Literary brushstrokes spring summer 2014

Literary Brushstrokes

Swan Song by Jessica Chrapliwy

Spring/Summer 2014

Literary Brushstrokes

Cover photo: Swan Song © Jessica Chrapliwy

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Literary Brushstrokes

Spring/Summer May 2014 Vol 3, No 1

~~~~~~~ ©May 2014

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From the Editor Good writing paints a picture in the mind of a reader, so Literary Brushstrokes seeks to paint a literary picture in the mind of its readers.

Welcome to the fifth issue of our literary journal.

This is filled with the work of talented writers and the cover is graced by a fabulous photo. 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 Sunset in a Glass by A. J. Huffman – page 6 Roll Call by Janet McCann – page 8

Creative Nonfiction Making Tea by Mary Ann Cooper – page 10 The Rooms We Live In by Leona Charleigh Holman – page 13 Seasoning the Days by Emilee Rosell – page 16 A Story of the Afterlife by Jeffrey Zable – page 20

Flash Fiction Full House by Anita Haas – page 21 Living in the Game by Sandra Hood – page 23 Facial Hare by Michael C. Keith – page 25

Fiction Vivian’s Grave by Albert Ruggiero– page 28

Artist and Author Bios – page 33

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Sunset in a Glass by A. J. Huffman The cabernet swirls, reflections of unnatural light streak gold against its garnet base. I swallow the setting fire of celestial warmth, wait for the replacing silver sensation to rise, calmly lead me through this sleepless night.

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Roll Call by Janet McCann All the people that ever were, Their sonorous syllables. Unborn, unnamed ones Given names, on the basis of who They might have been. Thousands of miles Of printout, held up by someone, angels?

Although it might be birds, white herons.

The names read aloud as in commencement.

The banner carried.

Count and be counted, first to last Adam, his second name, and Eve’s, They made it up together. Down through All the centuries, the years. Up to the last Forgotten human, crouched on the burning shore.

Every name, recited with dignity And honor, from the first to last, And then a rush of silence.

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Making Tea by Mary Ann Cooper Creative Nonfiction “Mom. Dad. The baby’s crying.”

Standing by the stairs in our tiny kitchen, I waited for a response. The opening music from “The Fugitive” drifted up from the television in the basement below me, mixing in with the wails coming from my fifteen-month old brother Kerry from the floor above me. It’s ten at night – why is he awake? I wondered. Maybe he’s hot. The summer of ’65 was sultry; our attic fan, with its muffled roar, usually ran all night in an attempt to suck the heat out of our stifling house.

My parents were in the midst of their nightly routine, which consisted of sitting together downstairs while watching a TV show, followed by the eleven o’clock news. It was their daily escape from the daunting task of raising eight children on a tight budget. Each evening, one of their older children was assigned to make tea for them. We knew exactly what to do: after making the tea, two cups were carefully carried down to them on a dull metal tray, garnished with two folded paper napkins and two cookies, usually Ginger Snaps or Graham Crackers.

“Take him out of the crib,” my mother called up to me. “Let him walk around a little.”

Arriving five years after what they thought was their last baby, Kerry was a joyous surprise. Sweet-tempered and funny, he was the family favorite. My world at thirteen consisted of my friends, my music and a budding interest in boys, but I always had time for Kerry.

Entering the bedroom that four of my brothers shared, I saw Kerry, in his little summer pajamas, gripping the railing of the worn crib that had held all eight of us. His blue eyes looked sleepy, and his blonde curls were matted.

But he began to jump up and down when he saw me, while my three other brothers slept on.

“Hi Kerry baby,” I whispered. “You want to come downstairs?”

With my one arm clutching him and the other gripping the shaky railing, I slowly carried our baby down the steep flight of stairs. Reaching the kitchen, I put him on the floor and continued making the tea. I wish it wasn’t my night to do this. I just want to go back to my room and listen to my music.

Placing two ceramic mugs on the counter, I glanced over at my seventeen-year-old brother, Bobby, sitting at our dining room table doing his homework. Spotting Kerry, Bobby knelt and stretched his arms out.

“Hey, little man,” he said. “Why aren’t you sleeping? Huh?” Kerry toddled over and babbled to him.

“Oh, yeah? That’s nice. Here, you want this?” Bobby asked, handing him a crushed ball of paper. Kerry took it and started running from the dining room through the living room and back into the kitchen.

“Hey, where are you?” I asked.

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Kerry came back to the kitchen, and while the water heated, I sat down on the floor next to him. Picking up two small wooden trains, I began rolling them along his leg.

“Choo choo,” I said.

He clapped his hands, delighted. Back and forth I went, moving up to his arms.

“Can you say choo choo?” I asked.

The whistling of the kettle forced me to stop playing and stand up.

“How’s that tea doing?” my father called up.

“It’s coming!” I said, rolling my eyes. “God, “ I said in a low voice, while looking over at Bobby.

Picking up the steaming kettle, I filled the mugs with boiling water and then walked over to the cabinet. Who moved the stupid teabags? Spotting them on the top shelf, I tipped the box forward and grabbed two. Turning back towards the counter, I watched as Kerry, perched on his chubby tippy toes, reached up and grabbed both mugs. In seconds, the scalding water cascaded onto him. Standing rooted to the kitchen floor, I watched as the skin on one side of Kerry’s beautiful face rolled down and disappeared somewhere into the bottom of his neck. I watched still as the hot water settled and clung to his chest, the pajama top keeping it perfectly sealed to his skin.

Kerry stood motionless and quiet, his little body in shock.

Bobby jumped up from his chair and started screaming.

“Mom, Dad!” he yelled. “Help! Help Kerry!”

My parents bounded up the stairs towards their baby, passing by my rigid body, my frozen mouth, my hand still clutching teabags.

“Oh God, please God no!” my mother cried. My father quickly but gently picked up Kerry and ran into the small bathroom near the kitchen. Turning on the shower’s cold water, he held Kerry under it, trying to cool his baby’s burning body.

Unmoving, Kerry was doll-like; his arms and legs still, as the freezing water ran over him. My mother rushed back with a blanket, and wrapped all of Kerry inside it.

I remained in the same spot in the kitchen, thinking about what I had done. Some of my brothers heard my mother’s earlier screaming, and were standing at the foot of the stairs, their faces gripped with fear, but saying nothing. There was no sound in the house now, just my parent’s frightened murmurs and the whir of the attic fan.

Racing towards the door, with my father and their injured child, my mother called out to Bobby.

“Give her two aspirin!” she said, pointing to me.

Kerry stayed in the hospital’s pediatric burn unit for over a week, my parents spending most of their days there, waiting and watching for the healing process to begin. We siblings were allowed to visit him once. I didn’t want to go, but I had no choice.

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“We’re all going to see Kerry. Everyone in the car,” my father commanded.

Saying nothing during the car ride to the hospital, I looked out the window for the entire trip, while my father shared with us how he had driven through red lights to get Kerry to the emergency room as quickly as possible.

He continued on and on, describing how hard it was to watch the doctors pack his baby on a bed of crushed ice.

“It was one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen,” he said.

Listening to him, I wanted to lean forward from the back seat and put my hands over his mouth. I longed to tell everyone that I never thought Kerry would reach up for the mugs, that I didn’t mean for it to happen. But I said nothing. I just kept staring out the window.

When we arrived at the hospital I walked behind my family, willing the visit to be over before it began. Hanging back from Kerry’s sterile crib with its protective plastic shield, I could barely glance at him. Staked out, his small arms and legs were tied to the crib like a biology experiment. His burns were open to us, raw and terrifying. Lying there, his eyes jumped from person to person. When our eyes met, I wanted to scream, “I’m sorry!” But nothing came out. Instead, I looked away quickly. Some of my siblings waved to Kerry, a few tried cooing baby talk to him.

But mostly we stood quiet: a grim, frightened lineup.

After a short time, a starched, mean-sounding nurse came in the room telling us we had to leave Kerry’s antiseptic shelter. Looking at her, I wondered: Does she know it’s my fault? Did my parents tell her what happened? Walking down the corridor away from the dread, I felt the rigidness leave me, my body wanting to fold flat and collapse.

During those first few weeks after the accident, no one ever asked me what had happened. Unprompted, I kept volunteering information to anyone about how I turned away from the mugs for just a minute, it was a second really, but no one seemed interested. They just looked at me and nodded, and then walked away. Because it didn’t matter. Our Kerry was burned.

But we were both scarred.

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The Rooms We Live In by Leona Charleigh Holman Creative Nonfiction The bedroom “Now?” Aaron says.

“No, not yet,” I say.

The lights are off. Door’s locked. Window’s open. Aaron’s breathing like he’s running. But he’s not. We’re sitting: I’m on my bed. Aaron’s on his. He’s clutching his backpack while we watch shadows twist past the band of light beneath our door.

The living room There’s thunder in the living room. Mom’s asking Paul about the booze and the bills; about the changes that never come. He slaps her words to the floor and then they’re breaking up again.

The bedroom Aaron scrunches his eyes. “Now?” he says.

“No, not yet,” I say.

Outside, the world smells soul-empty. A puddle of water sits below our window and mirrors the moon, unbroken.

Above, the stars are blinking, trying not to look, trying not to see the storm inside our house.

The living room Mom tells Paul to leave but then a thump happens. Mom sounds like she’s swallowed marbles, and Paul is saying how she should’ve kept her mouth shut and then comes another thump and then more marbles.

The bedroom “Now?” “No, not yet,” I say.

But I am ready. Aaron’s ready. He’s waiting, set to climb out the window the moment I say, “Now!” He’ll go first and then me. We’ll run across the pasture to where Mr. Sammons has a whole herd of mustangs. We’ll climb on the one that’s bible-black, and for miles and miles, we’ll just go. And go.

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The living room The voices move down the hallway now, and Mom’s words rise and then become a whisper. “They’re sleeping.

Leave ‘em be,” she says.

The bedroom Aaron drops the backpack and begins to rock against the wall. He squeezes his hands together, making the image of a church and steeple—open the doors and see all the people, the church and steeple, open the doors and—his hands repeat the story.

The hallway The yellow light beneath our door roars like a lion.

A fist.

Plaster.

Particles of our house float through air and light.

The bedroom Aaron’s eyes pray.

“Not yet,” I whisper.

The hallway Bodies twist. Break. Clatter.

The bedroom I’m on my feet.

The hallway Every noise that ever was.

The bedroom “Now!” I say, but Aaron doesn’t hear.

Outside The mustangs are running and the red earth takes a pounding.

The living room A door slams.

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Outside The sound of an engine starts and then comes the rain of gravel. Stones break the puddle, and the moon is left floating in circles.

The hallway Beneath the door, Mom’s feet go limp. One shoe is twisted.

The bedroom Aaron digs his face in the pillow.

The living room Wind slaps the screen door shut. Open. Shut. Open.

The bedroom Aaron stays in the pillow until sleep takes him.

I tiptoe to the door. Twist the knob.

The hallway Mom’s hair looks shorter, uneven. There’s a clump of it mixed with blood on the wall. Her mouth is open; a tooth dangles from a flap of skin.

“Shut the door, Honey” she says. “I’m okay. Go to bed now.”

The bedroom I close the door, sit on my bed, and listen. Mom lurches to her feet and then walks through our broken house, picking up lamp shades. Ashtrays. I stay listening for a long time and then finally put my head on the pillow. I fight back the sleep, waking in fits, trying not to close my eyes and pleading with myself to wake up, to get up, but the sleep in my body says, now, and I fight it, and the sleep in my body says, now, and I fight it, and the sleep says, now, and I say “No, not ye…”

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Seasoning the Days by Emilee Rosell Creative Nonfiction Autumn only lasts for a day in Florida. A day comes after summer when heat mingles pleasantly with cold, making it perhaps the nicest day of the year. The very next day begins winter.

I had been fortunate enough to spend that one day beside a window of the library, finishing homework, watching the world outside pass away into another evening. As I watched the sun set beyond the glass, I closed my eyes against a hard stare, counting on my fingers the assignments I had left to finish. One more Sociology quiz due at midnight. Another English post due the next morning. Oh! and that Psychology test was coming up… when was it?

I pulled out a planner and a battered syllabus, scratching out a date and starring it. I never really asked when it would end. I didn’t have time to think about that.

Later that night, I found myself on the top bunk of my dorm room, wide-awake and motionless. I had been lying there for hours, mind toiling, half-waiting to fall asleep, half-hoping for answers to come.

I turned to my side, sighing deeply. Below a strip of wood, I peered into the darkened room and saw my roommate’s half of the room. Her desk was clean to the point of perfection, a single slip of paper on her desk with her neatly organized to-do list. In stark contrast to her side was my own, books on the floor, papers and jewelry scattered across the desk, clothing thrown on the chair.

Not for the first time, I wished I could be more like her. Next semester – certainly I would get my act together by then. I would have everything figured out. Every schedule would be flawlessly planned.

Again I forced my eyes closed, running over my assignments in my head. I would have to cancel my lunch plans again. There was just no time.

Wishing and waiting, my thoughts began to drift. At long last I fell asleep. * In North Carolina winter is cruel. It begins when you least expect it and ends long after you’ve grown impatient for the sun. Spring seems like such a long, long time away.

In the middle of a vast airport, I found myself racing through the masses of people, legs burning, heart pounding. I had ten minutes left and three more terminals to go. I ran faster, watching people pass by in a blur as I weaved in and out of the endless crowd. I was running out of time.

Abruptly I stopped at the very last terminal and approached the front counter.

“May I help you?” a bored-looking woman behind the desk asked.

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Literary Brushstrokes “I just came from the last flight,” I explained rapidly, face bright and warm. “I thought my bag was checked but it wasn’t. I left my suitcase on the plane.”

“Oh,” said the woman, looking down at her screen. “Well what was the name?”

“Rosell,” I said breathlessly. “Emilee.”

“They’ll go check it for you.”

“I have another flight in ten minutes,” I said hopelessly, knowing that I could never catch the flight even if I ran all the way back again.

“You’ll have to get your baggage first,” she said curtly. “If it’s still there – they usually send it straight to ‘lost luggage’ and you’ll have to process it out.”

I pulled away from the counter, anxiously waiting for the security guard to return with a verdict. Outside the large window I could see the nose of the plane and workers going into or around it, all dressed in a heavy coats and woolen caps. The sky seemed gray and heavy with rain. Checking the clock on the wall, I knew it was too late. But worse than that was the realization that my luggage might have been lost too.

“Rosell?” called out woman above the noise.

I came up, seeing a neon-vested security guard enter the terminal with a small red suitcase. That was mine!

Eagerly and gratefully, I accepted the luggage and turned to leave. But as I turned around and faced the overcrowded airport once more, I realized that I had no way to get home. My next flight had just departed and I was stranded in a strange place. * Springtime is magical in England. That was when I found myself in the home of the twelfth Duke of Devonshire. I passed through the beautiful and elaborate hallways, silently, slowly. Paintings filled every wall, surrounded now and then by some finely crafted piece of furniture or glasswork. I turned around, looking up at the painted ceiling high above me, chandelier gracefully illuminating the room, whispers from a distant room echoing softly towards me. Falling from the flight of awe, I looked around and realized that I was alone.

My friends that I had been following were gone and I was lost in a royal home. I had no map, no phone. Just a camera and a few English pounds. I looked back to the doorway I had just come through and then back to the one I had been about to enter. The way forward looked undoubtedly more exciting.

In the next hallway was an old gentleman, dressed in a fine suit, smiling gently as I walked down the hall. Had the room to his immediate left not caught my attention, I would have continued on without stopping. But it was one the most beautiful things I had ever seen – it was a library. A royal library.

Inside were old and new volumes, high and far. Across from an unlit fireplace were two large leather seats, probably built for good reading on a stormy day. I stood at the threshold, withheld from the glory by a velvet rope.

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Literary Brushstrokes “The Duke’s library,” I heard the man say, British accent thick. “His favorite room of the house.”

“It’s my favorite too,” I replied. Immediately, my accent had given me away. I was an American in England.

“What brings you to Chatsworth?” he asked.

“I’m studying abroad,” I said.

The man made a polite bowing gesture with his head. “You’re very fortunate to have come,” he said. “There are many things to see in England, and this is truly an amazing place to visit.”

“It is,” I agreed.

“Are you from the States?” he asked.

“I am,” I said, my eyes catching the scene beyond the glass window he was standing in front of, giant fountain gurgling, flowers blazing with color. My heart began to burn, longing for that outside world bursting forth with life. “In Florida.”

“Lovely. And what do you think of England?”

I smiled, face glowing, unprepared for the emotion that overcame me. “I love it.”

A moment later, a large group of visitors entered the room, interrupting our conversation.

“There she is!” I heard a familiar voice say. I turned towards it, recognizing my entire American party.

Relieved and happy, I joined them in admiring the Duke’s library again. “Do you guys want to go explore the gardens after this?” someone from the group asked.

“Oh yes!” I cried, looking back to the window beside me. Beyond the flowers and fountains, I saw a long vast field run up and over into nowhere. Tiny white sheep meandered through the dewy morning grass. “Yes, I want to go!”

My attention shifted back to the old gentleman beside the window. He smiled warmly. “It’s worth it to see it all,” he said, “if you have the time.” * Early one summer morning, I awoke. Sunlight warmed my face as I pulled back soft sheets and looked around my bedroom. I’d traveled miles and miles – met all peoples of every kind, now blurred against a background of paperwork, speeches, cafeteria food, and airports.

The room was filled with items that were not my own, old and dusty, and gave the impression of a place that had long been uninhabited. My mattress was flat on the floor and my suitcase laid haphazardly against a wall, wheel broken and handle torn. I found myself back in a place I hadn’t seen in a year. I was home.

I looked over at the clock and realized I had never set my alarm. I rose slowly, taking my time, enjoying the summer sun as I turned on some music. I had only one plan for that day – to enjoy it. Perhaps I would begin by Spring/Summer 2014 – Page 18

Literary Brushstrokes making a nice breakfast with English tea. Then maybe I could convince my sister to make a beach trip with me.

And then I could unpack my suitcase and organize my room. I could even take a walk a long walk to go visit my good friend…

I felt the lightness in my step as I walked across the room to the desk to get my phone. I saw an old book lying there – one I had started a year ago and never finished. I picked it up, pleasantly surprised to find it exactly where I had left it. On a second reflection, I preferred to simply read for a while.

I changed quickly and dashed outside with my book and English tea, finding a seat on a patch of bright green grass. Smiling broadly to myself, I opened the book and began to read. Hours could pass and it wouldn’t matter.

After all, it was summer.

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A Story of the Afterlife by Jeffrey Zable Creative Nonfiction I was talking on the phone with a dentist friend of mine who told me about a conversation he had with one of his patients who was a neurologist. The patient, who was my friend’s last appointment of the day, wound up staying an extra half hour to relate this story.

Apparently he’d been very sick around three years ago, and went into a coma. While in the coma his heart stopped beating and he was officially pronounced dead. His ‘dead’ body was sent to the hospital morgue, but at some point he woke up and started screaming. He told my friend that while he was deceased, he walked through a very long room filled with bright light until he came to a door. He opened it and walked into a room filled with people sitting in chairs. The room turned out to be a ‘waiting room’ in which someone met each person and welcomed them to the afterlife. He told my friend that he felt no pain, sorrow, guilt, or anxiety—that once he was cleared, he was led outside into a paradise. There were magnificent trees, multi-colored flowers, and babbling brooks. Everyone walked around with smiles on their faces, and no one ever felt hunger or thirst.

It was at this point that my friend stopped and asked me if I believed that maybe the neurologist had actually died and experienced all this in the afterlife.

Not wanting to sound cynical and disrespectful, I responded, “I hope what he experienced is true, for if this is all there is here on earth, I’m going to be very disappointed for the rest of eternity.”

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Full House by Anita Haas Flash Fiction It was a six-room house. Small, but big enough for the two of them. Aurora and Domingo were so excited when they moved in. There would be a bedroom, an office, a guest room, a living room, bathroom and kitchen. They furnished it simply and cheaply; mostly with what they found in the street or junk sales. They put up shelves, placed some old sofas at interesting angles, and even hung up the odd painting.

Then came the newspapers. Nobody can read fast enough, especially when working, to finish every day's newspaper. But they didn't want to throw them away in case they missed some important information. So they stacked the newspapers on a little pile in the corner of the living room behind the couch and under the window.

Soon, magazines and junk mail were added to it. Before long, the pile had risen so high it started blocking part of the window. Although it was only temporary, another pile had to be started. They put it on the end of the dinner table that neither of them used. After that pile threatened to topple, another was started on top of the television, and later still, more paper was crammed in the book shelves between the tops of the books and the bottom of the shelf above.

They wouldn't have found any room in the kitchen, because the cupboards were rapidly filling up with empty jars, empty plastic yogurt and ice cream containers, and empty wine bottles. New pots and pans were bought to replace old unusable ones, but the old ones never found their way out of the kitchen. They were shoved to the back of the cupboard, just in case.

"Just in case what?" a neighbor once asked Aurora. Aurora paused, thinking, then continued rinsing out an empty pickle jar.

In case there is a crisis and we run out of pots and pans, and glasses and bowls. In case all our glasses and bowls break and there are no more or we have no more money… then we can always drink out of jars and eat out of empty margarine tubs…

They wouldn't have found any room under the beds either, since that space was taken up by old suitcases stuffed with old clothes, towels, sheets and rags. Aurora bought new clothes and hung them in closets so full the doors wouldn't shut properly. Once every season she pulled out some older specimens with a sigh of nostalgia, then looked for a plastic bag to stuff them in and added them to the under-the-bed collection.

By Christmas no guests could sleep in the guest room, because as they had filled up all the space under the bed, boxes and cases had to be piled up on top of it. The desk was already high with newspapers.

By spring, plastic bags full of hard bread dangled from every door handle. Baskets full of empty shampoo bottles lined the bathroom floor. Soon Domingo devised a way to hang them from the ceiling. When the old television broke, they bought a new one and simply placed it on top of the old one. They put the broken microwave in the hall. It served as a handy place to store worn-out shoes. When friends offered them some second hand sofas, they simply tipped the old ones on their sides, stuffing spilling out, on the front porch.

Soon, both the office and the guest room were so crammed the doors became blocked. Only then did Aurora give in and officially call them "store rooms", and so admitting a permanence to the temporary situation.

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This turned out to be convenient, as the closed doors to these rooms could now be treated as walls. They moved the sofas and table against this new expanse of wall, opening up a lot more space in the living room.

The little house became gradually darker as mountains of disintegrating newspaper rose up in front of the windows. Plants died, but the dead sticks remained in pots of dry soil. Aurora hated to throw them away in case they should suddenly come back to life. They could find no more room on the table so they ate their dinners off their knees, sitting squeezed into the little space left on the sofas. Aurora strung ropes down the hall and through the living room and hung dresses, coats and skirts from them.

On their way to bed they stepped gingerly around teetering piles of stuff. Soon they closed off the bedroom too ‌ adding to the wall space in the hall.

Domingo had an ingenious idea when the stacks of paper rose high above their bed in the living room. He pulled a mattress out from under the stacks and simply placed it on top. They bought a ladder so they could climb up to sleep at night.

They pulled the fridge out into the hall before they closed off the kitchen and decided it was more convenient to eat out.

Soon the time came when they had to shut off the living room where their bed of newspapers was. Aurora and Domingo found themselves confined to the tiny space just inside the front door. They slept leaning up against it, their heads lolling on each other's shoulders.

One night, trying to avoid the chilly draft coming through the crack under the door, Domingo snuggled up against a teetering tower of magazines and junk mail, dislodging the lower part of the pile. An avalanche of paper crashed down onto the sleeping couple. They were not hurt. But they knew it was time to make some major decisions.

The next morning, the neighbors saw Aurora and Domingo in their bare, little, front garden. Aurora was holding an instruction manual in her hands and reading Domingo directions. Domingo was wrestling with a huge piece of canvas.

That evening, a light was glowing from within the tent. Domingo padlocked the door of the house, picked up that day's newspaper from the porch, and joined Aurora in their new home.

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Living in the Game by Sandra Hood Flash Fiction When the smell of stewing onion creeps under your bedroom door before noon, it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s going to be a bad day. It does mean Mom’s being stubborn again, doing whatever the hell – heck! – she wants. My house, it’s important to keep things normal, that weird grownup logic. I can’t see how taking a stand by cooking pot roast with onions makes much sense, but the smell of a standoff floats in the air.

I roll off piled pink pillows and tilt my chin into different angles at the mirror, wishing Mom had named me Lauren or Ashley or Willow – anything but Jolene. Stupid name. People make fun of me by wailing some old song I’m not even sure is real, but the name comes in handy, I guess.

I stuff the curly, tangled-up hair I refuse to cut into my Braves cap, poking and shoving till it mostly disappears. My head looks twice its normal size. I run down the wood stairs because it sounds like a drumbeat. Mom pops her head out of the kitchen to give me the eye. No eye from me; these blue babies are neutral zone only.

I crank up the Wii, just in case, and plop onto the couch next to Gramps, spend a minute wiggling and shifting, stick my feet on the coffee table and wave them back and forth so he’ll notice me. His wrinkles are scrunched pretty deep but he doesn’t look angry – so far no grunts or what-the-hells (never heck for Gramps) because he hates the pot roast Mom swears used to be his favorite. I’ve tried explaining I used to like baby-dolls. Just because you like something once doesn’t mean you’re stuck with it forever is my thinking.

Right on cue, Gramps lets out a big hmmphh. “What the hell? Gamey meat and onions again? Must be Tuesday!”

A whoop, funniest thing ever said. He finally sees me. “Jeez, Joe, wanta help me bust into the mess? Burn that horsemeat in a bonfire, it’d taste better.”

I guess war food sucked.

“Maybe we should go duck hunting,” I say, powering up my old Shooting Range game nobody plays anymore.

Mom won’t let us play Call of Duty. I sneak a controller into his knobby hands.

“That’d make for a good meal,” he says while a bunch of ducks fly out of the grass and goofy intro music bubbles in the background. His face folds into serious thinking crinkles, like he’s scared but determined, and just like that, he’s in my game, hunched-up shoulders ducking, twisting, bald head bobbing around imaginary brush, thumb pounding the B button. He’s popping off Level 1 balloons like they’re faceless guerrillas.

First duck flies by and Gramps shoots it down. “That one’s gonna be juicy.” He smacks his lips and shouts something he’s never said before. “Got you something good to cook for dinner, Donna Jean.”

Mom’s spoons bang like machine-gun chatter against the pots. I stay away when that happens. She doesn’t like me to see her cry. She misses Grandma.

Gramps grabs my arm, yanks me close, hunkers close to my ear, breathing heavy. “Joe. You gotta hit your target.

Pull it together, man.” Bulls-eye targets flash into view. Gramps spares me a glance and starts firing, blowing apart the grid as fast as it forms. He kills the mii I created for him; he never recognizes the animation as himself, but the round-faced, brown-haired Joe-mii has never even suffered a grazing.

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I point my remote, trailing my crosshatch with stray bullets. I can’t keep up, can’t fire, can’t aim like he does. We fall back sweating, both of us heaving with adrenaline.

“Incoming!” he screams. Level 3 clay pigeons whiz by, zing zoom. I push up, trying to gauge which direction they’ll fly from, left or right. Gramps knows; he’s got those fifth-tour instincts. He’ll cock his head one way or the other and then – Bang! – discs fall, one two three, record time. Two ducks crisscross the sky. He couldn’t care less about the ducks, just discs. Finally the squeals in the sky go silent.

“We gotta go, Joe.” His voice is crackled, raspy, barely a whisper. He presses hard against me, like he’s holding me up. His head whips back and forth, eyes jump around wildly. He starts to count. We’re leaving on three, that’s the plan, then the cans rain from the sky. I don’t remember what happens if they hit the ground. Napalm? We all know about it. You don’t want to be around if napalm’s dropping.

The cans never hit the ground. Gramps whips out his arm and blazes away, pumping five shots into each – pahpahpahpahpah. When I raise my weapon, he throws his arm out, knocking me back, and keeps blasting.

We’re at the end now, and Gramps swipes his sleeve across his forehead, rubs his eyes. “Shit helicopters,” he mutters when Level 5 alien ships descend. “Ah hell no!” he yells, honing in on the first one that grabs a man. The troops are running around crazily, each man for himself, and Gramps keeps blowing up ships, lip snarling whenever a guy gets caught.

He’s shaking. You can hear it when he breathes in. He looks over and his eyes are slick like glass. “Aw no Joe!” he says, hands hovering over me.

I slump away. I never know what to say.

“You’re gonna be okay, Joe. Got any smokes? Let’s have a smoke.”

I fish in my pocket for the two candy canes I got at school, break off the hooks, hand him one and stick the other in my mouth. The way he looks at me, I believe he’s smoking the last cigarette he shared with Joe before Joe died.

A spoon bangs. Maybe Mom’s not being stubborn after all, cooking her roast and onions. At first it seemed mean to transport Gramps back to the war, but something cool happens when he’s in my Shooting Range game.

He’s living.

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Facial Hare by Michael C. Keith Flash Fiction I heard a sudden cry of pain!

There is a rabbit in the snare.

–– James Stephens

Cyril Huguenot was diagnosed with Congenital Hypertrichosis or Ambrose Syndrome, as it was more commonly called. Not long after reaching adulthood, he noticed that his beard was growing more rapidly than it ever had. He would shave in the morning but by noon had a growth far exceeding what was known as a five o’clock shadow.

The thickness of his beard grew to the point that he had to cut it with scissors before attempting to use a conventional razor.

After fighting to control it for several years, he decided to let it grow into a continuing beard. But even that didn’t work, and he found himself chopping it back with alarming frequency. Then he noticed that the hair on the top of his head was also growing at greater speed. Whereas in the past, he would visit Supercuts every four or five weeks, he was now going in two-week intervals. He was even sprouting hair on his forehead and cheeks.

“What’s going on with you, Cy?’ asked his wife, Audrey. You’re beginning to look like Big Foot.”

“Thanks for that. Makes me feel a whole lot better. You know I have a condition.”

“Sorry, hon. I know . . . ., but . . .”

To compound Cyril’s escalating anxiety, his hair had become streaked with gray . . . and soon was completely gray.

“Markey thought you looked like a bunny. That’s what he told his friends,” said Audrey.

“So that’s why all the kids kept coming over.”

“What are you going to do? It’s beginning to look real freaky. Don’t they say anything about it at work?” she inquired.

“Sure they do. They’ve nicknamed me Harvey. You know, after the movie with James Stewart.”

“But no one could see that rabbit. It was invisible. That was the point of the story.”

“Wish no one could see me.”

“So what can you do? I know it’s a disorder . . . Hyper-something, but they must have something better to treat it other than what you take. You can’t go on looking this way. It’s bizarre,” protested Audrey.

“Ambrose Syndrome. It’s called Ambrose Syndrome. I told you that before.”

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Literary Brushstrokes “I know. I said I was sorry, but it was never like this. It’s obviously getting a whole lot worse.”

“I’ve made an appointment with the doctor. I’m as upset about this as you are.”

“You don’t look quite as cute as you did. You’re starting to look more like a wolf than a rabbit. You’re beginning to scare the kids, Cy. Even Markey is afraid.”

“Great, now my own little boy thinks I’m the boogeyman.” *

*

*

The following Monday, Cyril was at the doctor’s office.

“Whoa, looks like your AS is on a tear,” said Dr. Ferris, upon seeing his patient. “Have you been taking your antiandrogens?”

“Ask my wife. I don’t think I have any testosterone left.”

“Sorry to hear that. It can be frustrating, I know, but reducing testosterone is about the only option available to treat your particular medical issue. Let’s increase the dose of your meds for a month and see if that slows things down. I think it might.”

“Hey, may as well. My sex drive is gone now anyway. Can’t get any worse, I suppose.”

“We could take you off the anti-androgens entirely and see what happens,” suggested Ferris.

“Man, I’m afraid I might end up looking like Chewbacca if I stop completely, doc. Scaring the hell out of kids already, including my own son. I don’t know. Let’s try increasing the prescription.”

“Okay, we’ll give it a month. In the meantime, I’ll do some research to see if there are any AS trials going on that you might participate in to see if we can get this under control.”

“If we can’t, I may as well join the circus, because I sure can’t have a normal life looking like this.” *

*

*

Cyril was back in Dr. Ferris’ office four weeks later and despite the medicine boost, his problem had continued to worsen. Hair now covered his entire body, and the density of it obscuring his facial characteristics and making him barely recognizable. His wife did her best to deal with the situation but was understandably upset by what was happening to her husband. Meanwhile, their son had grown increasingly reluctant to be near Cyril, and that pained him greatly.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Huguenot, but I have been unable to find any AS trials, and I’m really at a loss as to what to do to reverse or even slow the growth of your fu . . . ah, hair.”

“It is fur. C’mon, doc, say it . . . thick animal fur. I don’t look human any more. I frighten myself when I look in the mirror.”

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Literary Brushstrokes “How do you feel otherwise? Are there any other physical symptoms?” asked Ferris, moving the tresses that covered Cyril’s eyes in order to shine a light in them.

“Other than feeling like a wooly mammoth? No, not really.”

Cyril didn’t admit that he had become increasingly restless and unable to sleep. During the last couple of weeks, he found himself in his backyard staring at the moon. As it grew full, he became more agitated. At the same time, he experienced a sharp increase in his auditory and olfactory senses, and every noise or movement in the darkness made him jump in fear.

“I think we need to run more tests. AS is not uncommon, but your case is pretty exceptional, to say the least. I’d like to admit you to the hospital after Easter. Let’s say next Tuesday. You’ll only be there overnight.”

Cyril reluctantly agreed to his doctor’s plan and returned home feeling that his life would never be normal again, if it had ever been. *

*

*

By Saturday, Cyril had not slept a wink, and an inexplicable urge was beginning to take hold of him. By evening, the strange and wild impulse drove him from the house. In the bright light of the full moon, he found himself slipping into the homes of his sleeping neighbors to feed his overpowering desire After a few hours, Cyril felt his insistent needs met and hopped from the window of the last home on his block. He returned to his own house where he finally fell into a deep, restorative sleep.

In the morning, shrieks echoed through the neighborhood. Children had discovered the largest Easter baskets they had ever seen.

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Vivian’s Grave by Albert Ruggiero Fiction Some people are like a lightning rod when it comes to the strange and mysterious things in this world. I am one of those people. And this is my story of a ghost and her revenge, and her effort to enlist my help.

Across the Street from my new apartment was a large graveyard, up on the hill called Calvary and when I drove through it in my car the gravestones talked to me. Each one wanted me to do their bidding. There were young voices, old raspy voices, and a cacophony of sounds coming from the ground, like moans and screams all muffled and seeming to be coming from a great distance. My mouth went dry and I began to sweat even though it was the middle of winter. I became nervous and afraid, thinking that maybe I was having a schizophrenic episode. But I soon came to realize that it was because of my gift that I heard these voices.

One particular grave called out to me above all the rest. The grave had a large carved image of a Roman woman dressed in robes kneeling down with her head cradled in her hand. Getting out of the car and crunching through the snow I noticed the grave stone had the name Chase chiseled on the front of it. Snow-covered icicles dripped off the top of the carved statue. The clouds hung low over the graveyard. I shivered because of the cold but most of all because I was nervous and afraid. The gravestone beckoned me to stand in front of it and listen to the voice coming from underground.

It told me, in what seemed like a woman’s voice, that I had a mission to complete. She said that she was restless and a wrong had to be made right. From her words I got the impression that her aim was to gently, little by little, to bewilder me, and to charm and stupefy me. It was the eternal role of woman toward man.

I jumped, my heart leapt into my mouth as the stone statue turned towards me and smiled. But it was a chilling smile, a demanding smile, a smile that sent cold fingers up my spine. I thought I will wake up soon and this will all go away. But it didn’t. And now I was compelled to do what she demanded.

Even from this ghostly voice I could hear the sadness, the longing, the frustration as she fought to hold back tears.

She said that it had happened in the early 1800s. She told me that her sister, Susan, had poisoned her because she had found out that she was in love with her husband.

In point of fact they were found in each other’s arms by Susan. But that after the incident Vivian thought her sister’s resentment no longer existed after she had promised to break it off with her husband. I couldn’t help thinking this was a modern-day Hamlet story. I never believed that Hamlet’s father, being a ghost could talk to Hamlet. But here it was, a Hamlet-like ghost talking about revenge. Or was it just a delusion? Whether it was or not I had the sense that if I didn’t do what I was told, something horrible would happen to me. If she had the power to talk to me from the grave what other powers of retribution might she have?

I had to research the strange happening to see if it was just in my mind or if it did exist. Lo and behold, after sitting in the dank cellar of the library and pouring over old microfiche copies of forgotten Republican American newspapers, I found that there was an unusual sudden death of one of the Chase sisters.

They were an influential and powerful family that lived in the area. The sister Susan had gone to Italy for vacation and after a month or so she had returned. A short time after that, her sister Vivian had taken sick. Sitting alone in Spring/Summer 2014 – Page 28

Literary Brushstrokes the bowels of library my imagination went wild and I thought that maybe she had met one of the descendants of the Borgia’s, those great poisoners of Kings and Queens.

There is tradition in Italy of poisoning your political enemies so that it seemed that they died of natural causes. In point of fact I have an image in my mind’s eye, which has haunted me ever since Vivian spoke to me from the grave. I see Susan getting a flask of potent ancient poison from a haggard old lady wearing a tattered black satin robe and accepting only gold as payment. I admit that it seems to be an ancient image. And incidences like that don’t take place in our scientific age. But the image will not leave my mind. It is as if Vivian planted it deep within my subconscious so that I would not forget.

Vivian’s voice, the voice from the grave was very specific. She knew exactly where the little smoky colored flask was hidden. How she got this knowledge after her death or realized Susan put its contents into her drink I do not know. Maybe it’s because the dead have universal knowledge, and can see into the future and back into the past but it was where Susan said it would be.

I was told to go to the red brick house that was at the end of Trolley Street. There, in the middle of the gated yard, next to the house was a small gnarled apple tree. And under the tree was a bench; buried beneath one of the legs was the flask. I tipped the marble bench over. Its legs held onto the ice and snow but underneath I could see the cold ground. The spade I used rang out a metallic echo in the cold night air. The brown earth chipped away in little frozen chunks. Until finally I uncovered a purple silk hanky and in that hanky were the remains of the smashed flask. I had a strange compulsion to put the flask up to my nose. It smelled like almonds.

My next step was to go to the police and show them the evidence that I found. But it wasn’t as easy as all that.

When I went to the police station and showed them, they looked at me as if I was crazy and maybe they were right.

But for all that I could see the evidence pointed to the fact that Vivian had been poisoned. Just between us, I could understand their reluctance, because it was over 100 years that the incident had happened and the procedure for having the grave exhumed was a long lengthy legal effort.

“Okay buddy what do you want?” The detective said. He had on a white shirt, opened collar and a grey tie hanging off of his neck. His hair was red crew cut.

“I want you to look at some of the evidence that I found showing that Vivian, one of the Chase sisters, was poisoned?” I dropped my papers on his desk along with the broken flask.

He shuffled through the papers haphazardly, reading things here and there. Then he threw the papers back on his desk. “Do you know how much effort it would take to open up this case?”

“Don’t you think it’s important to fix something if you know it’s wrong?” I asked. “Just smell the broken flask.

Doesn’t it smell like almonds to you? That indicates some kind of poison, right?”

The glass made a tinkling sound as he put it up to his nose and smelled it. “Okay, leave it with me and I’ll look into it,” he said. After that he put the papers and the flask in a large manila envelope and put it on top of his file cabinet.

I was at the point of giving up but the fact that her voice followed me everywhere and that I saw her even in my dreams pushed me to do more. Up till now I only had a vague image of her in my mind. But a significant event Spring/Summer 2014 – Page 29

Literary Brushstrokes changed all that. I was pushed by forces I did not understand to go to the Matatuck museum. It was as if I was in a dream and every action that I took was orchestrated by Vivian. I was a marionette on strings. All of a sudden I stood in front of a miniature replica of the mansion-like Chase house. Life-size pictures of the Chase family stared out from behind the glass. The pictures were color enhanced from all that was known about the Chase family. The photo of Vivian seemed to float above all the rest.

She had on a dark billowy bustled dress that went to the floor along with a sheer white lace blouse. Her hair was jet black, and her eyes cat green. Her hair was pulled up in a bun on top of her head. And her waist was so small that I imagined that I could place my fingers around it. She was a very beautiful woman with her rosy cheeks and alabaster complexion. And I must admit that after staring at the picture I felt the love for her building in my heart.

This possibly was the craziest thing of all, how could I fall in love with an image? Was her love and respect for me reaching out from the grave? Possibly the dreams were not just dreams but her trying to communicate with me from her last resting place.

There was no sex with her in the dreams; she had an air of stateliness and superiority about her. She seemed to be unreachable and from another age. But there were times in the dream when she would come over and caress my cheek and say, “don’t give up. You are my Knight and you will save me.” And when I woke from the dreams there would be a lingering smell, almost a musky sweet smell. I can only describe it as the universal perspiration of women.

Then gradually a strange thing happened. I no longer was compelled by a strange ghost from the grave to do her bidding. How many important things in this life are left undone? I thought. This was my chance, although only a little chance to make things right. I was determined to change the course of the universe, even if I had to battle forces that I did not understand.

The next step that I was about to take was the most tenuous of all. I was going to go to the family and tell them what I had found. The house that I had seen in the museum was in an affluent neighborhood in Litchfield County, so I drove up there one cold rainy overcast morning. The house was up on a Hill away from the road. The property was neglected and the plants were allowed to grow wild.

A light drizzle was coming from the clouds when I approached the house. The rain had washed much of the snow away until all that was left were small little whitecaps on blackened snow. Wide stone steps led up to the building and there were small bushes growing up and through the steps. Skinny white Birch trees grew among small Oaks and Poplars. All the trees had lost their leaves. The branches looked like skinny dark fingers against the sky. I couldn’t help thinking that they would grab me, but they just stared down at me as I walked up to the large front door.

The structure had five dunce-like shaped turrets eying the steps and sagging towards the middle of the house. The house was tired and old and doing its best to survive the changeable New England weather. The structure was made out of dark gray Fieldstone, poison ivy and Virginia creeper vines clung to the side of the building. The sun popped through the clouds and made a feeble attempt to brighten up the Gothic building, but even its light was rejected.

As I reached the top step a small twisted bush pulled at my pants. I reached up and slammed the brass knocker against the door. I heard the echo inside the house. Within a minute the door swung open and a man with straggly hair and grungy overalls stood in front of me.

“Yeah so what do you want?” He said.

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“Is this the Chase family house?” The words sputtered out of my mouth, I was so nervous. How and why this medieval structure was in the middle of a New England landscape I did not know. As far as I could tell the people who lived in it now, did not have the money to keep it up. “I know something that you might be interested in,” I said. I looked straight at him expecting some kind of response but he just ignored me.

“You have some money to give me?” He asked.

“No.” I wanted to turn and leave but I knew that I had a mission to complete. I was aware of the presence of Vivian in her long flowing dress standing next to me nudging me forward, not allowing me to take a step backward. I stood there, which seemed like an eternity, staring at this scarecrow of a man.

Finally he pulled the creaky door open a little bit more and said, “Come on in. Sit.” I sat in a high backed chair in the middle of the room. Opposite the chair was a great sagging sofa.

He flopped on the sofa and at the same time reached for his drink that was sitting on the table next to the couch.

He gulped some of the drink. “Oh,” he said. “Want some?” He held up the bottle of vodka in front of his face.

“No not really,” I said. But he ignored me, got up, picked up a water glass and poured it half full of vodka. Then he sat down. I sipped a little bit of the vodka just to be polite.

“You got anything for me,” he said. He looked at me as if I knew exactly what he meant.

“You know, my allowance every Wednesday for keeping the place up.” Then he took a big gulp again to bolster his courage.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Oh, my name is Henry.”

“Well Henry, I have information about the murder of one of the Chase sisters.” I glanced at him to see what reaction I had dredged up. There was no reaction at all, except that he grabbed the bottle and rested it between his legs. “Her name was Vivian,” I said.

“Don’t know anything about it. I’m just a cousin that gets paid to keep the place up,” he said. He waved the bottle in front of me. “Want some more?”

“No. Thanks for your time.” Sighing and then shuffling the papers in my hand back into a neat pile, I came to the realization this was another dead end. I got up and went to the front door. Just as I grabbed the handle of the door to leave he came up close behind me and whispered in my ear, so close that I could smell the vodka on his breath.

“Say listen can you spot me a twenty till I get paid?” It was obvious to me that his embarrassment prevented him from looking me straight in the eye. He held out his hand.

“Here you go,” I said. Then I put a crumpled up twenty in the palm of his hand and walked out the door.

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Literary Brushstrokes After this meeting my enthusiasm for Vivian’s murderer was leaking out of me like the air escaping from a balloon.

I was no longer puffed up but flat.

A week went by and there were no more voices, no more dreams, and no more people looking at me as if I were crazy. Until one afternoon while I was looking across the street at the Calvary Cemetery I could hear jackhammers, and see a backhoe digging up the ground.

I thought that it was just another person getting buried but my curiosity got the best of me and I walked across and onto the road that snakes through the cemetery. To my surprise the detective that I had talked to so long ago was standing next to the open grave. It was Vivian’s grave. I felt alive, alive again and unburdened because now I knew that a wrong had been made right. My casket was being lifted out of that grave along with Vivian’s.

The detective’s eyes met mine as I walked up close to the burial place. Then he just nodded his head. I knew at that instant that all my effort was worth it.

As the vault was being lifted out of the hole in the ground a single voice came from the earth. It said, “Thank You.”

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Author & Artist Bios Jessica Chrapliwy is a talented writer who has an eye for composition in good photography and oil painting. Her photograph Swan Song graces the cover of this issue.

Mary Ann Cooper is a writer who resides in Westport, Connecticut. She has been published in Salon, Halfway Down The Stairs and Brain, Child. She is presently at work on her memoir, “The Hollis Ten.” Anita Haas is a Canadian teacher and writer living in Madrid, Spain, since the nineties. She has published three books on film, one as sole author, Eli Wallach, vitalidad y picardía, with a prologue by Clint Eastwood, and two with her husband, Carlos Aguilar, John Phillip Law, Diabolik Angel and Eugenio Martin. She has also published stories in the anthologies Courting the Bull and La ciudad vestida de negro, as well as articles, short stories and poetry in both English and Spanish magazines.

Leona Charleigh Holman appreciates what flash nonfiction/fiction can accomplish. Charleigh spends the better part of every weekend whittling down longer stories and essays to fit the conventions of micro writing.

Sandra Hood is an accountant by day, writer by choice. A member of the North Georgia Writers Group, she enjoys the privilege of working with talented writers from whom she unabashedly borrows inspiration and editing skills.

Her first short story appeared in O Georgia! A Collection of Georgia’s Newest and Most Promising Writers, and her novel Blood Exchange was released in April 2014. She occasionally blogs or posts stories on her website at www.sshoodfiction.com.

A.J. Huffman has published five solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. Her sixth solo chapbook will be published in October by Writing Knights Press. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and the winner of the 2012 Promise of Light Haiku Contest. Her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press - www.kindofahurricanepress.com. Her photography has also graced the covers of Literary Brushstrokes.

Michael C. Keith is the author of more than 20 books on electronic media, among them Talking Radio, Voices in the Purple Haze, Radio Cultures, Signals in the Air, and the classic textbook The Radio Station (now Keith’s Radio Station). The recipient of numerous awards in the academic field, he is also the author of dozens of articles and short stories and has served in a variety of editorial positions. In addition, he is the author of an acclaimed memoir––The Next Better Place, a young adult novel––Life is Falling Sideways, and six story collections. He has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and a PEN/O.Henry Award and was a finalist for the National Indie Excellence Award for short fiction anthology and a finalist for the 2013 International Book Award in the “Fiction Visionary” category. Website: www.michaelckeith.com.

Janet McCann has won five chapbook contests, sponsored by Pudding Publications, Chimera Connections, Franciscan University Press, Plan B Press, and Sacramento Poetry Center. A 1989 NEA Creative Writing Fellowship winner, she has taught at Texas A & M University since 1969. Her most recent poetry collection: The Crone at the Cathedral (Lamar University Press, 2013).

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Emilee Rosell is currently an undergraduate student pursing her degree in English at a university in Florida.

Although a native to North Carolina, she has recently moved to southern Florida where she lives with her family.

Through writing, she hopes to help others make sense of life and its experiences. She is delighted to share this work as her first publication.

Albert Ruggiero writes now that he is retired and loves it. He writes about what he believes is important in life: respect, love, sacrifice and the awe that he sees in the human spirit. He has been published on the Writing Tomorrow web site, Riverbabble web site, and last but not least in Literary Brushstrokes. He currently has a book of short stories published called The Curious Boy. Jeffrey Zable has been publishing poetry, prose, and Nonfiction in literary magazines and anthologies since the mid 70's. He's published five chapbooks including Zable's Fables with an introduction by the late great Beat writer Harold Norse. Present or upcoming work in Toad Suck Review, Clarion, Edge, Snow Monkey, Futures Trading, Boston Literary Magazine, Owen Wister Review, The Alarmist, Vayavya, Sassafras and many others.

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Literary Brushstrokes

Literary Brushstrokes

Submissions to: www.LiteraryBrushstrokes.com

©May 2014

The Bridge by A.J. Huffman

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