SPRING 2013
Halcyon Spring 2013
|
Halcyon Magazine ISSN: 2291-0255 Frequency: Quarterly Founding Editor|Designer: Monique Berry
Special Notices
Contact Info http://halcyonmagazine.blogspot.ca monique.editor@gmail.com 1-905-549-3981
Halcyon has one time rights. See website for subscription details. No photocopies allowed.
About the founder MONIQUE BERRY is the founder of Twisted Endings, Halcyon Magazine, and Praise Writers. She also founded the former Perspectives and Christian Perspectives magazine. Monique lives in Hamilton, ON, Canada and is the workshop leader of “First Impressions,” a local writers group. Contact her at monique.editor@gmail.com.
In this Issue Photo Credits: Photoxpress.com—Cover photo bunkyo; p4 Vanessa van Rensburg; p5 Sweet Angel; p6 SVG; p7 Elnur; p8 Elenathewise, p9 Subbotina Anna; p9 dbvirago; p12 S_E; p13 olegator1977; p14 andibyte; p15 pressmaster. All other photos are public domain from www.pixabay.com.
Contributors: Anna A. Fellows, Christine Wessel Thompson, Craig Steele, Debbie Okun Hill, Don Russ, Holly Day, Janet McCann, Jon Moray, Julie Foo, Mitch Meyer, Patricia A. McGoldrick, Rachel Loveday, Rebecca Michelle Halton, S. Alex, Sara Etgen-Baker
Poetry
Haiku
4
First Lullaby
9
5
What I Like About Spring
9, 13 Craig Steele
6
The Snowman
7
To Every Season
8
As Flowers Bloom
9
Painting the Room
10 Trans-Atlantic 11 Water’s Wish 12 Spring Heralds 13 Two White Birds 14 Spring Snapshots 15 Surrender
2 | Halcyon Spring 2013
Patricia A. McGoldrick
Fiction 16 Chances An aged Detroit Tigers baseball fan attends a spring training baseball game with his wife. His experience at the game is enhanced by a kind natured child who understands a thing about chances.
Nonfiction 18 Ticket to Ride Sara Etgen-Baker has found that that living life beyond convention has filled both her spirit and her life with adventure, eagerness, creativity, and soulfulness.
FROM THE EDITOR
CONTRIBUTORS
I am so pleasured with the beautiful, uplifting publication this season! Finding the quotes below added to my joy. “Can words describe the fragrance of the very breath of spring?” ― Neltje Blanchan
The sun has come out...and the air is vivid with spring light. —Byron Caldwell Smith, letter to Kate Stephens
Breath of spring. Spring light. Isn’t that beautiful? That’s how I see the environment around me after designing and reading the content within the pages of this issue. Speaking of warm feelings, please consider giving your favorite writer acknowledgement and feedback—myself included. Without further ado, enjoy the poetry and stories and then pass it around! And when you finish reading the magazine, why not try your hand at submitting for the summer issue? Details on how to submit your work can be found on the website. Keep thinking Halcyon thoughts.
Founding Editor monique.editor@gmail.com
DEBBIE OKUN HILL is one of five Canadian poets featured in ENCOMPASS 1, a new TOPS anthology series published by Beret Days Press. This Fall 2013, Black Moss Press will published her first trade book. She is also currently working on a new poetry manuscript thanks to a grant from the Ontario Arts Council (OAC) Writers’ Reserve program. REBECCA MICHELLE HALTON, better known as Becky, is a creative soul; neurotically trapped in the passive-aggressive body of an aspiring studentwriter. Becky's work seeks to conn e ct w it h ot he r s in encouraging a message of acceptance, by openly exploring life's challenges and appreciating the simplistic beauty in nature, love and solitude. Currently residing in Ottawa, ON, Canada, she is in her final year at Carleton University as a Psychology and English student. In her spare time, Becky enjoys writing poetry and short-stories, making cards, scrapbooking, painting, designing photo frames and indulging in the creative arts. PATRICIA A. MCGOLDRICK is a Kitchener, Ontario Canada writer whose poetry and reviews have been published in the Christian Science Monitor, The WM Review Connection, and ChapterandVerse.ca. Poems have been published in anthologies: Animal Companions, Animal Doctors, Animal People; Beyond the Dark Room, an international collection of transformative poetry, with proceeds from book sales being given to Doctors Without Borders/MSF; Poetic Bloomings--the first year. Patricia is a member of The Ontario Poetry Society and the League of Canadian Poets. Contact Patricia at W E B: Patricia-Anne-McGoldrick BLOGS: PM_Poet Writer; PM27's blog; TWITTER: @pamcgoldrick.
Halcyon Spring 2013
|3
First Lullaby By Don Russ
Not apart. A part – I am a part, I think, of all there is. My eyes still closed, I hear birdcalls and also distant thunder. The day begins dimly insistent, its leaves still singing even as in my dream it drips and quivers rain. In a tree-top bed then, in my whispering head, I let night return the whisper-world’s first lullaby.
4 | Halcyon Spring 2013
“...Its leaves still singing even as in my dream it drips and quivers rain.”
DON RUSS has a poem in The Best American Poetry 2012. He publishes regularly and widely in the literary magazines and is the author of Dream Driving (Kennesaw State University Press, 2007) and the chapbook Adam’s Nap (Billy Goat Press, 2005).
What I Like About Spring By Debbie Okun Hill
Kiss of rain, rhythmic way it finger taps through clouds plays music on keyboard rooftop. Color of dandelions bright yellow sunshine faces against green cushioned lawn. Taste of asparagus melted butter tips against my tongue. Scent of lilacs uplifting angelic spirits in vase a heavenly arrangement. Sound of singing birds an American robin morning’s alarm clock. All senses awakening refreshing as water spring cleaning complete.
Halcyon Spring 2013
|5
The Snowman By Holly Day
We drive our stakes and shovels through the heart of the beast and pray for an end to winter. We stomp on its head, kick its black coal eyes far across the yard and take back our old clothes from its body. No more snow, we pray. No more cold. The snowman lies where we kicked it down arms outstretched in supplication, begging for mercy against the onslaught of our thick winter boots, lit torches paper packets of early-sow seeds held close to our chests in anticipation of spring. HOLLY DAY is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes in the Minneapolis school district. Her poetry has recently appeared in The Worcester Review, Broken Pencil, and Slipstream, and she is the recipient of the 2011 Sam Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her most recent published book is “Notenlesen für Dummies Das Pocketbuch,” while her novel, “The Trouble With Clare,” is due out from Hydra Publications in 2013. Contact Holly at lalena@bitstream.net.
6 | Halcyon Spring 2013
To Every Season
By Christine Wessel Thompson Frozen teardrops cling to limbs of weeping willows Whispering hymns and prayer For it is the winter of despair In the air the breeze of death Harrowing up souls of the dank and the dead Frozen ground the bed of copulation. In the wind there blows a sound of reincarnation and spring The new seedlings bring potted gold Rosa unfold and bring forth the new into this garden of Eden The grassy pew holds two‌innocence and experience‌ Both must pray. CHRISTINE WESSEL THOMPSON is a forty-something-year-old mother and teacher. She is an avid reader, and has a guilty pleasure for all things vampire. She values higher level thinking, empathy, and a willingness to learn. She lives life with conviction, and believes that we must all carve out our own joy. Christine is new to the writing world, and is currently working on her first novel for young readers. Her work appears in The Fieldstone Review and TWOAB. Contact Christine at alexisthompson@sympatico.ca.
Halcyon Spring 2013
|7
As Flowers Bloom
By Rebecca Michelle Halton Confusion, delusion, but not a mistake. I've been climbing these walls and just found the gate, to the garden of flowers where I'd like to stay: writing, loving, gardening, until my dying day. No matter the weather, the sun, clouds or rain, I'll stand right here, yet never in vain. For each raindrop and sunbeam is not misconstrued, as we stand side-by-side and watch flowers bloom.
8 | Halcyon Spring 2013
“...Just found the gate, to the garden of flowers where I’d like to stay...”
Down the lane Apple trees in pink Flanked by towering spruce trees Springtime is here now. Patricia A. McGoldrick
Backyard abuzz! silver maple branch bursting buds of red screaming exquisite spring joy! Patricia A. McGoldrick
sunset pinker than yesterday ― crabapples bloom Craig Steele
PAINTING THE ROOM By Janet McCann
The smell screams, though I have opened windows And sprayed lavender, which can’t compete With the chemical stink. It is Sunday and I remember Being told not to work on Sunday, not to do laundry. But it’s Sunday and I would recreate this room. To make, remake a room is fit for Sunday, Better than cooking chicken. A room is a proper Goal, a room with bright space and blue curtains, With a table to put your half-done poems on And some chairs set out for unexpected guests. I raise and lower my arm, covering walls, Covering walls with light, dripping light, Watching tree shadows fade, sharpen, fade, Singing along with the pulsing April rhythms, Humming hymns to the noisy Sunday grackles, O Rock of Ages. Amazing Grace. JANET MCCANN has been teaching creative writing at Texas A&M since 1968. NEA in 1889; poems hither and yon. Most recent collection: Carlos Café, Sacramento Poetry Center, 2012. Contact Janet at j-mccann1@tamu.edu.
Halcyon Spring 2013
|9
Trans-Atlantic By S. Alex
In like a lion and out like a lamb, like lovers on the run without a plan. And in the calm wake of the great lakes, I keep flowers growing for your sake.
“I am the caretaker, relief worker for Mother Nature.”
Ones to pluck and keep, and wither like autumn’s leaf.
Your plucky talk will soon sate,
Ones to vase and be adored,
as new born foals abandon gait.
like ships come home moored.
I will harvest the bruised bits of your soul,
And ones to grow and bloom till winter,
ignite them as fists of coal.
to pull your melancholy as a splinter. All these roots grow with ease,
Home is not where your heart is,
even if we can’t traipse seas.
it is where each tiny shoot started.
I am the caretaker,
And we are a sight to be seen,
relief worker for Mother Nature.
when everything turns green.
S. ALEX is a Canadian writer from the Niagara Region. Her work has appeared in InkTank Magazine, Featherlit, BareBack Magazine, The Entroper, Writers Haven and S/tick. Visit her website at http://paperhearse.blogspot.ca.
10 | Halcyon Spring 2013
Water’s Wish
By Mitch Meyer Stream water like lottery balls clinking, chiming, slides over lucky pebbles blinking in the sun. Some roll this way; some roll not— preferring to relax and stay in that same spot. Nothing wrong with doing nothing at all. Those minnows know, grooving their fins to the water’s shape. Letting that water shape their path in life. Just like the rocks, and just like the fish. We’re all moved by the water’s wish to carve out a beautiful design on the face of the earth; each curve richer than a lottery Although MITCH MEYER, a college freshman, is majoring in Computer Science, his real passion lies in writing poetry and short stories. He currently resides in warm California with his grandmother, younger brother, and bulldog (who he refers to as his older brother). An avid music fanatic, Mitch loves record shopping with his friends; he's also teaching himself to play several instruments, the drums perhaps being the only one so far at which he's decent. Contact Mitch at mishunary@gmail.com.
Halcyon Spring 2013
| 11
Spring Heralds
By Anna A. Fellows Birds burst into joyous song, an ever-growing avian symphony. Dew on the grass become tiny drops of crystallized diamond while the soft warm breeze caresses my face. Flowers have sprouted from the ground in the wake of early storms, and as the first bees flit and buzz in search of nourishment, a multitude of sneezes echo from the garden.
ANNA A. FELLOWS enjoys writing poems of the things around her—of portraying them in a different light. It's fun to flip things sideways or on their heads, or at any angle really. Contact Anna at artys1luv@yahoo.com.
12 | Halcyon Spring 2013
Two White Birds
By Rebecca Michelle Halton As I watch two white doves, dancing in the wind, twirling through clear blue skies, I think of last night, your arms wrapped around me, looking down at city lights from up high. Come dance with me, we'll fly away, across rivers, fields and hills. We'll feel the rush, the cool breeze's gust, through streaking lights and night's sparkling thrills...
white herons dive into fuchsia haze― lakeshore dawn Craig Steele
CRAIG W. STEELE resides in the countryside of northwestern Pennsylvania, not far from Lake Erie. His haiku have appeared recently in a handful of stones, the Aurorean, Modern Haiku, South by Southeast, Boston Literary Magazine and elsewhere, and are forthcoming at Shamrock Haiku Journal, Boston Literary Magazine and Eskimo Pie. Contact Craig at csteele@wildblue.net.
Halcyon Spring 2013
| 13
Spring Snapshots By Julie Foo
Silent clocks steal an hour and winter whisks away. Plants stir from sleep and stretch their leaves, while Red robins rob for worms on new green grass. In rows, cherry blossoms curve into pink cathedrals and, Nodding tulips dance daintily with one another. Gently, softly, begins this season of plenty.
JULIE FOO is 56 years old. She used to write poetry as a teenager and has recently reignited her love for writing poetry—about things she sees around her, usually about nature, flora, and fauna. “Writing poems is like having magic dust; you can turn all the things you see into anything you like.”
14 | Halcyon Spring 2013
Surrender
By Rachel Loveday The time has come for us to put our swords away and surrender— Surrender to the realisation that our war is over the armistice has come it is time for inner peace and for us to hook on to a new lease, on our lives. It is time for a new beginning. The time has come— for us to surrender and to always remember what was can never be again. It’s time to move on my friend. It is time for a new beginning. This is the end— this is where we say goodbye. We shake hands, let go we forgive, we forget, we must let the animosity melt so we can walk away and move on. That’s the way it is, it is what it is. Surrender to the path forward. Surrender to the new beginning. Surrender and always remember...
RACHEL LOVEDAY is an Australian writer who is currently studying creative writing and journalism at the University of Wollongong, an hour away from Sydney. She has previously been published in Australia and in Canada. She was published in Perspectives Magazine in July 2009, January 2010 and January 2011.
Halcyon Spring 2013
| 15
Chances
By Jon Moray An aged, die-hard Detroit Tigers baseball fan realizes that the spring training baseball game he attends with his wife likely is his last, due to his rapidly declining health. His experience at the game is enhanced by a kind natured child who understands a thing about chances.
“Ed, are you okay in there?” asked his wife Edna, concerned that her husband’s bathroom time had been running exceedingly long. “I‘m okay,” he called, trying to mask the piercing discomfort in his side. Ed had just celebrated his 80th birthday the week before in a hospital, fighting liver problems. “If you want to see batting practice, we’d better get a move on.” Ed and Edna were on there way out to see a spring training baseball game between the Detroit Tigers and the Houston Astros. Ed has been a Tigers fan since boyhood, growing up in the Detroit area. He has been going to Tigers spring training games in Lakeland ever since retiring to Florida in 1987. A postal worker for twenty five years, his retirement to Lakeland was a natural destination for him due to his undying love for his team. Most years, he would go to at least ten games per season. Last year, he attended two; his fading health being the reason for the decline. “I’m coming dear,” he replied, while encroaching on the sad reality that this game might be his last chance to see his Tigers up close. He emerged from the bathroom wearing a navy tee with a Bengal tiger crawling through the distinct Old English “D” on the front of the shirt and a sweat stained Tigers cap on his head that he has worn at games for the last twenty years. The drive to Joker Marchant Stadium was uneventful. After paying seven dollars for parking, they walked slowly toward the Mediterranean styled stadium. Ed’s hands trembled with anticipation, as if this was his very first game. They got their tickets scanned and navigated through the turnstiles. Baseballs were flying off bats and gloves popped as they made their way 16 | Halcyon Spring 2013
to the field box seats on the first base side, the side of the home team, the side of the Tigers. “Verlander is pitching today,” Ed cheered and nudged Edna with childlike enthusiasm, referring to arguably the games‘ best hurler. The weather was a cooperating 75 degrees and the sun was bursting in full sight with just a few hints of faint clouds off in the distance. The gentle intermittent breeze made it a perfect day for a ballgame.
As they settled in their seats, they witnessed players from both teams running outfield sprints, fielders warming up their arms and hitters taking batting practice. Fans cheered feverishly for their favorite players, especially when the reigning MVP and Triple Crown winner, Miguel Cabrera interacted with them. Ed drew a deep content sigh, basking in the sights and sounds of America’s pastime; the game of baseball. What a day game at a baseball stadium was to him, was like a beach for most people; peaceful and relaxing. “How about some popcorn?” Edna asked, enticingly. “Let’s wait until the game starts…on second thought, popcorn will be great right now.” Edna motioned toward the vendor and bought a large bag to share with her significant other. As they enjoyed the extra buttery snack, a father and son sat behind them, both sporting Tigers gear. Suddenly a batted ball rocketed in their direction. Ed quickly handed the popcorn to Edna and fumbled to get to his feet to make an attempt at a souvenir, but clumsily slipped back down as the boy behind him prepared to make the catch. The ball hit the palm of his glove and landed harmlessly in Ed’s lap. He massaged the ball for a moment before handing it back to the kid. “It’s yours sir.” “No kid, you had it first.” “I should’ve caught it. It’s yours fair and square. I’ll have plenty more chances to get one.” Ed pondered the boy’s reasoning, reluctantly nodded and thanked him. He continued his inspection of the ball, feeling the threaded texture of the red stitches. He brought the ball to his nose and inhaled the aromatic stains left by fresh cut grass while reminiscing of his days as a kid playing the game in youth leagues and in high school. The song “Centerfield” was heard over the public address system to the pleasure of several eager fans who offered their renditions.
The warm ups on the field continued, when suddenly one of the Tigers’ sluggers sauntered over to the first base side and towards the beckoning fans seeking autographs. Ed gripped his ball tightly and tried to get to his feet for an autograph only to slink back down in sorrowed resignation. Edna tried lovingly to console him with kind words but Ed’s face screamed of disappointment. “Mister, can I see your baseball?” asked the boy, tapping Ed on the shoulder. Ed reached up without looking and the boy grabbed it away. The boy had a quick whispered exchange with Edna, then rushed down to field level, wiggling by fans of all ages until he was no longer visible to his dad. His dad rose and followed in pursuit. There was a sea of humanity huddled around where the slugger stood signing autographs. Moments later the kid surfaced from the crowd and greeted his dad. They both scaled the steps back to their seats and the kid reached out towards Ed. “Here you go, mister. I got Prince Fielder to sign it for you. I told him the autograph was for the Tigers’ biggest fan and he smiled as if he knew it was you.” Ed spied upon the autograph wide eyed and mouth agape. His pupils darted back and forth at each curve in the elliptical signature. “Thank you so much. You should really keep it. This one you earned.” “Look on the other side of the ball. It’s personalized. Besides, I’ll have plenty more chances to get one.” “You are raising quite a boy there,” Ed said to the dad. The dad humbly acknowledged him. Ed rotated the ball and his eyes sparkled when he read the words. Ed, it is fans like you that always gives the Tigers a chance. “Looks like we picked a great day to go to a game,” Edna commented. “I’m having the time of my life and the game hasn’t even begun,” Ed beamed, as he sat back and exhaled deeply.
JON MORAY lives in Kissimmee, Florida, and has been writing short stories for four years. Contact Jon at dcnyyrom1@hotmail.com.
Halcyon Spring 2013
| 17
Ticket to Ride By Sara Etgen-Baker
At 61, Sara Etgen-Baker still enjoys Ferris wheels and setting her spirit free. She’s found that that living life beyond convention has filled both her spirit and her life with adventure, eagerness, creativity, and soulfulness. “You gotta have a ticket to ride!” snapped the Carney. “Get a ticket or move outta da way, kid. You’re takin’ up space!” I stared motionless—hypnotized—as the magical wheel with its clockwise, circular motions cut through the heavy August clouds. “Here’s her ticket, sir. We three are ridin’ together.” “Not happenin’, lady—only two per chair. One of youz has to ride by yerself.” “No problem, sir…she’s the oldest; she’ll ride by herself.” “Whatever ya say, lady. She seems a bit scared to me though.” Aunt Betty scooted me to the next seat and said, “You’re okay with that, aren’t you sweetie?” I tried to swallow, but couldn’t. Unable to speak, I nodded yes hoping not to show my fear and doubt. Within an instant, I sat paralyzed and alone in the seat, waiting, pushing aside my fear of heights and wondering why my dear Aunt Betty left me to ride alone. Just two days earlier I’d stood on the
18 | Halcyon Spring 2013
banks of the Mississippi River and watched the Ferris wheel being assembled on the fairgrounds. I imagined climbing aboard one of the cars; riding the circle of lights; watching the sun set over the Mississippi; seeing the city’s lights from atop; and feeling the chair sway in the summer breeze. My fascination had turned to fear—fluttering in my stomach like crazy butterflies. “Single rider!” shouted the Carney. “Put down the bar so we can all go!” the Carney barked. The wheel turned slowly, then faster; the earth below me moved and became smaller; then the chair rocked back and forth, and I came to rest high upon the apogee—stranded, alone, looking across the Mississippi River at the Old Mississippi River Bridge and the Old Lorimier Cemetery. Above me soft white clouds drifted by. Below me, a Mississippi steamboat—reminiscent of the one that Mark Twain piloted—glided its way through the mighty river’s current. I followed the muddy river as it snaked its way through the countryside below me. Every inch of the legendary waterway brought something new into
view—odd little islands, hills, woods, and towns. For a brief moment I thought I saw Lewis and Clark standing atop the bluffs mapping the river’s course. No longer landlocked, I sat silent between anguish and ecstasy—suddenly empty of fearful thoughts and full of soothing thoughts. I closed my eyes as the Ferris wheel slowly turned round ‘n round and carried me to heaven. As I re-opened my eyes, evening approached; I felt as if I was traveling into space. The rhythmic rat tat tat tuh of the Ferris wheel’s machinery freed my thoughts as my spirit soared high above the ground. Inspired and unexpectedly shaken from my selfimposed timidity, I was forever transformed. The rhythmic melody slowed then ended; when my chair approached ground level, the Carney released the safety bar and growled, “Careful, now girlee. Ya looks a bit dizzy.” I stumbled anyway and fell backwards, looked up, and found Aunt Betty’s face smiling down at me. “Yahoo, sweetie! I knew you could ride alone. I’m proud of you! Stand next to the Carney, and I’ll take your picture with my new Polaroid. Okay, smile!” Later that night Aunt Betty gave me that picture and said, “You grew up tonight. So, tomorrow you’re going to work with me. Get a good night’s rest!” I lay awake most of the night wondering just what she might have in store for me at the office where she worked. The following morning, she took me into a poorly-lit, musty-smelling back room and sat me down at an antiquated, wooden office chair that was as stiff as an old man’s arthritic joints. She rolled me in front of a vintage Royal manual typewriter; placing my hands on the “home keys,” she demonstrated the reaches. “You can read, can’t ya, sweetie? Now follow the instructions on each page; you’re old enough to type. Remember…sit up straight and keep your wrists up.” With that, she abandoned me—just as she’d done the night before. For a week, I accompanied
Aunt Betty to work where I silently sat perched at the keyboard, practicing until my wrists ached and my fingers numbed. When boredom set in, she handed me a shoebox full of postcards and photographs. “Hey, look inside. Aren’t these pictures interesting? Why not use them to type and create some stories? I’d love to read ‘em when you’re finished. How’d that be, sweetie?” I nodded—relishing her suggestion like a new pianist who embraces reading sheet music for the first time. Before summer ended I typed several stories carrying them home in a shoebox I aptly labeled “Shoebox Stories.” The years since—like summer days—have burned and melted, leaving me to wonder whatever happened to my Shoebox Stories. Then while cleaning out my parents’ attic, I uncovered a somewhat dilapidated shoebox that smelled dusty like memories waiting to be explored. As I gingerly opened the shoebox, a heartwarming aroma flooded my nostrils. I sniffed the yellowed, timeworn paper that smelled a bit like grass with a hint of vanilla over an underlying mustiness. I opened the folded pages and recognized the faded ink of the stories I had created so long ago. The photographs—discolored and worn— immediately ignited memories of both the enchanting Ferris wheel and my summer of creativity when Aunt Betty gave me more than a ticket to ride a Ferris wheel. As I rode above the horizon, she unknowingly gave me a ticket to ride above convention—past my fears—into a life filled with anticipation, adventure, courage, resourcefulness, and a level of inspiration enjoyed only by those who have had their spirit set free. Now I appreciate the beauty in sunsets and the joy in unexpected, sweet surprises. Although the Mississippi River inspired Mark Twain and gave birth to his creativity, the magical Ferris wheel transformed me and gave rise to my imagination—ever flowing like the river—ever turning tales to be told.
SARA ETGEN-BAKER is a retired educator who enjoys writing personal narratives and memoirs—many of which have been published in anthologies including her story “Journey with Mother,” “Mirror, Mirror on the Wall,” and “When Santa Claus Came to Town.” Several manuscripts have also appeared in Looking Back Magazine and Storyteller Magazine. She's a regular contributor at Tiny Lights, and is currently working on her first novel entitled Dillehay Crossing. Contact Sara at sab_1529@yahoo.com.
Halcyon Spring 2013
| 19
20 | Halcyon Spring 2013 © MARCH 2013 | MONIQUE BERRY HAMILTON, ON, CANADA