Perspectives Magazine - March 2015 by Halcyon Magazine

Where inanimate objects have their sayâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;March 2015

Perspectives Magazine | March 2015

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Perspectives March 2015 Inside 3 The Founder Has Her Say 4 Meet the Authors

Livingroom Items 7 Spring Cleaning | Gar y R. Hoffman

Door 8 Bedroom Door | J .M. Gr een

Moon 9 What is There | Dan Rose

Telephone 10 Stalker | Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Love Letter 10 The Ring | Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Fax Machine 11 Escrow | Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Pencil 12 Leaving My Mark | Br eanne Ginsbur g

Fang 13 I, Crimson Canine | Velvet Fular ski

Covered Bridge 11 Enduring Secrets | Monique Ber r y

Perspectives Magazine ISSN: 1920-4205 Frequency: Biannually Publisher | Designer: Monique Ber r y

Contact Info http://1perspectives.webs.com monique.editor@gmail.com 1-905-549-3981

Special Notices Perspectives has one time rights. See website for subscription details. No photocopies allowed.

ÂŠ andreiuc88 | DollarPhotoClub

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Perspectives Magazine | March 2015

The Founder Has Her Say I’m grateful that Perspectives Magazine is back! I have to be honest and say that I’m disappointed in the lack of submissions for this issue. It may have been because I introduce themes. The first topic was communication. Maybe it was too focused for writers. Out of nine submissions, three are reprints. I need at least six entries to create the magazine. The more I publish magazines, the more I realize my success is based on the authors. No writers, no publication. To the contributors, I say well done! Thank you for submitting your stories and poems, and gracing Perspectives with your talent. I hope you enjoy the stories. Leave feedback for the writers. And then pass the publication around. After you finish reading the magazine, why not try your hand at it? Details on how to submit your work can be found at the website (see the contact info). Until next time, think about how it would feel to live as an animal or

Monique Berry

Perspectives Magazine | March 2015

Cover, back page © Rose Hayes | DollarPhotoClub Opposite © jeancliclac | Photoxpress.com Page © terex | Photoxpress.com

Meet the Authors

Dan Rose (P9) has taught English for over 20 years to elementary, secondary, and college students in New England, NJ, and the UK. His poems have appeared in A laska Quarterly, Lips, Portage, and U.S. 1 Worksheets. A poet, editor, and trainer, Dan Rose teaches and writes on a variety of subjects. He and his wife live in New Jersey with their dog

Gary R. Hoffman (P7) has published over two-hundred and sixty-five short stories, non-fiction articles, poetry, and essays in various publications. He has placed over onehundred and ten items in contests. He taught school for twenty-five years and lived on the road in a motor home for fourteen years. He now resides in Okeechobee, Florida.

MONIQUE BERRY (P15) is the founder of Halcyon, Perspectives, Praise Writers, Twisted Endings, and Christian Perspectives. She has published stories and poems in Quills, Personal Journaling, The Sitter’s Companion, Searching for Answers Anthology, and Rock Bottom Journal. Monique is working on her first novel and is pursuing a career in photography.

VELVET FULARSKI (P13) is currently a motivational fitness coach living in Brantford, ON, Canada. Pursuing passions such as psychology, science, animals and singing always breathes life into her creative muscles.

Bobbi Sinha-Morey (P10, 11) is a poet living in the peaceful city of Brookings, Oregon. Her poetry can be seen in places such as Orbis, Pirene's Fountain, Plainsongs, Open W indow Review, and others. Bobbi’s books of poetry are available at Amazon.com and www.writewordsinc.com. You can visit her website at http://bobbisinhamorey.wordpress.com.

Breanne Ginsburg (P12) lives in Ohio and majored in English in college. She has been interested in writing for several years. Along with writing poetry, she also enjoys writing short stories and articles. In addition, Breanne has an online blog. She enjoys helping others through her writing and hopes to one day be a professional writer. J.M. Green (P8) is the author of the chapbook Super Rich (Pudding House, 2008). His writing has appeared in Forklift, Ohio, The New Verse News, Poemeleon, The Oklahoma Review, The Oral History Review, Cincinnati Magazine and other publications. A former Marine and CIA analyst, Green is now a collection development librarian with The Public Library of Cincinnati and Hamilton County. He lives in West Chester, OH with his wife and daughter. Opposite: © Monique Berry

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Perspectives Magazine | March 2015

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Perspectives Magazine | March 2015

ÂŠ Bruce Shippee | DollarPhotoClub

Spring Cleaning By Gary R. Hoffman Paisley settled onto a cushion covering the window

seat. She lined up her four paws in a perfect row and curled her tail around them like her feet were cold and her tail was a muff. "I can see the tail lights heading for the last curve. They're gone. We have the house to ourselves for a few hours. Mrs. Jackie is taking Mrs. Braman home. Mr. Brian has been keeping the children out of the way at a park in town, so later on they'll get together at a restaurant for dinner." The grandfather clock sighed. "I'm always glad when spring cleaning day is over. Although I deserve the complete cleaning and polishing I get, it gets a bit wearisome. My cherry wood cabinet is now at its highest sheen, all my glass coverings are squeaky clean, all my brass has been polished, and even my door lock and hinges are newly oiled. My special attention is only because of my importance to the family." "You got nothin' to crab about," a vase on the mantel said. "Mrs. Jackie dusts me once or twice a week, depending on her schedule. And I have importance to this family, too. Mr. Brian brought flowers to Mrs. Jackie in me on their first anniversary." "But I get a complete cleaning," the clock said, "because I'm the most important thing to this family." Paisley snickered. "And just what was that all about?" the clock asked. "Let's face it, I tell our family the time and keep them on schedule. I was brought over from Germany by Mr. Brian's ancestors. I represent what this family stands for." "Being old, doesn't necessarily mean you are the most important," the flat-screen TV said. "Look at all the news and entertainment I bring into this household, and I'm brand new." "By virtue of my age and usefulness, I am the most important object to our family," the clock said. "That hairball over there didn't even arrive until after Mr. Brian finished building this house." "You know, I could come over there and scratch the heck out of your base," Paisley said. "Cats do not like to be called hairballs." "Just what makes you so important to this family?" the rocking chair wanted to know. "I know I've rocked babies to sleep and eased aching backs." Paisley jumped from the window seat and strolled around the room. Her tail was held high with a slight crook in the end. "All of you were either purchased or handed down. Me? I wandered in. No one asked me to show up here. But, we felines have a sense about who will take us and who won't. I admit I'm a bit pampered, spoiled, and probably overfed, but even I deserve better. I honor this family with my presence." "What about me?" a picture on the mantel said. "I show the whole family together on a vacation they all enjoyed. I've got to have some importance." "Lamps. That's what's important," the lamp on an end table clicked out. "I bring light, so people can read, the

children can do their homework, and I drive away things that go bump in the night." "And let's don't forget us books. We've been collected over a long period of years." A voice was heard from the lowest part of the room. "I don't think I should be overlooked," the braided rug said. The clock made a humph noise. "And what makes you so important to this family?" asked the recliner. "People just walk all over you." "And on a chilly winter morning, they're darn glad I cover the cold floor when they walk barefoot across me." "But you're just a bunch of rags," a picture on the wall said. "Here, here," the clock said. "Well, let me tell you about these rags that were hung on the clothes-lines earlier today and pounded with a broom. "When Mr. Brian's ancestors came to this country, his grandmother brought some rags, needles, and thread to pass the time on the voyage. She braided the rags and sewed them together to start me. "Now, the center part of me is put together from old clothing that was passed from child to child back in Germany. After a certain period of time, they had been patched and repaired enough they were no longer wearable, so she used those to start the rug. "When they first came here, they lived in New York, close to the garment district. Mr. Brian's grandmother would find scraps in the trash close to her house, and she continued to make the rug bigger. Then Mr. Brian's mother inherited me. She added rows of her children's old clothing and other pieces people would save for her. See the light blue color about halfway out? Those were Mr. Brian's pajamas when he was growing up. "The yellow color next to that is from a dress worn by Mr. Brian's aunt on a trip they made to Atlantic City. The white color following that came from a dress shirt her husband had torn in a car door."After that, Mrs. Jackie got the rug. She thought the family tradition was worth continuing. All the brighter colors around my edges are from her children's old clothing. Each one of my colors represents another piece of clothing worn by someone in this family, going back over one hundred and fifty years. I show the entire history of this family." The room was quiet for several long seconds. "Tough to argue with that kind of importance," the magazine rack said.

Perspectives Magazine | March 2015

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Bedroom Door* By J.M. Green *Previously published in the New Mirage Journal

Forget I felt the slams. One side of me saw her pain, the other felt your fists, pounding for another chance. I prayed you’d both get it. Did I delay forgiveness? I wanted to get it right. I felt her push me gingerly one night, whispering good-bye. I did my best, didn’t I? I would shut the world out, then open again. When I creaked you silenced me with oil. Didn’t you know I was trying to tell you something? The sneaking in, the sneaking out. The emptiness of space before you carried her through: something about that moment when life changes. I most enjoyed the times you were both tucked in and I was closed.

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Perspectives Magazine | March 2015

What is There By Dan Rose “Like a child you think the moon abandons you each morning.” So you think you know the moon? I the moon am an unwritten sonnet perpetually about to complete my last couplet just before each sun rises ̶ pouring down to wash away the cream light of my voice writ across the black sheet of night. Unlearning is also forgetting how to be. Forgetting ourselves again through the blaring tide of days only to be beginning anew each night. What is there not here for us to see? Through the glaring clarity of light, you and I are burning, yearning for the unrecorded mystery of night.

Perspectives Magazine | March 2015

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Stalker By Bobbi Sinha-Morey White robins raise raspy alarms as she nervously punches in numbers, not caring how hard she hits me. The fearful reflection in the windows of her eyes makes me quiver, her breath of troubled sighs rushes through me like a hurried river. Her grip bruises my skin everywhere, and her honeyed, soft-spoken voice is now trembling in tension and fear. Her stalker is close. Her Her last words fade next to my ear.

The Ring By Bobbi Sinha-Morey Every stroke of the pen caresses the blank page of my skin, the cursive words by the gentleman’s hand softening every corner I live in. A promissory ring shines in the twilight, my senses filled by the bright opal. A friendship of the heart is so pleasing to see. He curls me up, ties me with silk string. He Anticipation builds for the lady’s lithe fingers to wrap around me this evening.

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Perspectives Magazine | March 2015

Escrow By Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Unbeknownst to me, before dusk, inside the print shop, an order comes in at the desk. The petite Asian feeds it to me--a bid on a house. I sniff the paper with curiosity. It thunked thunks itself all the way in, and didn’t go fast forward like I’d wish. It takes forever, like a tortoise in a ditch. Time eclipses the days and I try to hide the distance with my impatient smile. A home in the heart of Oregon, hidden away by a forest, is too enticing to ignore. Two young lovers-they sweep like a buzz through my brain, talking of their secret Shangri-la. Signed papers slide across my cheeks with the word “escrow”. A beautiful pearl.

Perspectives Magazine | March 2015

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Leaving My Mark By Breanne Ginsburg

I feel the warmth of imagination running through my veins Being used for inspiration until no more lead remains Sometimes I’m respected as a writer writes and an artist draws But sometimes I’m just a tool a piece of wood the anxious test-taker gnaws And I can be thrown aside like my friend the paper in the trash And blamed for fatal errors on an exam when the student is far too rash But then there are times when I myself am inspired by the hand that grips me tight For it can be rewarding to be the wings that give dreams flight

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Perspectives Magazine | March 2015

I, Crimson

Canine*

By Velvet Fularski *Previously published in Perspectives Magazine

reetings, human. It is very nice to meet you. On most occasions, when I meet a human, it isn’t the most pleasant of circumstances. However, safe in front of this piece of paper, you needn’t worry. I am of no danger to you. How strange it is to introduce myself without a name. Here I am. And there you are. Let us start. My tale begins in the mouth of my master, quite simply. It seems like ages since I’ve even thought about how I started. I suppose I began as a small bud of calcium gently breaking through the gum line of my master. A child, then. As time passed, I was shed and replaced only once. So, I returned. Over time I grew bigger… stronger… harder. I was used to grinding and mashing his daily intake of food. Yes, it was food, then. My, how long it has been—truly. It wasn’t long after he reached the age of a young adult that everything changed. At first, I was this blanched, dull mass of boredom performing the same tasks every single day. I merely allowed him to consume his food with ease, and perhaps manipulated a small portion of the sound that escaped his lips as he spoke. Nothing more. This was my life, day in and day out, until one damp night in August of 1803. You would think that the details of an event that took place over two hundred years ago would be almost lost to memory. When it is an event that has changed you forever, you remember everything. I observed through the gap in his open smile that night as were most of my opportunities to regard my surroundings. His

arm reached for his dark grey overcoat. He began to head for the large oak door of his home. I imagine he was a well-established fellow, for he owned the finest of things. His brandy tainted breath sailed past me with every breath he took. The sensation is incomparable. His footsteps were light and hurried. It was then that I heard the door close behind him, and as he turned to walk to the moonlit street ahead, he was seized. A stranger found it suiting to snatch him from the stoop of his home and feed on him. His head arched back and the last I recall of that night was the view of the stars through his open, gaping lips. The next morning, the air was sweet. There was that of which I had never experienced. My master ran his tongue over his newfound teeth upon waking. Fluttering his eyelids for a quick movement, he was wide awake. Throwing himself across the room to his full-length mahogany mirror, he began to inspect his mouth. Using his fingers to stretch his lips away from his teeth, his eyes scanned over us. And it was at that moment that he--for the first time I’m sure--acknowledged me. I watched him survey me closely, following my new shape. I was no longer a dull, formless tooth. I was now a fang. And it felt amazing! I bathed in my recent vanity, and loved my new reflection upon every glance in the mirror.

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Perspectives Magazine | March 2015

Enduring Secrets* By Monique Berry *Previously published in Perspectives Magazine

wilight is drawing near. It‘s my favored hour because it conceals my weathered appearance. Okay. I admit to getting twinges of vanity and fear. I’m not a young bridge anymore. Not long ago, a female cardinal told me that my brother’s face was vandalized. Graffiti all over him. But he gets lots of visitors.

On the other hand, walkers seldom pass over my boards. So, I guess I can relax. Covered bridges are detected by word-of-mouth or by chance—I certainly was for one couple. No matter. Weatherworn or not, I love being available as a serene hideaway for animals and people as the need arises. Woodland creatures, who scurry on rugs of green earth, are my daily companions. For years, I had frequent conversations with a bubbling brook while it polished its stones but it has since dried out. I savor the dawning voices of birds and crickets, and the occasional clip-clop of horses’ hooves. Yes, from the moment the first streams of light filter through the trees to when the lengthening sunset shadows cover me, I am content. The best part of being a covered bridge is that I’m privy to secrets! Enclosed within my walls are umpteen secrets—including those of animals. You see, the promise of privacy breeds honesty. Fifty years ago remember well, even though it was many decades ago, a secret shared by one couple. It surpassed all other memories dear to me. Every Friday night they used to rendezvous here in the spring. The couple would arrive on horseback en route to the librarian‘s log cabin where budding writers and historians met. Since I was a young bridge at the time, my woody aroma inspired months of passion and romance.

On the night of his departure, she arrived thirty minutes earlier. The red-headed woman rested on me for support and then told me everything. I guess she felt I could be trusted. For the first time, the young lady spoke her secret aloud. Her voice trembled as she uttered her fears of being left alone—again. The toughest part of learning her painful circumstance was being not able to console her. But I knew her lover would make it right. Incidentally, if you’re curious as to what her secret was, you’ll be waiting a long time. I‘m not free to disclose that information—it was spoken in confidence. Her gentleman caller arrived with a single rose. Their bodies locked in unashamed affection. No one spoke for the longest time. When he saw she was having trouble coping with the situation he raised her chin, wiped her tear-streaked face, and comforted her with promissory whispers. Oh, my love. No matter what happens, I will always, always treasure our special place. How I longed to close my wooden arms and hug my romantic visitors! Our love will return one day. After all, he or she will find the directions in your journal someday. And our secret! With a final look, he backed away. As he faded into the distance, their eyes kissed each other farewell.

Present Day ell, like I mentioned before I reminisced, it‘s twilight. Every time a rider from a nearby hamlet or village comes by and whispers secrets, my heart races. I ask myself, Could it be the rose child? It would be

so comforting to know their love endured into the generations.

Clip-clop!

Perspectives Magazine | March 2015

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March 2015

Come back. You never know whose shoes youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll walk in next!

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Perspectives Magazine | March 2015