical. The next line asks, may a woman lift a car if her child does not wear a seat belt? The answer is of course she can because that woman is amazing. It goes on to say that the ugly state of American politics is easy to understand when you consider the fact that so few Americans are exposed to murals of people holding hands. That's because they would consider it oh so much too gay.
that ended being slightly off the spinal center. No sooner the realization sank into my firewater inebriated brain that everything fell into place. My father, who now has been dead for thirty years, was standing at the bottom of my new cobblestone driveway and was frowning about the poor quality of the labor. I heard him tell his old friend Victor Victorovitch standing next to him, who also died about as long ago, that he wanted a new contingent of fresh laborers to repair the botched job.
And is it ethical for prenatal testing to tell you if your baby will be too annoying to love. Of course there're a lot of tips to spice up your sex life but I'll mention only one: Do it standing or sitting A.S.A.P. because the onion
The funny part was I heard him insisting that it had to be done real cheap. Of course what crossed my mind was that you get what you pay for but I inherited that trait
may not open its heart tomorrow. Just think for a moment that flanked by your tears and while climate change decimates coffee crops I'll be crying deep between the onion skins.
of his and to this day even in my poetry I try to get away from being too profound and like our fake president I blame it all on our imported alien slave laborers
—Alex Nodopaka was born in the Ukraine. He studied at the Ecole des Beaux Arts, Casablanca, Morocco. Now in the USA, he’s a full time artist, art instructor, judge, critic, reviewer, and author.
also called illegal immigrants. Of course our natives wouldn't work for such vassal wages since they own casinos nor would they stoop to spread sand in the interstices of the neatly laid out cobblestones. Their time now is more valuable than doing the rain dance for the tourists.
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Cheating
Magic Moment
Hand on the cold blue steel too late the thought came to stop already the burning mixed with the soul he rested at last on the old Persian.
She was decoupling from a fling gone stale suffering doubts intermingled with pain I was a transplant trying to inhale this strange city’s cacophonous refrain Our paths crossed in confabs rife with androids brightened by only her curlicued smile which shot an invisible dart cross the void and reeled me in to her world so beguiled We parried and pranced in faux courtship dance ‘til bonds that shackled her finally broke which freed us to spin a web of romance that had no need for love sighs to be spoke But bliss is a fragile lair I soon learned she fled my embrace for flames she once spurned
Particles of dust, cheating the many cells she numbed an unreal aching now she dreams as she takes flight leaving those young bones behind. Dueling with an embattled self he took the aim of a butcher friend cutting and slicing through and through cold as ice the thin sheet erased a story. Inhaling all a living world dared to share they lay in lone embrace under the shroud as in a vacuum, their chests contracted in a final song, unison of their eternal melody. —Fabrice Poussin
—Rick Blum
Dark, cold, lonely days; Hunker down, make some use of Time, and see it through. —Michael Rossberg
Eternity in a Vise I remember you from another time I was so much like you then waiting the grand opportunity to come along, to walk beside you. I can still imagine the place though undefined it was in the spheres a bed of clouds and sweet nectar it was just a matter of when. A speck in the universe was you no larger was I then hovering electron of light I saw you in your little black dress. Insignificant in a world of giants we moved along with the waves of creation parallel until finally we met in a never-ending explosion of senses. And now we hold eternity in a vise on the infinite path traced for us I will not forget the first time I saw you and dreamed of you in that little black dress. —Fabrice Poussin
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Michael Rossberg
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this morning as we walk along the iowa river
you-gorgeous strange-life
she wants a promise of forever.
full of words like:
i want to tell her: if your ex-husband put down the bottle i think you would go back to him; the way we sometimes spend all day arguing about a speck of dust in a pot of gold exhausts me; the way you treat waiters-waitresses—& your own children terrifies me; all these things ossify my mind into an ineffable equation yielding uncertainty.
cozen coxswain & dragoon: thumb-nail moon dappled moon three-sixty moon savage as owl: indonesian women southern women midwestern women:
i want to put all that in the palm of my hand gently blow it into her ear.
hearts like teepees
but i’ve learned my words are often scalpels.
thighs like seals in a polar bear’s
so i bend down pick up a flat purple rock off the sandbar:
jaw. —Justin Hyde
one-two-three-four
Cleopatra Eyes
it skips over clear
—Ilan Milch
water. —Justin Hyde
Hate I just hate those who hate. I don’t remember having hated. I’ve disliked and been disgusted and growled warning and been armed to the teeth and been awarded medals for meritorious action against hostile forces. Yet I smiled when the enemy posed victorious atop a tank in the street of Saigon on the cover of Time magazine. —John T. Olsen
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Dark, mysterious, deceptive and sad— revealing only minute, metered glimpses of the ancient soul on the other side of heavily draped windows. —Nadia Giordana
Company A torrent slaps the smack-wet rock-moss floor Your grimy hand which rolls and slurps and grasps How dank and primitive; our stranger love Some groggy afterthought, too drenched to quench This out-of-body into-body mind Remorse is null since thirsting rots sovereignty Spelunking through a darker, deeper cave For you I do not yearn, to yearn takes time But time has dripped and sputtered rock eroded; Stalagmite: antiquated marks from lust —John Wellers
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Publishing the Poems
Night Worker
Arthur was a poet. When he was a child, he had discovered a wonderful little spot by the river. It consisted of an odd outcrop of rock and a hollow in an eternal tangle of brambles, with some crooked trees leaning above. He used it regularly for sulking and running away from home. Later, he brought friends there and they smoked cigarettes. It was a mistake, but life’s lazy drift took care of things and he had the place to himself again by the time his friends dashed off to colleges, jobs, and wives. Now, almost thirty, he used it for his poetry, scratching disconnected images in his notebook, tearing out the pages, and dropping them into the water. From time to time a clutch of sodden verses would surface among the batty old fishermen down by River Bend, and they tacked some of them up in the hut where they gutted their fish. Nobody else ever saw them. Arthur dedicated each one to the girls in the town.
Her job, to mop out cubicles. Fifty-four pans to bleach, ten sinks to scrub. She hates it all— the hairs, the slime, the stink catching her throat. Tonight it’s Saturday and worse than usual. She stops, straightens her back and stares through a skylight at the stars. They remind her of a lad she was once in love with who tried to teach her the constellations when all she wanted was sex then fish and chips at Bob’s—those hot parcels soggy with beautiful vinegar and grease. —Jennifer Copley First published in “Some Couples” by Jennifer Copley
—Jack Granath
Haiku and image by Michael Rossberg Michael Rossberg is a poet, photographer, and community television producer in the Minneapolis/St. Paul metro area. He is a staunch supporter of women and women’s issues. His TV programs are as follows: It’s a Woman’s World (whose mission is to dis—Michael Rossberg cuss any and all topics under the sun from a woman’s point of view), Women of the World (to give a voice to women from around the world who have made the United States their home), and Generations (the show which helps people 50 and better live happy, healthy and productive lives). He is also a founding sponsor of WINK magazine.
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Deb Weiers is a mixed-media artist from Alberta, Canada. She says nature is her biggest inspiration. She is enthralled with the human face and all the emotions it can portray. She also loves to see what happens when she experiments with distorting faces. She uses a lot of inks and collage in her art. Her motto is, “Anything goes.” She tries to push herself daily in order to grow and improve her creative works. This piece is titled Gremlins in the Playground.
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WinkWriters.com eating your broccoli with the above points. The truth is, writing is not a chore, or at least it won’t be once you get started. It’s before you get started, while you’re trying to motivate yourself to sit down and stir up your creative juices, that it may feel like work, or like another thing you “have to” do. But trust me—once you unleash your own creative juices, it won’t feel like taking out the garbage or doing the dishes. It’s only the sitting down, opening your manuscript, and writing the first sentence that feels like that.
How to Get Your Writing Brain in Action —Denise Jaden How do you get your writing brain in action? For me, it's not as much about rituals as it is about making the decision to write. If my inner mantra is saying, "You should write, Denise," that usually backfires. I end up checking my email or perusing my Twitter feed or deciding that laundry is a real priority at this exact second. However, if I simply say to myself, "Yes, I'm going to sit down and write one page, or one paragraph, or even one sentence," I'm more likely to accomplish my small goal, and then some. 1. Set a small goal for yourself. Rather than having this elusive unquantifiable “I should write” hanging over your head, decide on a small amount of writing you can easily accomplish. 2. Set a time limit. This is not as much to put a fire under your butt and fill you with pressure, but instead it’s more of a promise to your creative brain: “Do a little work, and after ten minutes, or half an hour, you can have a break and do anything you want.” In this day and age, we often get caught up in the many tasks of life, and forget about rewarding ourselves for performing those tasks. When it comes to using your creativity, it’s important to reward yourself in order to foster further creativity. 3. Get rid of distractions. Remember, it’s only half an hour (or ten minutes!). Shut off your Internet and your phone. Place a sign on your door, asking people to return in half an hour. Again, if you follow my above advice and set a time limit for yourself, you can do all the Internet surfing and visiting you like after your time is up.
5. Make it a habit, last thing at night, to tidy up your desk or workspace. A messy cluttered desk may leave you feeling scattered, and like you can’t organize your thoughts properly. You will be more likely to wake in the morning and feel a sense of empowerment over your writing if the first thing you see is your clean and organized desk. 6. Load up on healthy snacks. Do you like to snack while you’re writing? I know I do, but there’s nothing worse than feeling yourself falling asleep by your second paragraph because of the cookie you ate during paragraph one. (Plus, I don’t know if you’ve heard of the condition called “Writer’s Butt,” but I try to avoid it at all costs!) When I sit down to write, I usually grab some carrot sticks or cucumber slices from the fridge to keep beside me. When I’m stuck for a certain sentence or word or action, it’s amazing how much a couple of crunches on a carrot helps reignite my brain. 7. Go for a walk. Movement stirs up physical energy, which, in turn, stirs up creative energy. When you feel stuck, or like you just can’t get started, get up and walk around. It doesn’t have to be far. Often when I’m feeling at a creative standstill, I get up and simply pace the circle between my kitchen, entry, and living room. Usually two circles is all I need, and I’m sitting down again with renewed focus and creative energy. I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard writers start a sentence like, “I should be writing this, but…” Don’t let yourself fall into the “should” trap. Instead, use the tips above and feel the sense of satisfaction from the writing you actually accomplished. Denise Jaden is the author of the new book for writers, Story Sparks: Finding Your Best Story Ideas and Turning Them into Compelling Fiction, as well as the NaNoWriMo-popular guide, Fast Fiction, and several popular fiction titles. She is a soughtafter speaker, motivating writers to find their own best story ideas, and then stirring up the drive to write them. She lives just outside Vancouver, BC with her husband and son.
4. Writing is not a punishment. I know it may seem like I’m comparing writing to something akin to
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Before Kindles, a collage by Lauralyn Sciretta
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Seventy Years to the Day —Emily Glossner Johnson
N
athan loves the gull as one might love a bald eagle, for to Nathan, it has that kind of majesty and presence and command. The gull lives on the Erie Canal in Fairport, New York, and every day, Nathan visits it. He brings a loaf of bread so that he can feed the gull fluffy white pieces. Tricia is teaching a summer course and comes into Nathan’s office to pick up her mail. “It’s not the same gull, you know,” she says. “They all look the same—” “But they don’t,” Nathan says. “They’re as distinct as you and me. I’d know my gull anywhere.” “Suit yourself,” she says, “but I’m telling you, you’re feeding a different gull every time. It’s not the same one.” Nathan lives in a blue Cape Cod with a crab grass and clover filled lawn that backs up to the canal, to the weedy edge of it where sloppy green slime washes against jagged rocks. Nathan has worn a dirt path from the house to the paved path along the canal. He’s pushed aside maple saplings and trampled down the Queen Anne’s lace, burdock, and goldenrod that lines the hazy path so that he can get to the gull with ease. Ducks and geese take flight or float or bobble away on clumsy feet when he emerges, and all the gulls rise into the air, circling, watching. His gull comes down, sits on the same rock, and cocks its head when it looks at him. “Here you are,” he says, throwing a few scraps of bread to it. Love overwhelms him as he watches the bird devour the pieces. “There, there, now,” he says, and he tries to get as close to it as possible, stepping carefully on the flat parts of the tumbled rocks. It flies away; he goes back to the paved path, but then it always returns for more bread, and he indulges it. He loves the gull. Not in the way he’d love a woman. No. This love is more profound and inherent, older, ancient even—a love that is hard as earth, an
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imprint on his soul. It’s undisturbed by things of the world, the movements of a society in a constant hurry. It’s his solace and his calling. **** “My gull was lively this morning,” he tells Tricia when she comes into his office to make copies. “You and that silly gull,” she says. She ruffles his hair as one would a little boy’s. She’s wearing crimson lipstick and tall high-heeled boots. She’s going out with her girlfriends later, she says, for martinis and cosmopolitans. “Girls’ night out, you know.” And she smiles, which melts him. Nathan is a handsome guy with wavy brown hair and rather striking green eyes, or so he’s been told. Tricia is beautiful—her pouting lips, wide blue eyes, curvaceous hips and breasts. And she’s a chemistry professor—one of the best and most widely published on the faculty—a gorgeous and brilliant woman. Nathan Image courtesy of Pixabay is the secretary of the Chemistry Department. He had wanted to be an English professor, but he’d never even finished his master’s degree. Bouts of depression and anxiety made it too difficult to go on. He likes the job he’s settled into. It’s routine, predictable, and when it isn’t, he’s able to think fast on his feet. The same couldn’t be said for his study of literature and critical theory. And he likes the job because of Tricia: her jaunts into his office, chatting with her, hearing about her life, and of course telling her about the gull. He’s been in love with Tricia since she joined the faculty a year ago. He’s hoping that someday she’ll understand about the gull. If only she would come to his house so he could show it to her. But he hasn’t gotten up the courage to ask her. **** It’s August 6, 2015—seventy years to the day that time stopped and then started again on a whole new clock, for that was the day the United States dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. On August 9, the United States dropped another bomb on Nagasaki, and while it was equally tragic, time had already changed over to that new clock—the one that ticks louder than before, and yet with an indifference no one had ever imagined could be.
Art, humor, poetry, and the pleasures of a writer ’s life
WinkWriters.com Seventy years to the day is a Saturday, and Nathan happens upon Tricia at the grocery store. “I’m in love,” she says, smiling broadly. “With whom?” “No one at the college. He’s a doctor, a podiatrist.” Nathan remembers. “Your bunion.” “Yes. That’s when I met him.” “But he said the bunion wasn’t that bad, that surgery wasn’t necessary,” Nathan says, as if it has some relevance, some bearing on her feelings. “We fell in love,” she says. “I swear we fell in love the moment he held my foot.” A clock inside of him stops ticking, and a new one takes over, softer than the first, and letting out a cry to mark the hour, the kind of cry a gull makes. **** The humidity is oppressive. After he gets home from the store, Nathan sits on one of the bigger rocks next to the canal, takes off his shoes and socks, and looks at his feet. I swear we fell in love the moment he held my foot. Nathan considers his feet. They’re not attractive as Tricia’s must be, but they’re not all that bad. The gull lands on the rock. “It’s over,” he tells it. “She loves someone else. She’s gone to me now.” The gull cocks its head. “I have no bread this evening,” he says. The truth is that he felt too sad to continue shopping. He left the grocery store with nothing. But now that he sees the gull waiting, he feels terrible. “I’m so sorry. I should have bread for you. I’ve been remiss.” The gull flies up and comes down again moments later. “What should I do?” he says to it. “Should I tell her how I feel?” The gull stares, then picks at the feathers of its left wing. Another gull joins it on the rock. And then another. **** He stands up and hands Tricia the bouquet of red roses when she enters his office that Wednesday, the seventieth anniversary of the bomb dropped on Nagasaki. “Oh, Nathan,” she says, “How sweet.” “It’s just… it’s… to congratulate you. On your new love.” “That’s so very kind of you.” She leaves his office. He gets up the nerve—he has to do this—and he follows her. “Tricia, wait!” She turns to him. “It isn’t that at all,” he says breathlessly. “It’s that… I love you. I’ve always loved you—from the
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first time I ever saw you.” “Oh, Nathan—” “You don’t have to decide now,” he says. “You can take your time.” “But there will be no deciding. I’m in love with Seth.” She pauses. “I’m so sorry.” “Never mind, then. The roses… they’re stupid.” “No, they’re sweet. You’re so sweet, and one day, the right woman will come along.” **** When he goes out to the canal that evening, there are seven gulls on the rock, their heads cocked, waiting. Which is his gull? He thought he’d know it anywhere, but now he isn’t sure. “Get!” he shouts at the gulls who don’t belong. “Away with you!” They don’t move. “I won’t give bread to all of you. Only to the one. The special one. My gull.” They remain on the rock. He drops the package of bread on the ground and sits cross-legged in the middle of the paved path. He doesn’t see the man on the mountain bike racing towards him. He attempts to scurry back like a crab from its trajectory, but the bicycle barrels into him. There’s a sensation of flying, and then a cracking sound that pierces his skull, and then water covered with green slime. He sinks down beneath it, the pile of rocks sloping to the bottom of the canal. He tries to get up and out, tries to move his limbs, but he can’t. Arms reach towards him through the murk, but he slips down further into the blackness. He thinks he hears a gull cry, but it must just be his new clock marking time, marking the hour for the last time before the mud sucks him down. Emily Glossner Johnson has had work published in a number of literary journals, and her short story "Santa Lucia" was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She has an M.A. in English from SUNY College at Brockport and lives in central New York.
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A Sonnet to the Siren Varya
Birds
Long pony tail to one side of head, talking in sleep, witchy by Lenore S. Beadsman
made of bronze do not fly but they sing when stricken
Plunged perhaps to the height of the modernistic falling upon just The plurality which can consent to the swirl of being amid the rules Has partaken to elope within the mere sauciest frankly we will supply Not the havens have sauntered about the childish caverns have a must To fake over the surly side of the middle of the hedonistic arranged duels Has one been the latest of her pesty messes have been to cover a reply Most made for her hairful and sane aptly put to have sounded the greedy But plainly took to have those have to disdain the mighty sites are most To realize the lack of each poured into the strains have made a meaty side To the mighty convened sake of the reaped with such is the benefit seedy Her sleek enveloped but pardoned flack is to be prudent over the coast Has erupted to unveil just more of her sideways locks was an itchy ride
on their armored plumage with a conductor's baton of imagination. Tame from birth no matter where you anchor the fowl it remains still in a cast moment. The wind doesn't ruffle a feather. You never worry about blinks. —Alex Nodopaka
Her Goal Post—Denny Marshall
On a Block Island Beach The beach won't give up its light easily. The sea-grass tinges gold. Waves foam bright white. The couple in the car are already in darkness. He bullies. She shrieks. How can they be here and yet not be here? I stroll the shore for as long as there are shiny details to it. Even when it's totally black, I'll see bright what I hear. That couple's fight is long ago loosed from me. I keep their peace until they ask for it. —John Grey
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Hit and Run Humor Thesaurus Wikipedia declined my definition of Thesaurus—I can’t understand why: “The Thesaurus was a large theropod, about 26 ft. in length, weighing between 1.6–2.9 tons. It lived during the late Cretaceous (99-65 million years ago), and its fossilized remains have been found from Patagonia in Argentina to Joanna Smith’s house at 237 Lincoln Drive in Augusta, Kansas. A meat eater in the family Dictionarae, it subsisted mostly on Synonyms, although during extended periods of drought it was known to have eaten Acronyms, and perhaps even Antonyms. This last is conjectural.” —Rich Calo
The Poet Writes
A Poet’s Strife
The poet writes: The most beautiful voyages are made by the window. The realist adds: But they don't last very long before you hit the ground. —Rich Calo
Two married men sit in a local bar Tossing down a whiskey and water. One, a poet, asks, “Water, how can it rhyme, Unless it’s about your daughter?”
One-Eyed Key—Denny Marshall
When the idea softly smolders Because a word is hard to rhyme, When memory fails and ideas drown– Make good use of your noodling time. When words take a deceptive detour And no matter how hard you try, Neither snapping, tapping, nor silent prayer Make the right word appear and apply. Maybe its time to ask out loud, Should this poet holster his impotent pen? Or should he try some prose or insipid jingles– Or choose to never write a single word again. Where do wordless poets go to cry When their words sometimes fail them? Where do wordless poets go to die? The dead letter office would never mail them. Two long-time friends sit in a local bar Tossing down drinks as smooth as silk. One, a poet asks, “Silk, what rhymes? Then mindlessly they order a chaser with milk. —Connie Anderson
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MULCHING SERIES An Observation on Our Need to Control Our Lawns to mulch 1 mulching to assume all is well below and no weeds persist to mulch 2 to tuck in and tidy your dress so that corset to bodice create a seamless preservation to mulch 3 obsessive pitch-forking we thirst for this fork like we’ve sown something long before to mulch 4 first day we glitter our eyes to the settled dust as perfectly placed perennial buttons pop to mulch 5 so that you control thin strips of turf to accompany guests their footsteps to your door de-cluttered
to mulch 6 plants will rise from this wood bed no matter how high mulch is stacked
It’s Gonna Be Alright Well, it seems like one of those days Where nuthin’ is goin’ your way And life is just not working out You say you cannot find your way But have you tried? Just look inside to see You've got everything you need
to mulch 7 a sure sign we control the earth and color it an improved hue of red
It’s gonna be alright So let your love shine bright Have faith through the stormy night Here comes the sunlight
to mulch 8 a disorderly bunch these chips that escape the line annoyed at their free-roaming transgressions
Now it seems like one of those days Where everything is going your way And everything is working out You looked inside to see You’ve got what you need
to mulch 9 mulching because without it is dirt and dirt is barbaric nurturing the miscreant and anything could happen
So be the change you wish to see You can do it Try it and see It’s gonna be alright
to mulch 10 explain this Woodland Garden to me again we don’t remove sticks we don’t remove leaves …and we don’t mulch
—Teresa M. Riggs Foushee The above poem is based on the lyrics for a song titled “It’s Gonna Be Alright.” We encourage you to visit the website and enjoy the song. Then return to the written version here and enjoy the words all over again with Teresa’s lovely voice echoing in your head. Here is the URL which includes the free download of Teresa’s beautiful song: http://posivibes.com/
—Cole W. Williams
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Ephemera
It had stopped snowing. However, the skies remained dark and threatening with the occasional streak of light flash breaking it open. The streets were slushy, muddy. The lights reflected oddly, creating bizarre shapes in the puddles on the roadside. I wandered the avenues and lanes, fog curling at the edges of my boots. People swarmed, eager to get home. Every few metres a random door would open ejecting late-night revellers to the outside, and I'd catch a glimpse of dimly lit interiors, a cacophony of voices and the blaring beats of rock. I continued trudging, a left here, a right there, another right and so on. The human ephemera that littered the sidewalks thinned out and gradually cleared. Alone, aimless, and with time on my hands, I found more by-lanes. Here, the litter consisted of garbage and excrement, both animal and human. The street lamps were far in between. The air felt heavier, the
sounds duller as though I'd clamped on a pair of headphones until it was ruthlessly broken by an earsplitting scream. It was followed by more shrieks and screams, each more heart-wrenching than the last. I followed the voice to a narrow alleyway and stood watching in the shadows as the animals tore her apart, mind, body, soul. They couldn't see me. After an eternity, they left her piteously whimpering like a dog that had been run over. I moved closer, out of the shadows, a metallic taste hung in the air. I could smell approaching death. I sat down by the side of the naked, mangled figure. It did not take long for her to join me. Now we would roam the streets together; we had all the time in the world. —Maria Zach
Image courtesy of Pixabay
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BOOK REVIEW: VOICES FROM THE STREET by Philip K. Dick Reviewed by Tom Larsen Posthumous recognition, the final indignity—see Schubert, who never heard his symphonies performed, or van Gogh flaming out to his tortured vision, or Philip K. Dick, churning up worlds too weird to wrestle with. Fact is, the subjective is subject to change. What couldn’t work yesterday wows them today. Turns out the world was wrong all along and what can we say but… “Sorry.” And maybe. “ …Who was that last guy again?” Long before his novel, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?—which was later adapted by Fancher and Peoples to the screenplay for Blade Runner, changed the face of big screen science fiction, Philip K. Dick was burning up the keyboard. Dick’s alien landscape of paranoia and surrealism, his frenetic unraveling of social structure and his screwball slant on the future touched nerves that no one ever touched before. What we don’t know will kill us, what we count on never counted at all. So, OK, sci-fi, who reads it, right? Mere grist for the loosely grounded; dismissed out of hand but for Asimov and Ellison. Or so it seemed. Dick is currently enjoying a pop revival, not personally of course (he died in 1982), but commercially. Among Dick’s novels now in re-release is Voices From the Street, written in 1952 and, as befitting the visionary, promptly deemed unpublishable. Voices is one of a half-dozen proletarian-realist novels penned before Dick’s submersion in the sci-fi genre. One thing is certain, I’ve never read anything like it. Stuart Hadley is a 25-year-old television salesman in Oakland, California. As postwar exuberance fades and real life settles in, Hadley suffers the pangs of alienation that will mark his generation. Newly mar22
ried with a baby son, Hadley feels trapped on a low rung of the American dream. He cycles between wanting to make it and wanting out, and his search for life’s substance threatens to undo him. Desperate to connect, he hooks up with one Marsha Frazer, mistress to the charismatic cult leader, Theodore Beckheim. Hadley wants to believe, but Beckheim’s message fails to save him, and his world dissolves into violence and madness. Life out of balance is an early take on a dominant theme. From Bellow to Malamud, James Jones to Kerouac the struggle to signify haunts us still. Dick’s own mercurial imbalance gives his words the ring of insight. He saw what was coming and what it would do to him. Voices From The Street is Dick at his bare-bones best, no parallel universe, no space invaders, just real life scaring the crap out of you. Dick’s voice speaks to the crippled spirit. His work endures even if he didn’t. Tom Larsen lives in the Pennsport section of South Philadelphia, home to Mummers, Flyers, and “that screw you slant that made this city great.”
A Teacher, a Poet, and a… continued from page 3 an artful combination–that illustrated some of the more challenging points in the text. The readers now had the opportunity to see the concepts I had explained play out in real life. I realized that learning from fiction writers had taught me that the same rule that applies to teaching applies to writing: People are more likely to remember someone’s story than an idea. The Journey Continues There are so many writing styles, genres, and even delivery methods. Who knows what I could learn from a ghost writer, a romance novelist, or a sports reporter? When I shared this story with a friend of mine, I told her some of the things I’ve learned as a nonfiction writer. There’s power in brevity. Commit to accuracy because people may believe you, even if you’re wrong (and you don’t want fake news on your conscience). And truth can be stranger than fiction– or at least as interesting, if it’s written well. Dr. Amy Jauman is an international speaker, author, and Chief Learning Officer for the National Institute for Social Media. She is the author of NISM’s core textbook, the Comprehensive Field Guide for Social Media Strategists and is publishing her second book, Certification Success through Kendall Hunt Publishing in March of 2018.
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The Deer Hunter —Pat O’Regan Mother Nature does not care whether we live or die. She is unforgiving, but I am not afraid. It was the last day of the annual deer hunting trip with the guys from town in the big woods of the north. The day before, bored and cold from sitting still for hours, I had wandered into the woods, soon becoming lost, going this way and that, without a care, all day long, finally coming out to the lake on which the cabin was located with just an hour of daylight to spare. Now I realize how lucky I was. It was very cold. Being Image courtesy of Pixabay caught in the woods when darkness sets in is deadly. Making headway in the darkness is not possible. Stop moving and one starts to freeze—hypothermia sets in. Tramping back and forth between two trees is all one can do. But you get to the point of complete exhaustion; you can’t take another step. Finally, tired out, you sit down; then in a short time you die. But I am not afraid. So, this day I got lost again—I must have a Guardian Angel—wandering back to near the lake and the road when the sun was low in the sky, but the woods were still bright. Just when I got my bearings, I heard a shout, “Hey, there, where are the deer!” It was my father, smiling at me from where he sat leaning against a tree. I came on, stopping at some distance. “See anything?” he asked, still smiling, and getting unsteadily to his feet. “I saw a buck,” I said. “Ten points at least.”
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“Really? Where?” “That way,” I said, pointing off, deeper into the woods. “Toward the swamp. I didn’t get a shot at him. He might still be in the area. We have time before dark if you want to try. I’ll give you the shot.” “Okay,” he said. “Not too far, though. I’m freezing and starved.” “Walking a little will warm you up,” I said, “before we head out for the day. It’s our last chance to get a deer. And what a buck it was.” What you need is a drink, I thought. With me leading the way, we started deeper into the woods. The guys in the cabin were concerned about me yesterday, I thought. Our leader, Emmitt, told me firmly to be careful about getting lost in the dead of winter. “Slow down,” my father said. “I’m not a kid, anymore. This may be my last year of hunting. I get tired so quickly.” When you heard I had been lost all day, I thought, all you did was laugh. Of course, then you had a beer. “Nope,” he said, tiring already, “the whole thing is getting too hard for my old bones. I don’t like it, anymore, like when I was younger.” I know what you like, I thought. When Suzanne—your daughter!—got married. I watched you at the wedding reception nursing a bottle of booze, smiling, like a baby at the breast. We passed into a stand of pine trees. I changed direction, then, after a short distance, stopping to study the way, turned again and moved on. “How far we going’?” he asked, breathing hard. “Just a little farther. I saw that buck at the edge of the swamp. We might catch sight of him there.” “Okay, but not much further… As long as you… know the way.” “I know the way.” “Good.” The brush got thick, but I pushed on through. He followed behind, staying close. I changed direction again and hurried along. “Hey,” he said, “I’m bushed. Let’s go back…” He
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WinkWriters.com was wheezing. “It’s only a little farther…” “Well, okay…” You didn’t care, I thought, when my finger was hit by a power mower, or when I froze my toes ice skating, or when I was bullied… You never cared… Driving drunk with kids in the car… Hitting us… “Hey, wait up,” he said, sounding angry. “Stop here… First thing, I have to take a dump… Then let’s get outa here. I’m beat and getting fed up with being in the woods.” He went off a short distance behind a tree. I moved away the other direction. Now he has alcoholic ulcers, I thought. His liver must be almost gone. He has only a few years left to live, a few years of misery to Mom, to his kids, to others in his shrinking social circle. Then to die the death of a drunkard. No hope. Suzanne, ever the psychologist, tried an intervention. He threw her and the counselor she brought along out of the house. For him, there is no second place to booze—not Mom, not me, not his religion—though he puts on a show there—nothing! I moved farther on, just within sight of the tree he squatted behind. What good is another four or five years, at most, of misery? Getting past the hard hump of dying—that’s the issue. “Hey, where are you…? Oh… Wait there for me…” He came stumbling toward me. I moved away. “Hey! What are you doing! Wait for me!” I kept the same distance between us. You, you, you, I thought, what about me? “Stop there!” he shouted. “God dammit, stop!” He came on, crashing through the brush. I hurried to keep him away. When I looked back, I saw that he was trying to run, stumbling along miserably, like a baby learning to walk. He fell and struggled back to his feet, coming on, flailing at the brush, which seemed to be fighting back at him. I came to a snow-covered glade. Hurrying on, twice I broke through the crusted snow up to my thighs. I got across just as he came out on the glade. He was breaking through the snow at every step, swearing fiercely, making painfully slow progress. I could hear his great rasping breaths. I moved into the woods, just out of his sight. When I looked back, I saw that he had dropped his shotgun, but kept going without it, with an unmistakable air of desperation. Thereafter, I kept out of his sight. “Why are you doing this!” I heard him yell, thighdeep in snow. “You don’t want to do this! … I don’t know the way! … Just show me the way!” The Lord will show you the way, I thought.
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I circled around toward the sound of his voice. He was moving, busting out of the snow, but clearly spent. He fell and stumbled back to his feet, only to fall again after a short distance, as if his legs couldn’t support his bulk. Several more times, he got up and came on, only to fall again. His voice was inaudible, until he took several raspy breaths and shouted loudly, “I did the best I could! Please don’t leave me here! Please, please…” Then he collapsed and stayed sitting where he was, blubbering and hanging his head. I moved closer, careful not to be seen. Go to sleep, I thought. It’ll be only an hour or two of pain to blot out several more years of misery—to yourself and others. No more desperate chasing after a drink… No more burden on us…to die after a handful of years as a drunkard. Sleep now, and die as a deer hunter… He was looking up to Heaven… He would throw his faith in the gutter and spit on it for a beer, I thought. Now your religion matters to you. Now you’ve found the Lord. Go with God… Sleep… Slip the miserable bonds of your life… Sleep, sleep… I couldn’t stay with him any longer. Down in the woods, darkness was descending. I had to hurry to get to the road before it became too dark to see. I jogged off. When I got to the road, I could see the stars in the moonless night sky. I reassured the other guys in the cabin that my father had doubtless walked to the road, found a new drinking buddy there and went with him into town for a drink and a meal. The guy might even put him up for the night, all warm and well fed. He’d show up, happy and content, in the morning, just in time for the ride home. They accepted my assurances, and everyone enjoyed the supper and slept well that night. Pat O'Regan is a retired college instructor and business writer. He grew up in a small town, got a Masters in Zoology and was, once upon a time, married.
Art, humor, poetry, and the pleasures of a writer ’s life
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