Literary Brushstrokes
Photo by Eleanor Leonne Bennett
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Fall Issue October 2012 Vol 1, No 2
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From the Editor When we conceived this magazine and began brainstorming ideas for its name, we thought about all the things that make good writing great. We kept coming back to the idea that good writing paints a picture in the mind of a reader. Thus Literary Brushstrokes was born. Welcome to the Fall 2012 issue of Literary Brushstrokes. We’ve been actively seeking literary works that follow the original concept for this magazine. We also accept photography for the cover that shows a doorway or pathway - somewhere you might want to explore. We are considering expanding to photography accepted that we can showcase on interior pages as well. Though this issue is small, it is mighty – filled with the work of talented writers from the United States and as far away as England. So we would like to give a big thank you to those who contributed their editing skills and the many talented writers and artists who fill these pages. Enjoy!
Mary Mary Chrapliwy, Managing Editor www.LiteraryBrushstrokes.com
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Creative Nonfiction Wedding Planning by Lisa Braxton – page 6
Fiction Two of Us by Michael Canavan – page 8 Her Time Alone by Tracy Shawn – page 9
Poetry October Rainbow Remembered by Mike Ambrose – page 10 Withdrawal by Gary Beck – page 11 Beautiful In Spite by Lark Beltran – page 12 A Parallel Universe by Leonardo Miguel Castillo – page 13 The Night Blooming Cereus by Elizabeth Lovett Colledge – page 14 Reflections in My Tea at Midday by Robert Goodman – page 15 Here and There by Evelyn O’Brien – page 16
Cover Artist & Author Bios Begin on page 17
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Wedding Planning by Lisa Braxton Creative Nonfiction I had been dating my boyfriend for about 10 months when we began discussing plans for our future: where we would live, how we would set up our bank accounts, whether we’d rent a house for a while or purchase one, the type of wedding ceremony we’d have considering that we were a “mature” couple. Toward the end of one of those conversations it occurred to me that there was another important matter we needed to address. “You should come home with me to meet my parents,” I said. It was mid October. My parents lived one state away. It was an easy two-and-a- half-hour drive to their home. I visited them for all the major holidays and sometimes in between. The next time I planned to see them was Thanksgiving. “Sure,” my boyfriend said, “I was thinking the same thing.” As I mentally marked off the days on the calendar I looked forward to Thanksgiving with a nervous giddiness I hadn’t felt before. My parents would get to meet the bookish man I had met in my Adult Sunday School class, who I had fallen in love with over long talks about scripture, the novels we had read, the experiences we had had as journalists, and the respective writing projects we were pursuing. My boyfriend would become acquainted with my parents, who had celebrated 50-plus anniversaries and were a testament to what it took to make a marriage work. Through getting to know them he would develop a deeper understanding of me. He would also get to meet some of my extended family, which would offer him a glimpse of the type of gatherings he’d be a part of once we married. I imagined that on Thanksgiving Day I would be in the kitchen helping my mother prepare the stuffing and candied yams while my father and my boyfriend would watch football on the largescreen television in the basement. At some point after the meal, my mother would pull out my baby album and be sure to show my boyfriend the 1960s Polaroid snapshot of me wearing nothing but a smile on a miniature bear skin rug. She’d regale him with stories about what a champ I was at filling up my diaper to indicate weekend hours with books that provided her with
how pampered and well fed I was, and my penchant for sending my glass baby bottles crashing to the kitchen floor from my high chair once I’d finished with them. But the week of Thanksgiving, my father came down with a cold. My mother insisted that he stay in bed and only get up when Thanksgiving dinner was served–so much for my father and my boyfriend bonding over football. My boyfriend had to cheer on his favorite teams by himself. A cousin and aunt joined us for the meal. Afterward, we women gathered in the kitchen for pumpkin streusel, coffee, and an intense discussion about the decisions that needed to be made about one of my aunts being considered for hospice care. By the time the conversation ended, the football games were over. I went looking for my boyfriend. I feared he was bored, wishing he had stayed home. I thought he might feel that I wasn’t being a good hostess. He wasn’t in the basement. The lights and television were off. I jogged up the stairs to the second floor and found him there in my old room. He was stretched out on my bed, his brow in a knot as he read the pages of a book. He’d taken his glasses off and held the tip of one arm between pursed lips. “Are you okay?” I asked softly. He peered up at me over the top of the book. I moved in closer to see what it was, a softcover volume, The Book of Psalms. My boyfriend’s eyes were wide like those of a child who’d just discovered where all the Christmas presents were hidden. “Can I borrow this?” he said, urgency in his voice. I looked around him. The bed was littered with books. My books. He’d discovered them in my headboard that doubled as a bookcase. They were all books I had read when I was in high school. I hadn’t thought about them in years. It turns out that he thought they were refreshing, a treasure trove into my past. The Art of Shyness, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and I Can Do Anything Career Book for Girls were among them. Through the yellowed pages he discovered the shy, socially awkward teenager who spent long an escape, that helped her understand the world
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around her, that guided her as she explored the career possibilities she would pursue in the not-toodistant future. Through my old books, my boyfriend got to know me as the girl whose passion for reading would grow into a passion for writing. He got to know me that Thanksgiving Day on a
level that months of dating couldn’t have accomplished. We stayed up late into the night, lounging on my bed, books all about us, and talking– not about family or wedding details, houses or bank accounts–but about books.
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Two of Us by Michael Canavan Flash Fiction
An enduring moon shone through veils of autumn clouds. The man stood patiently as his dog, Sparks, investigated a small patch of grass under a street lamp. The man’s attention drifted down to a dimly lit window of a townhouse. She cast a soft shadow, lit by the stove’s flame. Her hands worked over a frying pan which she lifted, breathed in the aroma and returned to the burner. She bent her head downwards, addressing someone or something beneath the frame of light. It was an intimate moment, something stolen from the unguarded. The event burned in the man’s brain, leaving a shadow on his tired heart. Sparks concluded his investigation and pulled at the leash. The man turned away and shuffled back up the street to his home. Sparks raised a leg at the pole of the streetlamp and left his mark. The light flickered. Once inside the house, lights switching on and off marked their progress through each room on their way to the kitchen. He lit the stove and placed the meat into the frying pan. Some pepper, garlic, salt and olive oil. Raising the pan, he sniffed the contents, and placed it back on the flame. “Your favorite,” he told Sparks, bending slightly to address his loyal friend. Outside, the woman stopped underneath the streetlamp. Her dog sniffed a patch of grass while she contemplated the abiding moon.
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Her Time Alone by Tracy Shawn Flash Fiction
Eighty-three-year-old Mae Stockton had no idea where she was going, but the paperback’s last sentence pushed her forward: Now it was her time, and her time alone. She couldn’t remember much else about the story, only that ending line—the one that was going to change her life. August sun heated her face and Mae stopped to breathe in the dry-cinnamon scent of thirsty geraniums. A tap on her shoulder jolted her, and she knew her wide-eyed shakiness made her appear even more fragile to the increasingly frustrated Barbara. In her shiny lawyer suit with pointytoed pumps sharp black against the brick walkway, Barbara stood with hands on hips. “Mother, what are you doing out here?” “Just taking in the summer air.” “I’m going to be late now. I’ll help you back—and then you’re not to leave.” Barbara’s breath smelled of burnt coffee and anger. “Do you understand?” “Of course I do,” Mae said. “I’m not stupid.” Barbara’s eyebrows rose. “What has gotten into you?” She pressed an impatient hand against Mae’s back and led her toward the house. “I’ve never seen you act so obstinate.” Barbara shook her head and muttered, “I don’t know what I’ll do if this keeps up.” Mae pretended not to hear, something she had done since she was a girl, and smiled in her docile way that made people think she was too malleable to bother arguing with. She let Barbara deposit her on the stiff leather of the living room couch and waited until she heard the sound of the Mercedes’ engine fade away. After fingering out seventy dollars from the emergency cash hidden inside an aluminum foil tube, Mae sauntered back outside, walked to the busy cross street, and hailed a taxi. “Where to?” The driver didn’t turn around. Mae smiled, liking the respect of
anonymity. “I’d like to go to Santa Monica beach please.” “You want to go next to the pier?” “Yes,” she said, nodding. “That would be lovely.” Before she exited the cab, Mae took off the ridiculous orthopedic shoes Barbara had insisted buying her, and left them on the floorboard. Waving to the driver, Mae grinned with exhilaration. Then she trekked the plain of sand toward the Pacific, feeling as if the pier’s gigantic Ferris wheel was keeping a friendly and watchful eye on her. On the edge of the water, she peeled off her stretch pants and unbuttoned her blouse, letting them fall to damp sand. Standing in nothing but white bra and panties, she didn’t care who was taking a gander at her old lady folds and puckers. Eyes on the surf, Mae waded in, the cold shock bringing her back to her competitive swimming days. Why had she stopped? A breaker crashed against her belly. Now it came back to her: She had refrained from even the recreational swim after college because Edward had said that he thought it “unwifely” of her to continue a sport that gave her such a broad-shouldered physique. Mae dove under the water. Her body remembered exactly what to do and she knew the lifeguards wouldn’t worry when they saw her confident stroke. Past the mercifully small waves, she swam, water smoothing over her skin like time hadn’t happened. Farther out, she found herself in the choppy, churning grip of a rip current. But Mae Stockton knew not to fight. Instead she floated right with it, following the shoreline and surviving as she always had by allowing what was around her to vent its anger while she stayed calm, waiting for just the right time to escape.
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October Rainbow Remembered by Mike Ambrose Poetry
Within rolling waves of sweeping gray-hued clouds that show every color of a long since fractured rainbow, arches the October sky, blended and muted now by the cold, late season sun, buffeting an October wind that heightens our senses and carries upon its chilled air the sweet, crisp smells of spent leaves, fuller even than the sweetest June flower clinging to the last remnant of a remembered color before descending into snow-covered graves, as a distant October valley captures a shrouded mist dancing above the lake, leaping with more motion than a child bounding on the sandy shore just months before, only too soon to be silenced by November’s frozen wind.
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Withdrawal by Gary Beck Poetry In a dazed variety of moments, more lost than lover’s separations, I stretch one anguished, straining arm not hard enough and slide again into torpor and sexual fantasies. The rest of me reposes, silent and forgetful, save for a tiny, mumbling voice repeating over and over: arise and save yourself.
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Beautiful In Spite by Lark Beltran Poetry
The years bring distance, and sometimes we look down as from the window of a plane on the landscape of our days peer through the roiling emotional mists risen above lately or long ago, seeing the sensible contours of what was blotted out when we were blind. Peering with perspective on rivers torrential and threatening, now silvery, winding and tiny, on Lego houses, game board roads or painfully embroidered fields, we contemplate their patterns in enormous and objective overview. Without the hassle of getting from A to B we might not now have C or have arrived at E. From afar, the disparate strands make sense: combine and interweave, making a tortuous path traversed seem beautiful in spite. The years do bring distance.
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A Parallel Universe by Leonardo Miguel Castillo Poetry
Sunlight. Sunshine. Someone always with me. It follows me around, Even in the sharpest corners. Left, right, straight ahead or behind me, It never ceases following me. Lights fade and colors dull As darkness engulfs the surrounding. Where is that someone? One could’ve sworn we were inseparable. My head turns in comprehension, Realizing that someone lingers. Mirrors and veils help it carry on. Vaguely yet surely, it is here. Moonlight. Starshine. That someone is still with me.
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The Night Blooming Cereus by Elizabeth Lovett Colledge Poetry My aunt telephoned one evening. “Come over right away. The night blooming cereus Will open tonight.” On my grandmother’s wall Hung a strange and beautiful print, The Night Blooming Cereus. A huge white bloom burst like a Firework from the frame, illuminating The dark background, owl-haunted tower And grey trees. Years later it Hung over my aunt’s fireplace. I came as soon as I could and We walked out into the backyard, Our flashlights guiding us. On the side of the garage, in Earthen pots, tall ungainly plants Strained with enormous buds, almost Too heavy for the stalks to support. Over the next several hours we Waited in the house, seized with Sudden urges to rush into the yard And check. Had it begun? Certainly Something was happening. Buds Were slowly beginning to Open. Their heavy pungent fragrance Weighed upon the humid night air. As evening grew, our conversation Faded, and still the buds had not Fully opened. I was tired, and Ready to go home. I left too soon. At two a.m. the nascent flowers Opened. By dawn, they faded away, Wilted, and drooping on their stalks. My aunt stayed up. Her mother Witnessed the Arc of Halley’s comet in 1910 and Again in 1986. She would not Miss the yearly passage of The Night Blooming Cereus, her Own personal comet.
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Reflections in My Tea at Midday by Robert Goodman Poetry On this day of more yesterdays than tomorrows I decided, in this garden, to have my tea. To sip and sit content; with little sorrows In the joy of simply being to be. And as I looked down in my tepid brew With wiser eyes looking back at me Saw that all happened as if on cue To see what was needed to see. Yes, challenges amidst the hastened noise Dear Lord, you’ve given me diversions. But this contentment, surprised by joys; Amongst this wild heart’s conversions. Loved am I, by love given those now But dear Lord, let me now make amends. For if ever doubt had I of thou, You’ve blessed me with my friends.
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Here and There by Evelyn O’Brien Poetry
You may think and wonder, as you do your daily tasks, about where I am, how I am, and is my spirit Here or There. Sometimes the need seems urgent, and sometimes a passing thought... But you search for answers now and then and pray there’ will be a sign. Scientists will tell you that human atoms never die... that part of every person goes on forever more. This is true, and it is the soul, the spirit never dies, so I will tell you, dear ones, that I am here and there. Take comfort in the knowledge that when Jesus said, “I AM” He meant the words, that He is Here and He is there and that will always be. So rest assured the time will come when we will meet again. In the meantime enjoy each day...don’t wonder where I am...I am here and I am there............ ‘tis love that and faith transcends space and time.
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Cover Artist & Author Bios COVER ARTIST Eleanor Leonne Bennett, our cover artist, is a 16 year old award winning photographer and artist who has won first place with National Geographic, The World Photography Organization, Nature’s Best Photography, and many other photography competitions. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph, The Guardian, on the BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada. She was also selected to have her work displayed in the National Geographic and Airbus run See The Bigger Picture global exhibition tour with the United Nations International Year Of Biodiversity 2010. WRITERS Mike Ambrose is an engineering executive at a New England aerospace company with degrees from the University of New Haven and MIT. He started publishing his work in 2010 and really enjoys the balance that writing provides to a career that is very demanding and exact. In the short time that he has been writing, he has had work published in Lucid Rhythms, Corner Club Press, joyful!, Westward Quarterly, and Grey Sparrow Journal among other publications Gary Beck lives in New York City. He has spent most of his adult life as a theater director. A collection of his poetry, Days of Destruction, was published by Skive Press. Another collection, Expectations, was published by Rogue Scholars Press, and Dawn in Cities is being published by Winter Goose Press. His novel, Acts of Defiance, is being published by Trestle Press. Extreme Change is being published by Cogwheel Press. Lark Beltran, originally from California, has lived in Lima, Peru for many years as an ESL teacher. She and her husband also own property in the jungle. Over the past several years, her poems have appeared in many online and offline journals. Lisa Braxton currently resides in Boston, Massachusetts. She earned her MFA in Creative Writing at Southern New Hampshire University. She is the president of the Women’s National Book Association/Boston Chapter and an Emmy-nominated journalist. She is a former television news anchor and reporter and spent her television career at stations in Illinois, Pennsylvania, and Connecticut. She is also a former newspaper reporter and radio reporter. Lisa has been published in numerous literary journals, including Snake Nation Review, Foliate Oak, and Meetinghouse. Michael Canavan is a writer, artist, and a freelance graphic designer (CanaGraphics) working and living in Central New York. He has published in the Post Standard, written children’s stories for the Parents as Reading Partners Program through the Syracuse Schools, and advertising copywriting for print and web applications. He attended Syracuse University and SUNY Oswego. He has a blog at www.canawordz.blogspot.com.
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Leonardo Miguel Castillo currently resides in southern California where he is starting his college career. He is pursuing his dreams as a dentist. He has been published in Daily Love and Sacramento Poetry Art and Music. Elizabeth Lovett Colledge writes from Florida. Her poems have been published in various literary magazines, including Time of Singing, Kaleidoscope, and Hektoen International (upcoming issue). She has a Ph.D. from the University of Florida and has worked as a free-lance editor and writer for most of her life. Robert Goodman is a poet and short story writer who lives along the Jersey Shore. Much of his writing work revolves around the human condition with influences from history, myth, faith and observation of the inner journey. His short story, Charon’s Cross was recently published in The Mindful Word and his short story The Felix Redemption was signed to an anthology publication in the summer of 2012. Evelyn O’Brien is a gifted artist who is retired and writes from Florida. She has sold many paintings and this is her second published written work. Her poem Remember was published in the premier issue of Literary Brushstrokes in June 2012. Tracy Shawn has published articles in parenting and women’s magazines as well as for print and online news. Her educational background includes a master’s degree in clinical psychology, which she enjoys using for character development in her fiction writing. Tracy’s first novel, The Grace of Crows, is currently under consideration. Please feel free to visit Tracy at: www.tracyshawn.com.
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Literary Brushstrokes Submissions to: www.Literarybrushstrokes.com
ŠOctober 2012
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