Literary Brushstrokes
Spring/Summer 2013
Cover photo: Old St. Augustine © Mary O’Brien
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Spring/Summer June 2013 Vol 2, No 1
~~~~~~~ ©June 2013
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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 fourth issue of our literary journal. Though this issue is small, it is mighty – filled with the work of talented writers and the cover is graced by a fabulous photo. Though our editorial staff suffered a few crises this spring (delaying our issue), we’ve bounced back and have combined the Spring and Summer issues. We would also like to give a big thank you to those who contributed their editing skills for the creation of this issue. Enjoy!
Mary Mary Chrapliwy, Managing Editor www.LiteraryBrushstrokes.com
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Table of Contents Poetry An Everlasting Imprint by Harriet Franklin – page 6 Darkened Moon by Samantha Seto – page 8 Memory Of Light by Bobbi Sinha-Morey – page 10
Fiction We Meet Again by Rebecca Strong – page 12 Impressions by Elizabeth Turner – page 18
Artist and Author Bios – page 22
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An Everlasting Imprint by Harriet Franklin He was love, joy, and patience that carried over in my own life. My strength came from this positive role model. Oldest child of poor immigrants forced this man to leave school early to work, support family. Gardening, nature walks and science brought tranquility. Husband and father of three were happy times playing board games, watching TV with his family. Childhood memories giving out coins to me and friends for candy brought smiles - a reminder of his generosity. Always available, especially in time of need his pleasant manner and witty humor softened the most difficult times. An example of a selfless, secure man. Remembering his gentle touch Thanks Dad
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Darkened Moon by Samantha Seto Amidst the whispers of the night, all alone, the mournful moon wept upon the deepened world of dreams. The woodland tears quivered with circles of colorful leaves, dances of indigo nocturne imprint into dirt. In wheat fields of golden grain, when summer days grew longer, we used to play along the brook as children. Peppermint leaves we used to eat grew beneath lilies, sunflowers, rosebuds, as the grand willow tree breathed shadows. Silent midnight within spirits of cottonwood wore tortured hours of heavy raindrops. Moments passed in the love of death.
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Memory Of Light by Bobbi Sinha-Morey In the mouthful of silence we relied on the wind to carry our words and when we spoke it was more than the sun tells my eyes. In the memory of light I divine your soul. No more do I glove my thoughts or blindfold my sorrow. A crest of air brings you my smile and a scarf of clouds that once hid the sky is now gone. With time so close to us we keep living on hope.
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We Meet Again by Rebecca Strong Fiction She couldn’t have made a mistake. Looking at him across an already crowded restaurant, she somehow knew that this forty-something man with gray hair was her first love from a land far, far away. Years had passed since she thought of him for longer than a second, although he’d always been on the back of her mind. A persistent memory that lived in her subconscious while other memories of that time had long been discarded or forgotten. She was fourteen when she first learned of his existence. He came to their school from London, a son of a diplomat, and became an almost instant sensation, recounting stories of growing up abroad and freely sharing various foreign gadgets so rare in their Soviet childhood. It didn’t take long before he joined the rough crowd and thus their paths did not cross until much later. Much, much later. She didn’t have a boyfriend at fourteen – almost no one did – for it wasn’t customary for a properly raised Soviet teen to date boys at such a young age. A petite girl with large green eyes and pitchblack hair she had admirers though, two at a time sometimes, who fought over who would carry her backpack to and from school. Many boys vied for her attention but she never bothered with any of them. Partially it was the behavior she chose to adopt – a nedotroga or hard-to-get – and partially it was just that she hadn’t really met anyone she fancied. There were a few who were cute but stupid, some who were smart yet too geeky, and others who, although handsome and bright, hung out with the wrong crowd and, as far as she was concerned, were wasting themselves away. He belonged with the third group. In the ninth grade three homerooms of the eighth grade were condensed into two and he ended up in all of her classes. She started noticing him right before the summer vacation at the end of the eighth grade when she occasionally caught his fleeting glances. She thought that perhaps he liked her but he never spoke to her and, since they didn’t have any classes together, they hardly ever ran into each other. When the ninth grade started and she found out that he’d be in her homeroom she wondered if he had requested so, for it was nice to think that someone might like you enough to request a transfer. But then again it could have been a coincidence and so she did not give it much thought for very long. As the year went by she continued to feel his eyes upon her, often so intense that she had to work hard to keep from turning around to look towards the kamchatka, the back of the classroom where rough boys had exiled themselves. And although there was never any conversation between them, she now suspected that he indeed liked her but that approaching her was impossible for him. She was flattered. After all it was almost like having a secret admirer. Sometime in the middle of the
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year she started receiving strange phone calls with silence on the other end and she automatically assumed that he was calling to hear her voice. Nothing out of the ordinary, really, in their world of fifteen-year-old passions. Occasionally she would see that his interests were somewhere else and through the gossip she would find out that he had a girlfriend. She missed him then. Yet she never felt jealous because she sensed that he wasn’t serious about those girls and that she was the only one for him. Sure enough those romances never lasted more than a couple of weeks at a time and after that he was back as usual, stealing glances in her direction. And so slowly the flattery that she felt grew into something bigger and soon she couldn’t imagine her life without his attention. Was she falling in love? The summer came and went and they were all back for the tenth grade, their last year of school. The rough crowd grew tamer and she became part of it. At parties which they both now attended he was never with any other girl and whenever his friends got drunk enough to be frank they’d tell her all about how he’d been in love with her for over a year and a half. The first time she heard it she nearly jumped with joy – partially because she needed proof that she hadn’t been obsessing over something that didn’t exist and partially because she knew she had feelings for him. Yet still neither of them made a move. She was too proud and he was too timid. And so this way they went through the year up until the day it was time to say good-bye to the school and to all of their school friends. Having a date for the prom wasn’t a tradition in Soviet schools and everyone usually went alone. They danced half the night, piling into buses at dawn to pay tribute to Moscow’s landmarks. Boys who sneaked in and drank vodka all through the night were rowdy but the rest of them used the time on the bus to reflect on the school years they were leaving behind. She thought of her twoyear romance that never went anywhere and she thought that now would be the time to let it go. The university entrance exams were about to start and a new life without his daily glances was about to commence. Later that early morning after the bus deposited them back at the school building she walked home barefoot wondering how she would survive without his attention and without finding out if there could’ve been more. As she woke up that afternoon determined to forget and move on, the phone rang. And after two years of waiting, at the time when she was not expecting it at all, she heard his voice on the other end of the line. “What did you think of the prom?” he asked. “Ivanov was really bothering you at the end,” he then added, reminding her of how one of the drunken boys decided to strike up a conversation with her on the bus. And reminding her that he never stopped watching. “I know. He was annoying.” She did not know what to say. Or what to think.
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“Do you want to go to a movie sometime?” he suddenly asked, his voice shaky. “Sure,” she heard herself answer. “How about tonight?” And afraid to hang up the phone without making plans (what if he is never going to call again?), she immediately agreed. Their first date was foggy in her mind immediately after it ended. She was so dazed from the excitement of finally getting closer to him that she could hardly recount what went on to her best friend. They went to see “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World” but she couldn’t remember what the movie was about. They didn’t hold hands but he put his arm around her in the movie theater and she put her head on his shoulder. And thus they sat for almost two hours unable to move. ##### He knew exactly who she was. He never did forget those powerful green eyes that caught his sight when he first came to study at that Moscow school. For almost three years he was in love with her but he couldn’t approach her. She was always so distant, so untouchable. She paid no attention to him, almost seemed to despise him, and all he could do was try to impress her from afar. That never worked, however, no matter how cool and popular he was, and even after they ended up in the same group she didn’t notice him. When he finally summoned enough courage and asked her out the day after the prom, he didn’t expect her to say yes. After all he’d watched her the entire prom night and when she wasn’t dancing with other boys, she was hanging out with her girlfriends. He didn’t exist for her. Yet he had to try. After all he would not have been able to live with himself not knowing what could’ve transpired if he did. When she agreed to see him that night, the world became brighter. He always knew she was the girl for him and he wanted to do everything in his power to make her happy. But he didn’t know how. She was a girl of a different caliber than most of his previous girlfriends. She was not easy and his bad-boy attitude wasn’t likely to impress her. Their first date was awkward – he could still remember trying to summon enough courage to kiss her. Kissing girls was never an issue for him but the thought of kissing her was so intimidating that he almost didn’t do it. It was only when they reached her building and she looked up at him in the dim light of a barely functioning streetlamp that he knew he’d never be able to let her go. He kissed her then. They spent the summer going to movies, walking around parks, and just hanging out with each other. She passed the university entrance exams; he refused to even consider applying to the
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Institute of International Relations to become a diplomat like his father. The thought of inscribing into the Red Army in the fall seemed romantic as he imagined her waiting for him, writing him letters, and visiting him some place very far away. She didn’t share his lack of enthusiasm towards continuing his education and on numerous occasions she tried to convince him to ditch the army by going to a university. But his mind was made. In the fall she went off to a kolkhoz, a collective farm, with new classmates from her university – such was the rule for starting your higher education. Freshmen always went away on what was known as potato duty when the whole month of September was taken up by helping collective farms harvest potatoes. Perhaps that was the way the authorities tried to ensure that all intelligentsia-to-be knew that they would’ve been nothing without the farmers, the vanguard of the long-forgotten Russian Revolution. Or, perhaps, that was simply the way to gather additional labor for the farms. Whatever the objective, however, he hated the idea of letting her go. After all he was staying behind with everyone they both knew while she was going away for a month with completely new people. He was never really sure that she loved him or even liked him enough to fall in love with him later and now he was afraid that she would meet someone better. Someone she would connect with during long farming days and at night, roasting potatoes in the fire and listening to a guitar. His fears came true when a month later he listened to an account of a common friend who went on the potato duty with her. She herself didn’t tell him anything but the friend insisted that she met someone and the whole class saw them snuggled tightly against each other at one of the evening fires. He didn’t know if that was the extent of her new relationship or if there was something more. When he confronted her and when she denied everything, he knew something had happened. He didn’t really care how far it went or how long it lasted. It was just the fact that it had happened. She really didn’t love him after all. And if she didn’t love him, there was nothing to be done. He’d suffered enough already existing in her shadow all those years in school and these past three months. If all she was doing was playing with him, then he didn’t want it. He never called her again. Although he hoped deep down inside that she would, she never did either. Their relationship ended as abruptly as it began. When he came back from the Army two years later, he learned that she’d had her share of boyfriends and that she’d never really talked about him. Soon after she was gone, having moved with her family to Canada. And even though he always felt that he never really had her, he was now suddenly aware that he had lost her forever, not to be seen or talked with again. As much as it pained him to go on, he did. He enrolled in the Institute of International Relations, got married, had a child, and began his career as a diplomat of the newly independent Russia. Years later he heard that she had married a diplomat – a Canadian one – and they were now traveling the world just as he was. Who would’ve imagined that fate would play a trick on them and place them
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in the same country at the same time? Yet, here he was, sitting in the same restaurant as her, some twenty-five years later to the day of their first kiss. ##### Did he recognize her? Unlikely. Why would he? What they had was so short, so abrupt, and so long ago that she was certain he had no idea who she was. But to run into each other in another country, a country so far away from both of their countries, could it really be? When he disappeared so suddenly from their relationship, she spent nights crying herself to sleep thinking of what she’d done. She didn’t really cheat on him – there was nothing but cuddling between her and that guy she met on potato duty. But he obviously thought there had been something more and instead of telling him the truth she denied everything. She knew she’d hurt him but she also didn’t feel it was her place to call him. He’d overreacted, she kept telling herself, and in any case boys were always supposed to make the first step. Thinking back now she once again remembered that she never allowed herself to let him know that she, in fact, was crazy about him. Instead she played the game of keeping him and her feelings at arm’s length for so long that he probably thought she didn’t care for him. Today was her chance to set the record straight. And even if it didn’t matter anymore, either to him or to her, she wanted to tell him that it was him she loved all those far away years in school, it was him she longed to see next to her for years after, and it was him that she still thought about often, albeit only for a split second. This time she would make the first step. Slowly she walked over to his table. “Hi,” she said.
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Impressions by Elizabeth Turner Fiction They had everything to say to each other. He was sitting across from her. The small expanse of a mahogany table being the only thing separating them. Three feet of wood and two cups. One coffee, one orange juice. An untouched plate of toast and a half eaten bagel. She stared down at her hands, twisting a used napkin, little white flakes of paper falling onto her blue jeans. He watched her face, trying to will her to look up and meet his eyes. She had grown her hair out. Her light brown strands that lightened even more in the summertime were pulled back in a loose ponytail, and she had bangs now. Two years ago she would have never had bangs, hated them, said they were a selfinflicted torture. They always got in the way, and had an unnatural ability to make grown adults look like children, but he liked them on her. They did make her look younger, and more sassy. The waiter began making his way to the table but he stopped him with a look and shook his head. He shifted his gaze back to her. She was staring out the window now. The plated glass of the cafe had the smudge prints of little fingers running along it. He wondered if she could see them too. He thought of the last time they had seen each other. That piercing cry. A noise that came from somewhere so deep inside her, so foreign. It had terrified him. The image of her at the foot of the stairs, clutching her shins, head pressed against her knees, her hand held up. A stiff palm that firmly told him no, not another step. It was too much. He picked up his coffee and took a long sip, accepting the burn as it sizzled down his throat. As they sat in that stuffy cafe, she could feel his eyes on her. Those perfectly blue eyes as they flashed the same things they had flashed that night. Confusion, pain, pleading. But she wouldn’t look into them, not this time. It had taken her two years to forget those eyes, and everything that they had begged that night. They had been sitting there for fifteen minutes now. It had at least been bearable while he ate, but now the tension was gaining weight, the silence like a bowling ball crushing down on her chest. Before, she was able to focus on his chewing, the slapping of soft bread as it stuck to the roof of his mouth, his tongue working cream cheese off his teeth, his hard swallows. When she had walked in, he was fidgeting with his shirt. She had pretended not to see the unbuttoning and re-buttoning he did nervously until finally noticing her. While avoiding his stare, her mind lingered back on their hug. He had pulled her in, and the smell of his aftershave almost crushed her. It reminded her of their lazy summer Sundays, of falling asleep intertwined after a sticky afternoon of love making, drifting off into a blissful sleep and breathing in that smell. Her eyes were beginning to fill and blur, so she held her breath for a moment, staring at the tiny prints littered along the window glass, wanting to trace their little finger marks.
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“You called me,” he said finally. “I know.” She still didn’t look at him. “It’s been two years, Jenna.” “I know. I ... look, I know.” He watched as she wrapped her fingers around her glass. Her nails had little chips of a pale rose polish. “I tried to call you. A lot,” he said. “I just wasn’t ready.” She looked up briefly, but he was looking down at the table. “Did you…?” “Yes,” she blurted out, “Two weeks later.” She could feel that heartbreaking stare again. She sucked in more air and wouldn’t let it out. “It could have been different, you know,” he told her. “No, it couldn’t have.” “I ... I would have tried.” “I know. You did everything right. It was me, John. Just me.” “It didn’t have to be.” “I needed it to be.” A bell clanged as the Cafe door was pushed open. A man in a gray suit walked through and held the door for a very pregnant woman in a purple dress. Both of them watched as the women waddled up to the counter and slid her body onto a stool, barely fitting her swollen belly into the tight space.
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She was the first to look away, shifting her attention back to the napkin slowly disappearing into fluff particles on her lap. She felt drawn to the window again, to the little smudges that crept up in a pattern-less array, left by some unknown child. She tried to create images of that child in her mind. A little boy, no more than four, with thick red hair and freckles all over. Perhaps in excitement over a plate of fluffy pancakes heading his way, he lifted his little body up on his chair, pressing fingers here and there along the glass for support. Or maybe it had been a baby girl, propped up on a high chair, staring with wonder at passing cars and people on the streets outside. She imagined her sloppily clenched fist, with one chubby finger sticking out, as she poked all over the glass trying to point out outside wonders to distracted parents in some deep conversation. She needed to tell him. As more images of made up children floated through her head, she felt the clammy warmth of his hand fall over hers. “Why are we here?” he finally found the courage to say. Her hesitation was sharp. It cut through the air like a knife, and he felt like she could stab him at any moment with whatever words were resting on the tip of her tongue, with whatever thoughts were about to be formed by that perfect mouth of hers. He remembered what it was like to kiss that mouth. Her lips that could be soft and warm, or hard and hungry, at times even angry or full of pain. He pushed the thoughts away. “Why are we here?” she heard him ask. She opened her mouth to speak, but the right words wouldn’t come. She felt guilt, guilt at the idea of showing up two years later and unhinging this mans world again. “I just, I needed to say, I’m sorry.” He didn’t respond, but those blue eyes stared, cold and beautiful. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, “We were young, we weren’t ready. I, I wasn’t ready to be…I didn’t know if you really wanted…what we had, it had been casual. It had only been two months, and I… listen, about earlier, I need to tell you that I didn’t really—” “I know,” he said, cutting her off, and for once it seemed that his words held the power. Silence settled between them. He watched her almond eyes fill and then she broke their stare, turning her body sideways, pressing a fist to her forehead, leaning against a child’s finger impressions on the window. He wanted to shout, to beg, to tell her. They had been together two
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months, casually. It had been fun and light and easy. But those months had made him fall in love with her. Those months had given him a glimpse of what a future could be like with someone who mattered. He had been ready. He had wanted it. He could have been the man that she needed. But he could see that the woman sitting in front of him now did not want to hear that. “I know,” he repeated, “You’re right, about it all. It was…it was just a fling, casual. It hardly meant anything so how could we, how could you want…look, you were right. You did the right thing.” His words cut, but they were fair. She nodded her head too many times and cleaned her face with her hands, forcing herself to meet his stare once more. She thought back to that night when she had told him, how his fear somehow turned to duty, how he began to spout everything she had hoped for and needed and wanted to hear, and how then she had screamed. She remembered his confusion. It had been too overwhelming, too soon. And after that, she had left. “Do you mean that?” she said. No, not at all. “Yes,” he said. There was silence once more. Finally, she leaned across the table, slid her hand around his neck, and lightly kissed him. They gave each other a weak smile and said goodbye. Then she stood and left the diner. After watching her walk down the sidewalk, he stayed for twenty minutes more, staring at the tiny impressions of an unknown child’s hands on the window glass. When she got back to her car, they were giggling. She slid into the driver’s seat and wiped the tears from her face once more. After fastening her seat belt, she looked over her shoulder into the backseat. “Everything went okay?” “Yes, Rosa, it was fine.” She stretched her arm over the nanny and grabbed hold of the tiny hand in the car seat next to her. A little girl with deep blue eyes and almond curls looked back at her, giggled again, and then slapped her palm against the window, leaving her own little impressions on the glass. Jenna’s smile was joy and pain all at once, and it hurt her and warmed her in equal parts. She turned back around, put the key into the ignition, and they drove.
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Bios Cover Art: Mary O’Brien knows that if she didn’t have to work full time, she would be spending most of her time writing, but she also loves to create art with photography and oil painting. She holds an MA in writing and lives in NJ with her faithful hubby and furry family. She created the cover art and photo on our back cover.
Writers:
Harriet Franklin grew up in Massachusetts. She is a self-taught poet and began writing as a way to honor her daughter Jen, who died at age 22. She is a member of the Watertown Poetry @ 7 workshop, where she has explored many forms of poetry and is currently writing Haiku. She was a participant at the Massachusetts Poetry Festival 2013. Harriet enjoys outdoors activities and brings Nature to her poems. Samantha Seto has been published in various anthologies including Ceremony, Soul Fountain, Blue Hour, Carcinogenic Poetry, and Black Magnolias Journal. Bobbi Sinha-Morey is a reviewer for the online magazine Specusphere. Her poetry has appeared in places such as Plainsongs, Pirene’s Fountain, Northern Stars, Taproot Literary Review, and Bellowing Ark, among others. Her latest book of poetry, Rain Song, is available at www.writewordsinc.com and her website is located at http://bobbisinhamorey.wordpress.com. Rebecca Strong is a writer and an artist. She recently published her first novel and she is now working on her next. One of her short stories appeared in the anthology Illuminations. Her paintings have been exhibited in a museum, published in online literary magazines, and won contests. She now lives in Spain but has lived in Russia, Argentina, the US, Italy, and Central Asia. Elizabeth Turner was born, raised, and currently resides in Goleta, California. She developed a love for creative writing from an early age and earned her BA in English from California State University, Channel Islands, in 2011. Elizabeth hopes to soon expand from short story writing and begin her first novel. She earns her living working in retail and tourism, which provides ample inspiration for her work.
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Literary Brushstrokes Submissions to: www.LiteraryBrushstrokes.com
ŠJune 2013
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