WELL READ Magazine July 2024

WELLREAD Magazine's Best of 2023 Volume Two

On Youthful Digression - Philip Kobylarz

The Boardwalk - Dawn Major

The Fishing Trip - William Walsh

A Blood of Bottles – Deborah-ZenhaAdams

Maladaptive Daydream - K.G. Munro

Black Cat - Yana Kane

A Bleeding Heart -Ann Hite

Pop’s Boat - Michael Spake

Feed the Beast - B.A. Brittingham

Hotel du Lac - Marion Cohen

Red Tail - Marisa Keller

Strays -Ashley Tunnell

Home - Malcolm Glass

Lizard’s Leap - LaVern Spencer McCarthy

Objective Function - Yana Kane

Cloud and Linen - Ramey Channell

Summer - Lorraine Cregar

Accompanied - Diane Lefer

Best Friends Forever - Mark Braught

Desert Rain - Robb Grindstaff

Buzzards - David Malone

I Know You - Mandy Haynes

Heartache and Wind - Will Maguire

Rain Crow - Ramey Channell

Temporal -Ashley Tunnell

Anxiety -Angela Patera

Returning Tomorrow - John M. Williams

My Sister’s House Is Haunted - J. B. Hogan

Enemy’s Embrace - Mike Turner

Fast Eddy - John Grey

All the Lovely Creatures - Eileen Coe

Degrees of Fall - Marisa Keller

Searching - Mandy Haynes

A Few Hours In The Life of a Five-Year-Old Pool Player - Francine Rodriguez

Neutral Ground - Tania Nyman

The Storm - Jacob Parker

There Were Red Flags - Mike Turner

Autumn’s Last Lament -Ashley Tunnell

Another View: Judas Season - B.A. Brittingham

Summer of Ham - Mickey Dubrow

An Amazonian Photo Safari - Orlando DeVito

Bad Kitty - George Pallas

Who’s Black and White and Red All Over? - Ken Gosse

In January of 2023, WELL READ Magazine began accepting submissions for prose, poetry, and visual art. I received a wonderful mix of fiction, flash fiction, non-fiction, and poetry along with some amazing artwork. Some of the pieces will make you laugh and some will pull at your heartstrings—there are a few pieces that might make you cry or get your blood boiling. There are no prompts or themes for the submissions so I never know what I’m getting into until I dive in. Every single one is a surprise and a treasure.

BEST OF 2023 VOLUME ONE features submissions from January to June

BEST OF 2023 VOLUME TWO features submissions from July to December They are now available in print and digitalpick up a copy today!

“I confess I hear voices when I write and, with this book, there were four of them vying for my attention.”

Set in the Appalachian Diaspora of Central North Caroliana’s 1920s tobacco farms and 1960s textile mills, The North Carolina Society of Historians 2023 Historical Novel Award recognizes the book’s lyric strength, sense of place, and deep and empathic understanding of workingclass daily life in rural and small-town 20th century AmericanSouth. Loving the Dead and Gone isalsotheGold Medal winner in Southern Regional Fiction in the 2023 Independent Publisher Book Awards. It was shortlisted for the 2023 UC-Berkeley Eric Hoffer Book Awards Grand Prize,whereitwasanhonorablementioninGeneralFiction and finalist for the Eric Hoffer First Horizon Award for DebutFiction.ThenovelisaMarielHemingwayBookClub Book selection and was featured on Hemingway’s podcast

OUT COMES THE SUN. AARP featured Judith’s essay about her writing journey.

Judith grew up there at a time when people worked the land or they left the land to work the mills. She was the first generation in ten not to have an intimate connection to family land, the first in her father’s family and the only in her generation to attend college. The people she knew held on to the bottom rung of the working class, waging unequal battles with capricious fate. Their insular every day bore witness to the profound impact of socio-economic shifts in the rural South, and, in her work, Judith explores how even chance is unequal to the limits their reality imposed on the

Mandy introduces July’s featured author, JUDITH

latitude of imagined outcomes.

Publisher’s Weekly calls Loving the Dead and Gone “a bittersweet and fantastical debut.” Foreword Reviews says “Loving the Dead and Gone is a moving, insightful novel about growing through tragedy.” Donna Everhart, whose work Well Read champions, says, “Part of what I loved about this beautifully written book was the author's ability to explore in depth the personal feelings of each character with such astuteness and insight. It was so well-done I had to go see if her background was psychology or something in the field of mental health, and what a surprise it was to readthis,"Anarthistorian,shefirstcametowritingthrough learning to appraise what she saw and to describe what moved her."

Would you give a short description of LOVING THE DEADAND GONE?

In Loving the Dead and Gone a freak car accident in 1960s rural North Carolina puts in motion moments of grace that bring redemption to two generations of women and the lives they touch.

I love the title. When I read whereAurilla says to herself, “Loving the dead and gone was the sweetest love of all.” I had to stop and sit with it for a minute.

It’s so beautiful. I was wondering if you had the title in the beginning of the process, or was it a gift from your character,Aurilla?

Thanks so wonderful to hear, thank you! I’ve always liked titles that readers then stumble upon in reading the book. So yes, this was a gift fromAurilla, spoken by her at the book’s epiphanic moment. And two of the most prevalent themes of Loving the Dead and Gone are right there in the title: love and loss.At its heart, the story is a tale of longing and emotional abandonment.

Titles are a torture, and I went through so many of them. The first was The Powers that Be. I then took Garden of the Dead from English signage in the graveyards of Istanbul. This seemed so right, given the book’s many buried secrets. I had to let that one go because there’s a cult horror film with the same title. I liked The Relicts an archaic word for widow discovered on a nineteenth century gravestone in Spring Grove Cemetery where my husband and I spend an inordinate amount of time. I also played with The River of My Dreams, inspired byAurilla’s thoughts about her prescient dreams of death.

Aurilla, Berta Mae, and Darlene — what a great cast of characters! They are all so different, yet so much alike. Very strong-minded, stubborn, and all doing the best with the hands they were dealt. I loved them all, even when it was hard to. But the character who tugged at my heartstrings the most was Clayton. He

was a brilliant addition to the story. I always say, I love a writer who is not afraid to make a reader cry right off the bat. The first chapter was so powerful and Clayton’s voice was so heartbreakingly honest. Did you know that he would play such a big part when you started writing LOVING THE DEAD

AND GONE?

I confess I hear voices when I write and, with this book, there were four of them vying for my attention. Clayton is the novel’s unwitting prime mover who’s shocked back into life after discovering Donald Ray’s death. Feeling he’s “doing the living for Donald Ray, he has an affair with Donald’s Ray’s seventeen-year-old widow, which in turn unleashes his mother-in-lawAurilla’s hidden secrets, and adds fuel to his wife Berta Mae’s lifelong feelings of emotional abandonment. Melissa Yamaguchi, co-host with Mariel Hemingway of OUT COMES THE SUN, said this so succinctly: “Loving the Dead and Gone is not only about coming to terms with a death. It takes a loss to wake us up: we are designed in such a way that we don’t realize we’re not living until we’ve lost something.”

As a reader, I loved all the different POVs.As a writer, I was damned impressed with how you managed to do it so seamlessly. Was that a struggle at first? Did you plan it that way or did the characters take over?

I’m a panster, not a plotter. I write down what I hear and what I see in my mind and worry about structure late. So yes, you can say the characters are running the show.

How long, from start to finishing the final manuscript, did it take you to complete?

You could say I’ve been writing this book since I was three and experienced a similar sudden, tragic loss of a beloved young uncle. Inspiration grew from that first memory and conflated with later parental perfidies and emotional enmeshment during my adolescence to become Loving the Dead and Gone.And the timeline: 35 years, five rewrites, three agents…. I wrote three more novels and many short stories, and over a 1000 feature articles, but I kept coming back to this, the most personal of all the stories, the one I had to get right.

What do you hope readers to take away from the book?

In trauma lies possibility.AsAurilla says to Darlene during their pivotal encounter, “death can make you over if you let it.” I was inspired in part by the tower and death cards in the Tarot, they are about rebirth through struggle. Life: it’s all endings and beginnings.

This is your debut novel, but you are not new to the writing industry. Your bio is impressive! When did you get the “call” to write fiction?

Thank you! I think it’s more “when did I give myself permission to write fiction.”Art history taught me how to see and pay attention to detail, to convey in words what I

Mandy introduces July’s featured author, JUDITH TURNER-YAMAMOTO

felt in the presence of the work and how to share that with an audience. Features writing taught me to listen, one ear pricked for the moment when the jewel falls from the interviewee’s mouth that reveals the focus of the piece from which everything you write will flow. There’s an art to interviewing, learning how in conversation to coax a subject to reveal themselves.

An original multi-hyphenate career woman, I worked in galleries and cultural nonprofits and then in museums, while writing art reviews and then magazine features for local publications. I broke into major papers and national magazines, expanding into writing about dance, music, books, travel, and food. I met a famous psychic when I was a young mother and he told me he saw a golden hand with a pen in it, surrounded by passports and suitcases. That is exactly how my writing career unfolded. Free to follow my curiosity, assignments took me all over the world and into conversation with such luminaries as Frank Gehry, Hella Jongerius, Marcel Wanders,Annie Leibovitz, Alison Krauss, and Lucinda Williams.

At the same time, I took the fictional leap, attending writers’conferences and taking fiction classes at Washington, DC area universities, studying with writers like Shirley Cochrane, Terry McMillan, Margot Livesey, Kelly Cherry, Lynne Sharon Schwartz, and Richard McCann.

What are you currently reading?

Honestly, I try not to read anyone when I’m deep in my

Mandy introduces July’s featured author, JUDITH

own work, which is the current case. That’s advice that I took from the late author Richard McCann that works for me. I’m too much of a magpie not to unconsciously pull in those outside influences.

What are you working on now?

I’m finishing up the manuscript for The Drawing of Angels, which was shortlisted for the 2024 Santa Fe Writers Project BookAward. In the novel, a young photographer and mother faces devastation when the acclaimed photographs of her children fracture her family. Set against the culture wars of the 1990s, The Drawing of Angels explores the complex intersections of mothering, art making, and personal boundaries, and delves into the public's struggle to separate an artist's life from the fiction they create.

“Loving the Dead and Gone is a rich and skillfully rendered portrait of a place that explores the generational effects of love and loss and the fragile connections within a family. Judith Turner-Yamamoto gives us a complex and memorable cast of characters and a vivid setting filled with stunning detail.”

-- Jill McCorkle, New York Times bestselling author"

Loving the Dead and Gone

Judith Turner-Yamamoto

All That Is Sacred by

Donna Norman-Carbone

1st place in Contemporary and Literary Fiction, 2024 CIBA

SomersetAward, 1st place in Women’s Fiction, 2023 Literary Global BookAward, 1st place in Inspir-ational Fiction, 2023

American FictionAward, 1st place in Inspirational Fiction and Friendship Fiction, 2023 Firebird Award

“Aheartfelt, life-affirming novel tailor-made for readers who love stories of female friendship.” Kirkus Reviews

When Lynn and her husband set out for a weekend retreat to repair their rocky marriage, icy roads lead to a fatal collision that ends Lynn’s life. Stranded between the physical world and the afterlife, Lynn experiences the grief of her loved ones as they process her death.

Lynn’s life-long friends are tortured by not only loss but also unspoken wounds in their friendship. With clever influences from above, Lynn coaxes them to reunite at a beachside cottage on the one-year anniversary of her death. Determined to prompt their healing so they can help her family move on, Lynn reminds them of a sacred promise, hoping it will lead to truths they can't face on their own. Will it be enough to remind them of the power of their bond?

Of Lies and Honey

by Donna NormanCarbone

“Norman-Carbone has her finger on the pulse of women’s fiction and its long-lasting appeal. Her writing encompasses generational and cultural trends, expectations, and choices. The author’s gift for creating realistic characters with descriptive detail keeps you deeply involved in the women’s stories as they unfold individually and then converge at The Covenant House.” -Reader Views, 5 Star Review

“Donna Norman-Carbone has crafted a powerful story that examines timely topics for today’s readers. Ideal for bookclubs, this novel explores the complexities of motherhood and the role others play in a woman’s choices. More emotional than political, this book doesn’t tell us what to believe but gets us asking all the right questions.” -Julie Cantrell, New York Times BestsellingAuthor of Perennials

"If you like emotionally-driven dramas with multiple layers and social relevancy, you will love Of Lies and Honey by award-winning author Donna Norman-Carbone." -Reader Views, 5 star review

End Times by John M.

Williams

Brother and sister soulmates Jon Karl and Summer Odom, orphaned at an early age and thrust into the human comedy of a small southern town, must survive a variety of predators, especially a sociopathic barber who abducts Jon Karl, forcing Summer to access a surprising inner strength that changes both their lives.

After the death of their mother, Maryrell, Jon Karl and Summer Odom are raised in the town of Douvale by their grandmother, Mildra, whose boss, Spruill Dawes, steps into the role of surrogate father. Jon Karl befriends his son Millard. Jon Karl, sexually precocious, finds himself increasingly humiliated by the ravenousness of Douvale women and yearns for a hermit life while mythologizing the few women he likes to think actually loved him. Summer attracts oddball boys which sends her through a series of ill-suited males and strange jobs.

Complications arise when Balch, a local barber, becomes obsessed with Jon Karl, and even more arise when Jon Karl catches the eye of Vance, a young strip club owner and porn filmmaker. Then, when Jon Karl gets into an ill-advised cannabis-growing scheme, he leaves himself vulnerable to blackmail by Vance. Things get worse when Jon Karl is sentenced to the for-profit Baptist correction center run by Spruill’s hated rival, PruetEchols, and he finds Balch working there. One day, Summer’s intuition of something wrong sends her, Spruill, and the sheriff into a ghastly

scene and a dangerous rescue of Jon Karl. Jon Karl is released to pursue at last the life he longs for, but becomes increasingly seduced by the strange energy of an abandoned roadside house and the oddly familiar portal it seems to offer. Summer has uneasy premonitions about the house, and with the legacy of a young son from one of her earlier boyfriends, and at last a promising relationship with the latest, survives.

Author John M. Williams was named GeorgiaAuthor of the Year in 2003 for his novel Lake Moon, and has published a variety of stories, essays, and reviews through the years. His most recent books are Monroeville and the Stage Production of “To Kill a Mockingbird,”Atlanta Pop in the 50s, 60s, and 70s: The Magic of Bill Lowery, co-authored withAndy Lee White, and Village People: Sketches ofAuburn.

Williams retired from full-time teaching (LaGrange College) in 2015, and currently works as a mentor in the Reinhardt University Creative Writing MFAprogram. His and co-author Rheta Grimsley Johnson’s play Hiram: Becoming Hank, about the formative years of singer Hank Williams, enjoyed a successful run at the Monroeville,Alabama courthouse, opposite To Kill a Mockingbird, inApril 2021.

Songwriter Ken Clark and Williams have had several local productions of their three rock’n’roll comedies. He has published a variety of stories, essays, and reviews through the years, and has had several stories/novellas included in anthologies, most recently, in July 2020, “In the Beginning was Kitto” in theAustralian anthology One Surviving Story. He divides his time between LaGrange, Georgia, and his family’s cabin on Lake Martin in Alabama.

“A poignant and tender coming-ofage novel, R. J. Lees, The Majestic Leo Marble, follows its endearing protagonist from the womb through young adulthood. Set to the musical score of Rodgers and Hammerstein's Carousel, Lee's pitch perfect aria recounts early gay rights activism and the AIDS crisis through the compelling voice of the charming Leo Marble.”

-Robert Gwaltney, award winning author of The Cicada Tree, and GeorgiaAuthor of the Year

In 2005, Wendy Magnum of Hattiesburg, Mississippi suffers remorse after having an intimate encounter with Judd McKay, a friend her husband, Ray, trusted with his family during Hurricane Katrina. Tommy Hebert turns to alcohol to handle what he saw in search-and-rescue in Metairie, Louisiana. Mike Seabrook's relationships with his God and his wife, Dinah, are tested after he loses a patient in his emergency room in Slidell, Louisiana. Lori King goes into premature labor as a result of the storm, and her husband, James, discovers that his best friend died trying to protect the Kings' home in Kenner, Louisiana from looters. Casey, Tyndall, and Devon-kids from Southern Hollow subdivision-have been falling in and out of love with each other, and always at the wrong time. It's a Thursday night in September 2019, their senior year.Anything seems possible. And Casey's band, New Wave Vultures, packs them in on teen night at the Cedar Shake, a club on the square in downtown Springfield, Missouri. While all three feel trapped in the Ozarks, the coming pandemic is about to show them the grinding limits of true confinement and the power of music, love, friendship, and courage.

“Rooted in the origin myths of Genesis when the Divine "stepped out of itself onto the slick, dark lid of otherness," Tasting Flight unflinchingly questions, complicates, and celebrates what it means to be a woman and to be deeply, imperfectly, human.”

-Joy Ladin, National Jewish Book Award-winning author of The Book of Anna and Shekhinah Speaks

MADVILLE PUBLISHING seeks out and encourages literary writers with unique voices. We look for writers who express complex ideas in simple terms. We look for critical thinkers with a twang, a lilt, or a click in their voices.And patois! We love a good patois. We want to hear those regionalisms in our writers’voices. We want to preserve the sound of our histories through our voices complete and honest, dialectal features and all. We want to highlight those features that make our cultures special in ways that do not focus on division, but rather shine an appreciative light on our diversity.

The Lesser Madonnas is a linked collection of short stories about working class and immigrant life in Denver, CO. These stories highlight the real conflicts people have with identity and just getting by in a society that was not built specifically for them. The strength of this collection is the characters, who are all fully developed. The stories showcase the author's ability to empathize and occupy the spaces of many different kinds of people without being insensitive. It avoids politicizing these conflicts and instead focuses on the human side of how to survive within a majorAmerican city amidst a struggling economy and the challenges of daily life. These stories demonstrate a real range of conflicts and lifestyles, and the author handles all of them equally with care.

In 1970, Second Lieutenant Thomas Jefferson Hobbes, fresh out of college and ROTC, finds himself sent to South Korea instead of the expected Vietnam. His arrival at KimpoAir Base turns his destiny from a war zone to another face of warfare, the destructive interactions between soldiers and camp followers, aka men and women, that are a part of conquest and occupation throughout history and around the world. Utterly unprepared, he follows trails and carves his own, his soul and sense of humanity falling to levels of hell that even Dante would find daunting.

Abeautiful young Korean working girl, known only as Miss Kim, becomes Hobbes's partner and his guide into deception and danger. Pushing through his 13-month tour, he becomes a part of the thoughtless, predatory subculture that binds him to the love of his life, but at an impossible price.

The Monosexual tells the story of Vincent Cappellini, an obsessed ultra-monogamist who struggles when his relationship with the love of his life abruptly ends. Twiceburned-once in love and once by the sun-he faces a host of challenges to his selfappointed sense of identity. Sunburn, bad sushi, a Sinatra karaoke contest, and the road rage fury of a woman scorned are but a few of the trials Vincent will endure while facing the ultimate test to his monosexuality-a new woman in his life.

MADVILLE PUBLISHING seeks out and encourages literary writers with unique voices. We look for writers who express complex ideas in simple terms. We look for critical thinkers with a twang, a lilt, or a click in their voices.And patois! We love a good patois. We want to hear those regionalisms in our writers’voices. We want to preserve the sound of our histories through our voices complete and honest, dialectal features and all. We want to highlight those features that make our cultures special in ways that do not focus on division, but rather shine an appreciative light on our diversity.

Death

By Betrayal:

A

Josiah Reynolds Mystery 20 by Abigail Keam

Betrayal – The act of thwarting a person’s trust, revealing information in violation of confidence, or failing to honor a promise.

Josiah knows all about betrayal. In the glamorous Bluegrass world of oakcured bourbon, antebellum mansions, and Thoroughbred horse farms, betrayals never die—never remain hidden. The dark and bloody land called Kentucky eventually gives up its secrets from its dark, loamy soil, laying them bare for all to see.

The day starts out innocently with Josiah visiting Hunter, her boyfriend, and his new farm assistant, Palley. The young man tells Josiah of his desire to enter the demolition derby at the county fair. Ever since Palley received his driver’s license, he has been waiting to compete, but he needs an old beater of a car to enter.

Josiah tells Palley he is welcome to use an old jalopy that’s been gathering dust in an unused barn on her property. Josiah and an excited Palley travel to her shed. Pulling off an old tarp, they examine the car until they find—you guessed it—a body in the back.

Whose body is it? How did it get there? Josiah is on the trail of murder again. In the mysterious Bluegrass, there’s justice, and then there is Josiah’s justice!

Requiem for a Mouse (Cat in the Stacks Mystery Book 16)

by Miranda James

Librarian Charlie Harris and his everintuitive feline friend Diesel must catch a killer in a deadly game of cat and mouse where no one is who they seem to be...

At last, Charlie and Helen Louise’s wedding is only a month away. They’re busy preparing for the big day, and the last thing Charlie needs is a new mystery to solve. Enter Tara Martin, a shy, peculiar woman who has recently started working part-time at Helen Louise’s bistro and helping Charlie in the archive. Tara isn’t exactly friendly and she has an angry outburst at the library that leaves Charlie baffled.And then she abruptly leaves a catered housewarming party Charlie’s son Sean is throwing to celebrate his new home in the middle of her work shift. Before ducking out of the party, Tara looked terrified and Charlie wonders if she’s deliberately trying to escape notice. Is she hiding from someone?

When Tara is viciously attacked and lands in the hospital, Charlie knows his instincts were correct: Tara was in trouble and someone was after her. With the help of his much beloved cat, Diesel, Charlie digs deeper, and discovers shocking glimpses into Tara’s past that they could never have predicted. Will they catch the villain before Charlie’s own happily ever after with Helen Louise is ruined?

The Best of the Shortest:ASouthern Writers Reading Reunion by Suzanne Hudson (Author, Editor), Mandy Haynes (Editor), Joe Formichella (Author, Editor)

“Some of the happiest moments of my writing life have been spent in the company of writers whose work is included in these pages. They all brought their A-game to this fabulous collection, and at our house it is going on a shelf next to its honored predecessors. The only thing that saddens me is that the large-hearted William Gay is not around to absorb some of the love that shines through every word.” ―Steve Yarbrough

“The Best of the Shortest takes the reader on a fastpaced adventure from familiar back roads to the jungles of Viet Nam; from muddy southern creek banks to the other side of the world, touching on themes as beautiful as love and as harsh as racism. However

dark or uplifting, you are guaranteed to enjoy the ride.” ―Bob Zellner

“I had some of the best times of my life meeting, drinking and chatting with the writers in this book, times matched only by the hours I spent reading their books. This collection showcases a slice of Southern literature in all its complicated, glorious genius. Anyone who likes good writing will love it.” ―Clay Risen

“This collection is quite positively on fire with humor and heartache, darkness and light, and countless blazing turns of phrase. An essential addition to every Southern reader’s collection. I have known and admired a fair number of writers in these pages for a long time but seeing their work all together like this fills me up with love, love, love.” —Michael Knight, Eveningland, winner of a Truman CapoteAward, a NYTimes editor’s pick, and a Southern Book of the Year (Southern Living Magazine)

Walking The Wrong Way Home by

Mandy Haynes

Spanning nearly twenty decades, the struggles and victories these characters face are timeless as they all work towards the same goal.

Aplace to feel safe, a place to call home.

Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth: Eva and other stories by Mandy Haynes

Each story features a female protagonist, ranging from ten to ninety-five years of age. Set in the south, you’ll follow these young women and girls as they learn that they’re stronger than they ever thought possible.

Oliver by Mandy Haynes

“Dear God…and Jesus and Mary…”

Even though eleven-year old Olivia is raised Southern Baptist, she likes to cover her bases when asking for a favor. Unlike her brother Oliver, she struggles with keeping her temper in check and staying out of trouble. But Oliver is different, and in the summer of ’72 he proves to Olivia there’s magic in everything - it’s up to us to see it.

Mandy Haynes spent hours on barstools and riding in vans listening to great stories from some of the best songwriters and storytellers in Nashville, Tennessee. After her son graduated college, she traded a stressful life as a pediatric cardiac sonographer for a happy one and now spends her time writing and enjoying life as much as she can. She lives in Semmes, Alabama with her three dogs, one turtle, and helps take care of several more animals at Good Fortune Farm Refuge. She is a contributing writer for Amelia Islander Magazine, Amelia Weddings, author of two short story collections, Walking the Wrong Way Home, Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth Eva and Other Stories, and a novella, Oliver. She is also the editor of the anthology, Work in Progress, and co-editor of the Southern Writers Reading reunion anthology, The Best of the Shortest. Mandy is also the editor-in-chief of WELL READ Magazine, an online literary journal created to give authors affordable advertising options that supports and promotes authors of all genres and writing backgrounds. Like the characters in some of her stories, she never misses a chance to jump in a creek to catch crawdads, stand up for the underdog, or the opportunity to make someone laugh.

When you purchase an “ad” for $50, you get a full page slot in WELL READ’s What Are You Reading? section with a live link to your website and a live purchase link of your choice.

Readers asked for full page, easy to read, “book recommendations” in place of traditional looking advertisements and I was happy to oblige.

As a bonus, there are personalized individual graphics made of your book image and author photo (if you choose to purchase a two page spread or more) with your book description and/or blurbs, bio, etc., shared to eight additional FB bookish accounts and to WELL READ Magazine’s Instagram, Pinterest, and Facebook sites –(that’s 39K potential views of your book when you combine all the sites).

WELL READ is distributed through ISSUU (the world’s largest digital publishing and discovery platform available). WELL READ Magazine receives an average of 8,000 views each month from readers all over the world.

Past issues are available and easily discovered on Issuu’s site. *All PAST issues, including the article and visual stories, remain active and are linked to the current issue. You can continue to share them for as long as you like.

There is strength in numbers. Your “ad” will be included with the featured authors, great interviews, submissions, and the other fantastic books readers look for to add to their reading lists.

INSIDE VOICES

“. . . Not everyone’s life is best suited for the historical fiction treatment, but there are certainly many people who are worthwhile.”

Robert Gwaltney and Jeffrey Dale Lofton

introduce Piper G. Huguley

Piper G. Huguley’s biographical historical fiction, By Her Own Design: a novel of Ann Lowe, Fashion Designer to the Social Register (William Morrow Publishing) tells the inspiring story of the Black fashion designer of Jackie Kennedy’s wedding dress. By Her Own Design was a Booklist top 100 Editor’s Choice selection for 2022 and was named one of the top 100 books of 2022 in Canada by the Globe and Mail newspaper. She is also the author of Sweet Tea by Hallmark Publishing and the author of two historical romance series: “Migrations of the Heart”, about the Great Migration and “Home to Milford College”. Her next historical fiction book, American Daughters (2024), is the story of the decades-long interracial friendship betweenAlice Roosevelt and Portia Washington, the rebel teenage daughters of President Theodore Roosevelt and Booker T. Washington, respectively. She is a literature professor at Clark-Atlanta University and blogs about the history behind her novels at http://piperhuguley.com. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband and son.

Jeffrey/Inside Voices: Piper, you began the book andAnn Lowe’s story near the end of her life and pretty quickly show her struggling in a variety of ways. Her human frailties (regret, jealousy, even anger) are as much a source of her pain and struggle as her physical ailments. Why did you begin her story by showing her at this late point?

Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton

When I started doing research onAnn Lowe, I knew instantly without looking it up that her death date was the day after that Charles and Diana had gotten engaged. When I found that out, I instantly thought of her in a posture of feeling regret and jealousy that she would not have the opportunity to chase or even get to see this, the biggest commission of them all. If she is struggling, she’s understanding that she will not get this commission and she knows that some designer’s life will change forever. The regret comes in at not having the chance to make her past work right.

Robert/Inside Voices: During our time together on a panel at a literary conference, I recall you sharing that you endeavor to amplify unheard voices in your writing. Talk a little bit about that.

There are so many historical stories that have been kept from the historical record. We have scholars of marginalized identities to thank for shifting the discourse to performing what Sadiya Haartman calls “literary excavation” on those lives to let us come to understand more about who these unsung, unheralded and unheard voices are in history. Historical fiction can do the job in allowing those people to be fleshed out and more fully realized so that they may take a rightful place in history. I would like to help Black women do that.

Robert

introduce Piper G. Huguley

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton

Jeffrey/Inside Voices: I so enjoyed how you described the clothes. I can still see youngAnn walking down the sidewalk wearing her red and black polka dot dress to which she adds panels, flourishes, and ruffles to help it grow long as she grows taller and older. Will you talk about the role of garments in howAnn finds her voice, her strength in a world where she and her kind are rendered powerless?

I fully intended to use this novel to make a case forAnn Lowe, in her work as a fashion designer, was an artist. Therefore, the bespoke dresses that she makes are the way that she sees that woman made the most beautiful in a creation of, literally, her own design. She does that for herself rarely enough, but when she does, it’s still about using the opportunity to show how basic black, which is what she wore most of the time, to showcase her design artistry. Her red and black polka dot dress was the first step on that path to discovering how she could do that for others.

Robert/Inside Voices: Do historical figures come to you first, or is it the era that drives your decision making when choosing a story?

Mostly the figures stand out to me first. I’m a scholar of the time period loosely known as Civil War to Civil Rights, about 1860’s to 1950’s United States. So that is

where I know I will be most comfortable with the figures that I have studied there as well as that particular time period which will always be my backdrop because that’s what I know best.

Not everyone’s life is best suited for the historical fiction treatment, but there are certainly many people who are worthwhile. Many more figures, especially marginalized ones who made great contributions in the rise of the United States as a world power, deserve to have their stories told as well.

Jeffrey/Inside Voices: World building is essential to creating a sense of time and place in literature; it’s especially so for historical fiction. How do you do it, especially when the people and locales are real?

World building in history, for me, involves thinking about what people are doing, how they are able to accomplish it, what they are wearing and how they are relating to one another. So, because of my expertise in studying this time period, I’m always aware of how these various elements have shifted and what they mean in the character’s lives. For instance, the development of the use of the automobile allowed for courting to shift to the privacy of an automobile that could go away from prying eyes of cautious family members. For me, that kind of freedom has an impact on what characters will do and say.

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Piper G. Huguley

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Piper G. Huguley

Robert/Inside Voices: Your latest novel, American Daughters, was releasedApril 2, 2024. Share a little about the relationship between Portia Washington andAlice Roosevelt, and why you felt compelled to write it.

One question that has always intrigued me is why people of different races are not friends with one another more frequently. Over the past few years, there have been several studies to confirm this fact. So, while studying the Washington family, I noticed some mentions of Booker T. Washington’s eldest daughter Portia, who had a friendship with the renown daughter of Theodore Roosevelt,Alice. Once I read more about these young women the more it made sense that they had shared commonalities in spite of their racial differences: the eldest daughters of great statesmen, mothers who died when they were babies, stepmothers who resented their presence, and wives of men who were emotionally stunted. It occurred to me that their relationship, as secret as it was, might be something that people could see as a real-life possibility if the story were filled in the way that only historical fiction can.

Jeffrey/Inside Voices: Memoir is often described as telling one’s truth. I think anything we write—poetry, a playscript, and, yes, historical fiction—reveals us to others. So, why do you write what you write, and what have you learned about yourself during your writing career?

Well, my years in the classroom have revealed to me that we are in a historical and reading crisis. I was compelled to reach an audience of people who might connect to others across time because my protagonists are often on the verge of some kind of life discovery.All of the people I write about have allowed me to look more closely at myself as an artist, thinker and increasingly, an activist for telling these stories.

Robert/Inside Voices:And to insinuate myself into Jeffrey’s question, what do you hope that your writing accomplishes for others?

My hope is that whenever we might feel despair about the present, we can look to these past figures as a guide for how to carry on with hope.

Jeffrey/Inside Voices: What’s next for you, Piper?

I hope that market forces permit me to continue telling these stories, but if not, that whatever I will write will allow me to do the same work of bringing back those parts of history that have been purposefully erased or omitted so that we can understand what a full, inclusive history of this country finally looks like.

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Piper G. Huguley

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Piper G. Huguley

The Wedding Band

I am currently putting the final touches on a book due to my publisher next week. For the past six months, and intensely for the last several weeks, I have worked long hours on this book of mine I often thought would never be finished.MyOpus.Thebookthattookmetenyearstowrite. Ihavepublishedfournovelsandacollectionofshortstories in the time I signed the contract on this book until today. I have won awards, watched a new grandchild come into the world, and weathered a pandemic with the rest of the country. Still this book has been with me like a faithful friend or at times an enemy.

Whatisitabout?Well,Grannystartedtellingmethestory of Leo Frank when I came to live with her in 1966 as a nineyear-old. I have known since the first time I heard the tragic tale that one day I would write a book.

Granny was nine-years-old, standing in the front yard of her home in the foothills of Appalachia, waiting for her father. It was a hot August morning, the 17th to be exact, and the year was 1915. The sky was that gray color, with

just a tinge of blue, right after night but just before daylight. Geechee people call it Dayclean and believe all kinds of magic,bothgoodandevil,canhappeninthistime.Granny’s fatherranoutofthehouseyellingforhertogetintheModel T.

At that moment, a rumbling began in the distance and a convoy of automobiles drove past her house. Men stood on the running boards of the cars and hung out the windows waving guns and yelling. In the back of one automobile was a small, pale man with a delicate nose and big dark eyes. He wore a terrified expression, and Granny knew in an instant something bad was going to happen.The feeling soaked the air and was in the cries of the crows circling above the trees. Granny got into the Model T with her brothers and her father. Her mother had died ten days before after her father pushed her from the automobile in a fit of rage. Now her father followed the convoy as if they were all in a parade. The line of cars kept going when her father stopped to pick upheruncle.Theotherautomobileswereadustcloudinthe distance by the time Granny was back on the road.

When my great grandfather arrived on a road lined with other automobiles, the sun was up above the grove of trees to her left. On the right side of the road was a single farmhouse.PeopleintheirSundaybeststoodhereandthere. Granny’s father told her to get out and come with him. She did as she was told. They cut through the trees to somewhat

ofaclearing,whereagrowinggroupofpeoplestoodaround a smallish tree. Then she saw what everyone was looking up at. The man, who she had seen in the back of the automobile, hung from a tree limb by a rope. His throat had an open wound and blood spilled down his white shirt. This image stayed with Granny her whole life. She told me she read in the newspapers the man who was lynched, Leo Frank, had made a last request that someone give his wedding band to his wife Lucille.

It was this part of the story that always stayed with me. I wanted to know what happened to Lucille.When I sat down to write this book about Lucille Selig Frank, Leo Frank’s wife, I thought I would write a historical novel. But Granny’s voice kept ringing in my head.

“Ain’t one soul deserves to be killed in such a manner, him with that sweet young wife. She was a Georgia girl, born and raised right in Atlanta. They was both Jews. That didn’t set so well with some folks back then. That’s why they believed he killed that little factory girl, Mary. But his wife never stopped believing in him. Even them men that did the hanging knew that. So they made sure Lucille got the ring.”

I was told this story so often I knew it by heart, even now today some fifty years later. I knew I would do Lucille justice. I would write her story as nonfiction. I would tell the story of this strong, brave young woman who lost the

love of her life because a group of men decided to take the law into their own hands.

To this day I can still hear Granny’s voice crack when she got to the part where she told of Lucille receiving the ring of her dead husband.

“Them men were too scared to take the ring to Lucille themselves, so they put it in the hands of a newspaper reporter.Themmencouldn’tlookLucilleintheeyes.Ifthey did, they would see themselves as the cold-blooded killers they were.”

Writing this book has been a long journey, but Granny would be proud of me for telling Lucille’s story.

The mountain magic in this column is that stories can and do change the world, one person at a time.

THE WRITER’S EYE

Watching The Classics

From A Different Point View

Recipe for a classic wartime romance

1 charismaticAmerican secret agent

1 beautiful woman with a checkered past

1 Nazi chemist desperately in love with that woman

The seasoning: Cary Grant playsAmerican agent Devlin; Ingrid Bergman is theAmerican daughter of a convicted German spy; Claud Rains is a Nazi scientist in Brazil in love with Bergman

What can a writer learn from this?

This was Hitchcock’s breakthrough film: nuanced, emotionally charged, and suspenseful. Grant and Bergman are sent to Brazil to discover the secrets of a German chemical company composed of Nazis. While waiting for their assignment, Grant and Bergman fall in love. Then the assignment comes: Bergman is to ingratiate herself with Rains and his circle. Rains was already in love with her. Torn between love and duty, Grant tries to tell his superiors that Bergman isn’t up to the task. When they deny him, he has no choice but to insist that Bergman do her job. Bergman dutifully spies on her husband and his associates, and the breakthrough, involving a bottle of wine, leads to a

tense, edgy scene with Bergman, Rains, and Grant. Rains discovers the truth of what happened in the wine cellar and confesses to his mother, a ruthless Nazi played with chilling effect by Leopoldine Konstantin. Mother and son start slowly poisoning Bergman and isolate her in a room with no phone. Grant, concerned about lack of contact, manages to get into the house and discovers what’s going on. In one of the most superbly suspenseful scenes Hitchcock ever directed, Grant rescues Bergman while Rains watches helpless, knowing that he will be killed.

What a writer can learn:

Much as in Casablanca, by watching the actors carefully, a writer can learn how to reveal character by behavior. In other words, how to show rather than tell. Grant, Bergman, and Rains were never better than in this film. The suspense slowly ratchets upwards, both with regard to the romance between Grant and Bergman and with the exposure of a deadly Nazi plot. The rescue scene at the end is utterly chilling, with the viewer knowing that any moment disaster can strike. This is my all-time favorite suspense film, and a textbook example of how to do it with sophistication and intelligence.

American Chestnut

Candice Marley Conner

Cate was born on this table. No, that wasn’t right. Cate had borne many things at this table.

The largest existing stand of American Chestnut trees grows in Wisconsin, descendants of twelve chestnuts planted by an early settler in the late 1800s. A single American Chestnutwas discovered in 2005 in theTalladega National Forest in Alabama. Three years later, a rare adult tree was discovered in a marsh off Lake Erie. The exact location is a carefully guarded secret. These hundred-foot-tall trees were once an economically important hardwood timber, a staple fall food for wildlife, but were devastated by a stowaway blight in 1904. In a course of eighty years, the toxin infected over three billion trees, killing tissue and spreading sores across their trunks.

Entire forests now only contain the massive trunks of the dead, shorn of bark and once reaching limbs. Ghosts standing in for the living.

Cate set the table with the fancy mock-silver candlesticks she had unearthed at Dirt Cheap. Those were followed by cloth napkins from the clearance bin at Wal-Mart and a properly placed knife and fork on either side. A gardenia plucked from the apartment complex’s entrance and placed in a champagne flute was the finishing touch.Today was her birthday.

She really was too old to still believe in birthday wishes, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, but she was optimistic that tonight her boyfriend, Kev, would give her good news. There would be a change.

Adjusting the volume on the radio, she daydreamed of differentscenarios:he’drepaidallhisgamblingdebtssoshe wouldn’t have to choose whether to pay their bills or pay toward his debt each month. Or, he’d finally gotten that job with benefits at the shipyard so he could pitch in towards rent or her car note. Better yet, both of those were true and he’d gotten a sign-on bonus at the shipyard so he bought her a ring and would propose to her tonight.

Cate gasped in shocked delight at her ring finger and

twirled around the table, showing off the bare hand to her cat, who dozed in one of the chairs.

“See that sparkle, Tiger?”

Thecat,ascatsdo,lookedatherwithapeevedexpression and stalked off toward the bedroom.

Unperturbed, Cate imagined showing it off to the girls at the salon tomorrow. Especially Jen who always had a lemon-suckingduckfaceanytimeCatementionedKev.This ring would show her who was wrong.

Cate looked at the clock—almost dinner time!—and dashed off to the bathroom for a spritz of perfume. She smoothed her pink dress as she watched herself in the mirror. She looked nice. A golden tan from working at the salon, thick chestnut hair she’d inherited from her mama, sparkling green eyes fringed with long lashes she’d gotten from her daddy.

Her reflection took on an underwater sheen. She sniffed and quickly turned her thoughts away before that deep ache made her mascara run. She wouldn’t have time to retouch her makeup if she remembered how this was the second birthday she’d spent without her mama and daddy.And the factthat,besidesherlooksandthemoneyshegoteveryyear from their estate for her birthday, all that she had left of her family was her dining room table.

Thekitchentimerbeeped.Shehurriedbacktothekitchen to turn off the burner under the rice. She checked the roast

in the crock pot, and watched the clock again.

She’dtriedtoreplicatehermama’sfamousspicecakebut wound up having to buy one from Wal-Mart. The cream cheese frosting slid off on the car ride home so she’d had to prop it back on with toothpicks.

Kev should be here any minute. Traffic on Airport Boulevard was notoriously snarly so he was probably stuck at a red light. Or maybe he had a hard time finding a ride to the jewelers so he had to take the bus. She knew he hated taking the bus.

The front windows rattled. She glanced skyward as she ran to look outside, wondering if Miss Doris in 203 would bang on the floor with her cane. Peeking through the blinds, she watched Kev get out of a friend’s truck. He tossed his bag over one shoulder and tucked his other hand in his tight jeans pocket as he walked up the sidewalk. Cate smiled, thinking he looked like a modern James Dean.

Grabbinghisglassofwine,shesteppedintoherheelsand smoothed her dress again. Then she waited for him to open the door.

“Whoa, Babe! Lookin’ good.” He tossed his bag to the floor and twirled her around.

Cate giggled happily. “You’re going to make me spill your wine.”

“Wine? Nah, I need a beer. Man, it smells good. What’s the occasion?”

Cate’s smile slid off her face. “My birthday?” she said to his back as he leaned into the fridge.

He popped the top and took a gulp. “Right, just kidding. I got you something. But not until after we eat. I’m starving.”

He sat down at the family table. She made his plate then hurried to make hers as he attacked his with gusto before she had a chance to sit down.

“Wanna hear my news?”

Cate beamed. She knew it! “You got the job at the shipyard?”

“Nah, even better.”

“You paid off your debts?”

Kev frowned. “How would that be fun?”

Cate did a little happy dance in her chair. The ring was in her near future—

“No, I met a guy who knows a guy at the Greyhound Park and I got…” Kev leaned closer, his eyes sparkling. “… insider’s tips!”

“Oh.” Cate couldn’t taste the roast she’d just put in her mouth.

“SoT’spickingmeupafterIeatandwe’regoingtocheck it out.” He shoveled another bite, then looked at Cate in confusion. “What? That means I can win thousands, maybe millions. So I don’t need a job.” He said the last slowly, deliberately, as if Cate had suddenly developed a hearing

problem.

“No, that’s… it’s just that—” Something caught in her throat. The gravy somehow soured, the meat suddenly rancid. She loved that about him—his optimism, how the world was his oyster just waiting for him to pluck out the pearl. Though sometimes it was simply a grain of sand. She shook her head. “It’s my birthday. I got a bottle of champagne and thought we could rent a movie for us to watch together.”

“Champagne?Ain’t that expensive?”

“It can be, but not the one I— ”

“And is that a new dress?”

Henoticed.Thatwassomethingelseshelovedabouthim. He noticed the small things. “Yes, but I bought it at Tar— ”

“So you’re looking at me like I done something wrong when I’m trying to make money and you’re spending it on shit we don’t need?”

“It’s money my parents left me.”

“And we couldn’t use it to pay our cable bill? Really, babe,Ithoughtwedecidedtousethemoneytowardourbills and our debt. Instead you spend it on new clothes, champagne, and wine? A little selfish, don’t ya think. You know I don’t drink that frou-frou crap.”

Your debt, Cate corrected. Not ours. But she didn’t want to start an argument so she chewed on her top lip, her appetite gone.

Kev dropped his fork to his empty plate with a clatter. “Heycheerup.It’syourbirthday.WannaseewhatIgotya?”

Cate nodded.

Kev got his bag. “Close your eyes.”

Squeezing them tight, she held out her hand, fingers splayed, and palm down.

“Turn your hand over.”

Cate did and felt a cold cylinder drop into her hand. Confused, she opened her eyes.Aflashlight.

Kev laughed. “ ’Cause the power’s been going out so much with all those tornadoes.”

Cate couldn’t hide the disappointment.

Kev’seyeslostthegleefulsparkle.“What?Youdon’tlike practical gifts? Should I’ve spray painted it pink and glued frickin’rhinestones all over it?”

“No,it’sfine.Thankyou.Practical.Weneedaflashlight.”

Kev snapped his fingers. “Ah, you’re mopey because you want a birthday cake? So you can make your wish, that it? I told you I didn’t forget.”

“No, I already…”

He dug in his bag. She cringed at the thought of eating anything that had been inside that dirty, crumbled thing. He triumphantlywithdrewandunwrappedaLittleDebbiecake, reformed its spongy corners, and pulled a burning candle out of its fake silver candlestick holder.

“Ta-da!” He stuck the candle in the middle. It leaned

precariously to the side, dripping wax onto the carpet. “Make a wish.”

Cate squeezed her eyes shut and wished birthday wishes could stitch families back together. Knowing the impossibility of that, instead, she wished to be stronger.

Kev’s pocket buzzed. He gave Cate a peck on the forehead.“Greatdinner.Anddon’tworry.Thenexttimeyou see me, I’ll have more money than you can wish for.”

Cate nodded, but kept her eyes shut as she heard the door open then close with a bang as the wind from the breezeway slammed it shut behind him.

Miss Doris in 203 thumped her floor with her cane.

Shesat,clutchingthatstupidflashlightuntilshefeltTiger weave in and out of her ankles. Tears leaked down her face as she cleaned the kitchen and wiped the dining room table. Using a baggie of ice and her blow drier, she picked melted wax out of the carpet with a butter knife. Then she popped the cork out of the champagne and sat back down at the table, absently tracing the old quilt tracks like a mysterious connect-the-dots.

The table was the only thing in their apartment not from a thrift store. It still matched the—as Cate optimistically called it—shabby chic décor of their home. Her greatgrandfather had made it and counting herself, four generations had gathered around it, sharing love and hope and dreams. But now with her parents gone, and Kev at the

tracks, it was just Cate, Tiger, and a bottle of bubbly that tasted bitterer with each sip.

Shedidn’tknowiftherewasanythingintheworldsadder than drinking champagne alone. She dipped a finger in and watched the bubbles viciously, or enthusiastically, depending on how she looked at it, cover her fingertip. She flicked the bubbles off.

She refilled her glass. Cate was born on this table. No, that wasn’t right.

Cate had borne many things at this table.

Likethenewsherparents’vacationhadcometoanabrupt end.

A semi was in their lane, an eyewitness said. There was a hill so neither driver could stop in time.

Cate suspected at least one of the chickens had seen something. She made it to the scene in record time, though did pull over to breathe when she almost caused a wreck herself. And when she couldn’t catch her breath, Kev had sent a friend to drive her the rest of the way.

The aftermath looked like a middle school sleepover. There were feathers everywhere. Like warm snow or wispy cotton, idyllic except for the dead chickens and parents. It seemed unnaturally quiet apart from the odd murmurings of survivor chickens and creaking metal. The feathers muffled Cate’s footsteps, soft mounds of who knows—the chickens who didn’t make it, parts of her parents. She didn’t eat

chicken anymore. She was afraid of what she might bite into. Deep-fried, a chicken tender resembled Mama’s biceps.

The table had borne many things here. Kev’s boots, his greasy satchel. It had been a tree once!An exceptional tree, though its table-ness had saved it from extinction. Had changed it. Given it new life. Formed from scraps her greatgrandfather salvaged before the blight hit.

What had Cate done to give something new life? Because isn’t that what folks do if they’ve borne something? You endure to make it new, better? Gather the scraps of your life and hammer and nail them into something sturdy. All that Cate had accepted was good things sour.

She gulped down the bubbles, viciously.

No, she hadn’t accepted the pessimism. She knew it was a truth but not the truth.

The dinner table was born here. It had been a tree in the forest. Then it was a sewing table. Then it was a burrow when Cate was five.

She was a rabbit when she was five. The table had borne a burrow.

The rabbit, chestnut hair in pigtails like long bunny ears, covered the table with a scratchy blanket. Mama would bring her carrot sticks and the rabbit would watch, nose twitching, for trouble.

Daddy would roar, talons outstretched, and the bunny

would shriek in excitement as she bounded back to safety.

Once, he snatched a pompom off her sock. The rabbit sat down and cried.

“What’swrong?”theeagleasked.“Mamacansewitback on.”

She wrung an ear. “But it’s my tail. How can I be a bunny without my cotton-tail?”

The table had borne a burrow to a rabbit with no cottontail. Mama brought the rabbit a carrot and the carrot was bitter. ***

Atworkthenextday,JenstaredpointedlyatCate’sempty ringfingerbutthankfullydidn’tcomment.Commissionwas nonexistent as Cate couldn’t muster the enthusiasm needed to push a sale. All she could think about was the fact that Kev never made it home last night. Even Tiger had left her to chase geckos.

She had slept alone on her birthday.

Well, not completely alone. She woke with a hangover snuggled tight.

***

When she got back to her apartment, Kev surprised her

at the door with fistfuls of money.

“You won?” Cate worried all day for nothing. Everything was okay.

“Even better! That guy who knew the insider guy? He’s into antiques.When he dropped me off, he saw our table—” Heart dropping, Cate pushed past him and gasped at the empty room. Four ghostly furroughs in the carpet were the only things left.

“Yeah, who knew that creaky old table was worth something? He said it was from a tree that got wiped out in the 1900s and was valuable. Pretty much extinct. Uhh…”

“American Chestnut,” Cate whispered, sinking to her knees.

“That’s it! Ain’t it awesome? Six hundred dollars!” He fanned the bills over her head.

Shell-shocked, Cate stared at him. “That table was all I had left of my entire family. You knew that.” She was a rabbit again, her cotton-tail snatched off.

“Babe, I’m your family now. So stop being selfish and think of how I can turn this money into thousands at the track. Hell, I’ll even drink some of your champagne if you wanna celebrate.”

The same part inside Cate that cracked like a chicken’s wishbone when she found out about her parents split again as she traced a finger into the flattened patch of carpet. “It’s my money,” she said through gritted teeth.

Kev laughed. “Like you know a damn thing about dog racing.Howaboutyoucomewithmeforgoodluck,wetake your car, and I’ll place the bets.”

Cate picked up Tiger and stood. “Where does your friend work?”

“That pawn shop on Cody. You wanna go to the tracks now?”

Cate stepped between Kev and the door. She still had her purse on. With Tiger in her arms and the family table gone, there wasn’t anything else in the apartment Cate worried about Kev destroying, so she might as well do it. His name wasn’t on the lease.

“No. I’m leaving. When I come back, I want you and all your stuff gone. I’ll bring the cops if you make me.”

He snorted. Undeterred, Cate snatched the money he was still waving.

“What’s gotten into you?” he sputtered.

Cate had borne many things at that table. “I’m getting my table back.”

Candice Marley Conner is a haint at The Haunted Bookshop in Downtown Mobile and an officer for her local writer’s guild. Her poems and stories are in various anthologies and magazines including Well Read, Wild:AnAnthology of Poetry, Woolgathering, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and more. She is the author of three picture books and a YA Southern mystery.

Picnics withAunt Kathryn

Kaye Wilkinson Barley

Several years ago, my GreatAunt Kathryn and I decided to start a tradition all our own. We decided to get together for a picnic one Sunday a month, agreeing that picnics help keep you young. Further agreeing that sharing our bounty, however small and simple, with Mother Nature, along with the ants and the bees via picnics, was a fine, selfless and virtuous tradition we could proudly champion.

There were, of course, occasional exceptions to that rule. There were those cold or rainy Sundays when we would giggle like little girls as we plopped the picnic basket down on Aunt Kathryn’s mahogany dining table in her oh-soformaldiningroom,butitwasn’tquitethesamewithoutthe ants and the bees.

Our tradition began the day we found our beloved old picnic basket, the one we always filled to brimming with treats we both love. Simple fare, like picnics are meant to be. But also a nod to the whimsical and fancy that Kathryn and I have always been prone to.

It was one of those fortuitous little accidents that started a chain of events. A fun and lovely journey with an undefined ending or estimated time of arrival.

I was visitingAunt Kathryn in Savannah that day, and we were in one of those frou-frou antique shops that I love to browse in but where I’m rarely able to buy anything. The dumpy places on the roadside are much more my style and where I’m usually able to find a treasure I can afford – like dusty old white ironstone pitchers back before Martha Stewart and Country Living Magazine started displaying them on every surface from a window sill to a toilet tank.

When “The Basket,” as it became known, fell off a shelf, landing at my feet, it was love at first sight. I knew better than to let the shop owner know that I was already coveting this old thing – a faded old red wicker picnic basket.

The owner raced toward me squealing “Ooh, ooh, ooh. Is it hurt? Is it broken?” I wasn’t sure if she was concerned about the basket or my foot. All the while, she was waving her hands and fluttering her fingers like she was feeling moved by spirits usually encountered in a revival tent while I just stood there waiting to see what was going to happen next.

Aunt Kathryn nudged me from behind and whispered. “Do not say one word, sugar. Not one.”

When the shop owner stopped in front of us and finally stopped waving her hands and fluttering her fingers, she

noticed my aunt.

“Oh. Kathryn. Um. How lovely to see you!”

“Hello, Marguerite.”

“Where have you been keeping yourself, I haven’t seen you in the shop in just an age.”

Aunt Kathryn looked around, “Actually, I don’t believe I’ve been here before. Lovely things you have here, dear. But tell me, do things often come tumbling off the shelves barely missing giving your patrons a concussion?”

I could have sworn I heard a quiet little “tut-tut” from Kathryn as she continued looking around, never letting her eyes fall to the picnic basket on the floor between us.

Marguerite pulled her shoulders back, put her nose another inch in the air. “Certainly not. And that old picnic basket is light as a feather. It wouldn’t have even dented a hair on your head, Kathryn. Why it’s even in this shop, I have no idea. It’s just a cheap ol’ piece made overseas somewhere. And you know how those things are, no substance. Light as a feather. Here, I’ll get it out of your way.”

Kathryn gracefully leaned forward and snatched up that basket as quick as I could blink my eyes.

“Oh,here,Margueritedear,I’lltakecareofitforyou.My grandson’s sister-in-law’s little girl would love to play with this.And you know, with it being so cheap and all, no need to worry when it falls apart the first day she tries to get her

cats to take a nap in it. I’ll be more than happy to take it off your hands. How much?”

We watched Marguerite turn to stone in front of our very eyes. She knew she had been found out. This beauty was no cheappieceofnothingfromsomewhereoverseasasshehad described it

“Oh, why, good heavens, I couldn’t take your money for this old thing. I’ll just toss it in the trash can right over there.”

“Oh my no. I’m quite excited by the very thought of that adorable little girl tucking her kitties into this old thing. If you won’t accept my money, I’ll just toss it in the back of the car while Katy and I look around. You go along, Katy, take your time and look around. I’ll be right back.”

And that’s how we came to own our beautiful 19th century Heywood-Wakefield wicker picnic basket with metal hinges and peg nails, its original color faded to a soft warmred.Thewovenwickerinsurprisinglyfineshape.This old basket had been lovingly cared for. Score one for the home team.That would be me andAunt Kathryn since there was no little girl with kittens belonging to Kathryn’s grandson’s sister-in-law. Indeed, not even a grandson.

My aunt had known Marguerite Harald Alberta Woolsey all her life and knew she was one of those women who would just rather tell a lie than tell the truth, and Aunt Katherine loved taking advantage of that little lifelong trait.

We immediately planned a picnic to take place the very next day.

And it was so much fun, we decided to work a monthly Sunday picnic into our busy schedules.

We now had the perfect reason, allowing no excuses, to get together once a month – for me to make the trip to Savannah from my home a couple hours away.

Picnics became a tradition for the two of us, and something we both looked forward to. Our phone conversations now included picnic menus and locations.

It was early on that Aunt Kathryn spoke up and made it clear that eating on paper plates, even for a picnic, was unacceptable. Not even acceptable to Mother Nature, the ants, or the bees.

She wanted china.

And silver. And crystal.

Oh, my.

All these things would join the linen table cloth and napkins she was donating to the cause of a well-stocked picnic basket

With that in mind, Aunt Kathryn decided we needed to choose a china pattern. And a silver pattern. And, yes, a crystal pattern.

When I reminded her we weren’t planning a wedding, only outfitting an old picnic basket she did that “tut-tut”

thing she does.

So, of course, we did it her way.

Whichgaveustheperfectexcusetostartscouringantique and junk shops for the things we would keep stored in our basket.

Anyone who loves to antique or junk knows the hunt is part of the fun, and our hunt was a hoot.

When we had our first china-related disagreement over exactly which pattern we should choose, we agreed we would each pick out a piece, or two, of china to suit ourselves. One that appealed to us individually rather than as a collective.

As it turned out, we both chose Limoges luncheon plates. Theyweredifferentpatterns,butcloseenoughindesignthat they made quite a lovely aesthetically pleasing mismatch. We both chose white with small pink flowers, Kathryn’s withapinkroseandwhitedaisyborder,minewitharandom scattering of tiny pink roses. At some point, a slightly chipped Limoges creamer and sugar bowl of yet another pink and white floral pattern found residence in “The Basket.” As did a couple of teacups, small bowls, and one largercovereddish.Wehadaveritablemash-upofLimoges before we finally had to say “enough!” Or there’d be no room for food.

WhilehittingafewyardsalesonaprettyspringSaturday, we both knew we’d found our perfect silverware which

turned out not to be silver at all, but stainless.With the most darling little bumble bee embossed on the handles. Perfect! We swooped in and scooped up the few odds and ends available – enough that we both had our own fork and a spoon each, but would have to share a knife.

Our crystal needs were met when we stopped at an old falling down shack of a place on a back road between Savannah and Tybee Island. There was a sign stuck in the ground with “Old Stuff” and an arrow drawn on it pointing to the shack where an elderly couple were sitting in rockers on the front lawn. Both were smoking pipes, and both were dressed in well-worn overalls and work boots.

We introduced ourselves as we approached and were offered our choice of drinks from an old Coca-Cola cooler and a bit of tobacco in case we had pipes of our own. We passed on the tobacco, but took them up on their offer of a cold drink and sat of the steps for a visit.

By the time we left, we knew quite a bit about Henry and Harriett, and we had a few pieces of delicately etched antique Rose Point crystal by Cambridge. Henry and Harriett were quite well suited to their choice of livelihood in sales seeing as how we intended to buy two pieces of crystal and ended up with, well, never mind.Alot of crystal – some only slightly chipped. I still have quite a few pieces at my house, Aunt Katherine ended up with quite a few pieces, and friends and family who have admired it might

arrive home with a piece of two. Still not sure how that happened. But. It’s a lovely, lovely pattern, and because we had so much to choose from, the pieces that resided in “The Basket: were on rotation

I arrived at the spot chosen for our picnic - a serene spot in Bonaventure Cemetery, on a bluff overlooking the Wilmington River. Bonaventure is hauntingly beautiful, andifyou’reonewhoenjoysthemysteriesandpeacefulness of a walk through a cemetery, this is one not to be missed. If you read John Berendt’s book “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil,” you’ve seen one of the Bonaventure statues - the “Bird Girl” which was featured on the book cover. It’s no longer there, however, due to over-zealous visitors who perhaps weren’t as respectful to “Bird Girl” as theycouldhavebeen.ShenowresidesinSavannah’sTelfair Museum.

As I put down our linen tablecloth, our much loved, long used picnic finery along with today’s repast of country pâté and crusty French bread, plump strawberries, a salad of crunchy fresh lettuces topped with slices of cucumber, mushrooms and local tomatoes, I noticed a line of ants headedourway,andafewbeeshoveringaroundtheazaleas.

I poured some of Aunt Kathryn’s favorite champagne, KrugGrandeCuvée,intoourglassesandleanedbackonmy elbows, enjoying the quiet laced with birdsong.

“Yes,Aunt Kathryn, I know, I know. I did splurge on the

champagne. But, well, we couldn’t let your birthday go by without a bit of celebration. I mean, I think your old pal Conrad Aiken started a Bonaventure tradition of drinking with the dearly departed by having his headstone constructed as a bench, declaring it to be a place for his friends to sit and enjoy a martini while conversing with his spirit, right? Do you suppose he didn’t like champagne? Heaven forbid. Well, with apologies to Mr. Aiken, we’ll forgo the martini and enjoy the Krug, what say?

After wiping away a few errant tears, I raised my glass to the headstone that read “Kathryn, a woman who loved picnics. She always done the best she could, and lived her life with enormous joy. Much loved and greatly missed.” Then, as I felt a soft breeze whispering in my ear I got up, whispered, “I love you too, Aunt Kathryn,” and walked away, leaving behind “The Basket” and all the treasures it had held safely for so many years. Leaving the now threadbare tablecloth and all that rested on it. All to be shared with Mother Nature, the ants and the bees. As it should be.

KayeWilkinsonBarley,https://kayewilkinsonbarley.com/books/,is the author of one womens fiction novel, WHIMSEY; several published essays and short stories, including a contribution (VOODOO AT THE JITTERBUG) to the Anthony award winning anthology BLOODONTHEBAYOU,andco-author,alongwithher husband Don, of two photo essay books, including the most recent CAROUSELS OF PARIS.

The Berlin Flower Shop Mike Ross

“When the bombs began to fall, that was the worst. We’d hearawhistling,thenanexplosionandthefloorsshook,like an earthquake. Windows shattered and the walls rattled,” her hands mimicked the motion. The Great Depression was terrible but the bombs were the worst!” I’m talking with Frau Rosen in Rosen’s Floral Shop inside the Friedrich Street Train Station in central Berlin, Germany.

This unlovely structure in the center of the city is unlike any other. It has a soul, a heart, a living presence. The streams of humanity flowing through it for 150 years gives it life. If you stand in the middle and close your eyes you can feel the vibrations of the past, and the relief of the present.Youhearthescreechingtrainsfromthe1880stothe 2000s,smelltheeverpresentsimmeringbratwursts,thetang of coffee and the woody aroma of the bookstalls. This is the here and now, this is the wave and thunder of life as it sweeps over a great city, this place is the “now”, no matter when that “now” is or was, past, present, future in the same

instant. Open your eyes and the soaring cantilevered roof spreads for acres up and down the tracks, sunlight streams through the glass walls.

I have a couple of hours between trains and wander into thefloralshoptogetacloserlookatablackandwhitephoto in the display window. The photo shows a smiling young man,handsonhips,inanoldfashionedcapstandinginfront of this store, flowers spilling out of buckets arranged on the pavement near him, old-type lettering, ‘Rosen’s Fine Florals’,stenciledinanarcacrosstheplateglass.Inside,the shop is filled with customers and the front door stands open. Under the photo is written, ‘1887’. Frau Rosen, seeing my interest, comes over to explain the picture.

“That’s my grandfather,” she points to the man in the photo, “he founded the business in 1887, shortly after the station opened. My father took it over when Opa died and Papa ran it through World War I, the Depression and the start of World War II. I was 15 or 16 when he left for the Russian front.” She pauses, glances at the photo and back to me. “He never came back so I took over the shop.” She says this as a matter of fact, just routine for a girl in her mid teens to take on running a family store. She tells me about the bombs, Hitler’s suicide and the Russian occupation.

She is now in her mid 90s, small and smartly dressed. “And I’m still here”. I congratulate her on her success but

she waves away the compliment. “That’s what we all did. If you wanted to eat, to live, you worked. No one told me I was too young or that a woman couldn’t run a business. But I did dress like a boy for a few years, in the late 1940s.” I ask her why.

“The Russians. This part of the station was in the Soviet Zone. I was a young woman so to protect myself, I dressed in pants, wore my Papa’s cap, cut my hair short and wore no makeup. Sometimes I’d smear a bit of dirt on my face. It worked. I was never raped. The soldiers didn’t want flowers.All they wanted was vodka so they never bothered me. The Reds were awful but, oh, the bombing was worse. I was one of the lucky ones. I survived both.”

Her two young employees wait on the constant stream of customers, the bell above the door tinkling each time it opens. I apologize for taking her time but she only smiles. I ask her what the Friedrich Street Station was like during the years of Soviet occupation and the now vanished German Democratic Republic, known in America as East Germany.

“The Soviet years were a quiet nightmare,” she says, “with so many soldiers and the harsh regulations. The Russians left sometime in the 1950s, I think. In 1961 the East German government divided the station and set up barriers to stop us from fleeing to the West. This station became the main border crossing between East and West

Berlin. I was in the East but the other end of this building,” she points, “was sort of in the West, or at least it was used by Westerners to change trains.”

All of Friedrich Station was in the East but the zigzagged routes of two subway lines that served West Berlin converged here. The few stops of those lines that were in the East were bricked up by the government. The Berliners called the stops Ghost Stations, where no one could get on or off except ghosts. Westerners passed through the Friedrich Station but couldn’t leave the building.

She sighs and shakes her head. “When we looked over the barriers, we could see the Westerners getting on and off their trains, well dressed, well fed, reading real newspapers, but we weren’t allowed over to that side, nor they over here. So all we did was watch.” She stops to answer a question and turns back to me.

“Life on this side was hard. Not much food and what we had was terrible. Often no heat or electricity, but they told us we lived in a workers’ paradise! What lies! Thank goodness for the government employees who worked near here. They still bought flowers, thank God. Kept my shop alive.”

I thought back to the late 1960s, when I changed subway lines at the Friedrich Station. While I waited for my connection,Ipeeredoverthebarricadesandpassportbooths into the East.The place was grimy and smelled of urine, the

windows thick with dust. When I returned 22 years later in the summer of 1990, just weeks after the Berlin Wall had come down, the station was much the same but the atmosphere had undergone a sea change. I walked down the platform from what had been the West into the former East, past barriers I would have been shot at just 6 months earlier had I tried to flee, past the relics and detritus of collapsed passport booths. East Germany had died, a piece of trash on thedustbinofhistory,aghostinthestationamongacarnival of other ghosts.

I ask her if she had ever read the spy novels like The Spy WhoCameinFromtheColdbyJohnleCarrethathadmade Friedrich Street Station famous. Yes, she had, but the intrigue in those books was exaggerated.

“I remember spies being exchanged. Soldiers marched a guy in and stood at the barricades. Another guy between soldiers was on the other side. The passport gates opened and the two fellows switched. It was usually a pretty quiet affair. Once a guy who owned a bratwurst kiosk,” she points to a spot where a coffee shop stands, “was arrested. He tried to run but they got him. He worked for the West, passed messages somehow. I don’t recall anyone making it across. The guards were everywhere so life was routine, quiet.” Was she here in the 1930s when 10,000 Jewish children wereevacuatedthroughFriedrichStationtoLondon?“Iwas only 7 or 8 when that happened.” she says. “My best friend,

Sarah Goldschmidt, was a little Jewish girl who lived near us, just 3 blocks from here. We went to the same school and I was always at her house. Her mother, Anna, was a wonderful baker. I remember eating loaves of her chocolate babka. She always sent a big hunk of it with me as a gift for my mother. One day Sarah was here, the next day she was gone. The family disappeared, too. Their shoe shop closed. My mother told me never to talk of it, never to mention my friendship with Sarah to anyone. I didn’t but I never forgot her.” Frau Rosen stares out the window a long moment before she continues.

“I found out after the war, Sarah had survived but her family perished in Auschwitz. That was life—and death— with the Nazis. Worse than the Soviets.” I glance at my watch and know I have to get to my train. I buy some flowers, thank her for her time and walk toward my platform.

In 1990 the Berlin Wall fell and the station began its long escape from the cold war. In June of that year, I was on the first train from the West to the East that stopped at the ghost stations. Tearful Berliners crowded the platforms, holding balloons and wearing party hats.They boarded the train and sang songs of freedom, of relief, sang to their beloved Friedrich Street Station.

Iwalktoplatform9formytraintoHamburg.TheGothiclikeceilingvaultsaboveme,lightpoursinthroughtheglass

walls, trains screech and passengersbustle.Witheyesclosed,Isensethevibrations of the past, hear the bombs falling, the jack boots of Soviet soldiers, the silent scream of a long dead regime realizing it’s a corpse, the joy in the voices at the ghost stations when the springtime of freedom dawns, the relief of the new era. My train rushes in, stirring the smell of bratwurst and coffee with the aroma of the past and the sounds of the present.

Mike Ross has written professionally and privately for decades, published in newspapers previously. He received his BA at University of Munich (Germany), and two MAs in the US. Ross taught German for thirty-five years and in summers was a professional tour guide, which he still is. Ross decided to write permanently to share his experiences with others who might not have the same opportunities to experiences them for themselves.

1968

Will Maguire

1968 is buried like a bruise in my memory. It was long ago. But I still feel it.Amputees say they still feel a missing leg. A phantom pain that remains long after what's taken is gone. 1968 is the year part of me was taken. I still feel it.

That year brought terrible collisions between old virtues and new verities. Truths taken of faith were tested and sometimes failed. The nation but also families were shaken to the bone by wars declared fought in jungles but also undeclared wars fought over kitchen tables.

It was the year I discovered loss. And the kind of heartache that climbs down and in and stays. Forever.

And this year, 2024, has begun to feel like then. I recognize something in it. Something coming .

1968 began when a kid I knew was expelled from my CatholicgrammarschoolforthegravesinofwearingBeatle boots. We both wore white shirts and clip on ties but the nuns explained he was a heretic. His hair was over his ears. And though we learned to read together and memorized the commandments and confessed our sins each Friday that

year, they said, he was different. One morning, hands over hearts pledging our allegiance in the parking lot, the principal dragged him out of line.

She sent out a mimeograph sheet home to all the parents remindingthemofthedresscode.Whenhisparentsresisted, the principal sent him packing. Off to the heathens of public school.

I listened as my teachers whispered he was a bad seed, sure to become a thug. All the while I practiced my own private heresy. Stealing cartons of Lucky Strikes, dreaming of my escape into puberty and learning to inhale behind the school.

Beatle boots and anything but crew cuts were, as it turned out, just the beginning. By 1968 a war that had started in a faraway jungle a few years earlier had begun to find its way home. It crept into our living room each night through the television screen. After supper the TV showed jungle firefights and riots. American soldiers crying calling for medical and protesters, just kids like me, beaten bloody in city streets.

And every night the black and white flicker of the slow roll of the names of American boys that died fighting for something almost none of us could explain in class.

The night LBJ decided he would not run again I found my mother, face in her hands weeping at the kitchen table. Not for him I can see now, but instead for what she sensed

was coming. Something as certain as a freight train with all we still believed waiting on its tracks.

There was an old man down the street whose oldest son had gone into the marines. Killed in combat that year. A widower and regular at the American Legion, he had a bad ticker. The doctors told him he wouldn't last the year without a transplant.

As he began to fail, the parish ladies, unsure of how to help,startedaschoolbakesale.TheybelievedIsupposethat everything bitter, even the world, could be made sweet with confectionery sugar. So they made cakes that we sold after Mass on Sunday.

I was elected to bring him the envelope. I rang his bell then earnestly told him that we raised $47...to help with the medical bills.As I handed it to him he began to soundlessly cry, then without a word slowly closed the door.

That spring some kid one town over wrapped his daddy’s Buick around a tree. I overheard my father tell a neighbor the kid was a hippie. Wore bell bottoms. Hair was over his ears.

The old man was terribly sick and they decided to give him the kid's heart. After the operation he almost died a couple times. The doctors said that his body kept rejecting the heart.

I suppose he felt every beat was both his only chance at survival and a betrayal of his soldier son. But by summer he

had recovered enough to walk around the block with a cane.

As the year deepened draft cards were burned, Nixon secretly bombed Cambodia, rioting broke out at the Democratic Convention in Chicago.

Kids, not much more than teenagers, sensed they were being lied to, that every thing they had been told was good and true was merely a mask for power and avarice.

And soon the entire country started to seem just like the old man, clinging to a tired and worn out heart. Unable to do anything but reject the very thing that could save it.

In my house my oldest brother, all of 19, was called to the draft board. Like everyone I knew then, he was impossibly young, certain of what was right. True in the way only the innocent can afford.

He said he didn’t want to fight in a war on the other side of the world. He said it felt wrong.

And my father, an immigrant and world war 2 veteran, told him that this country had been good to us. That the UnitedStatesstoodforrightandthatourfamilyowedadebt that he had been called to pay.

And so there were fights.

The quiet kind. The kind that no longer used fists or even wordsbutinsteadcollidedinsharpenedsilenceatthedinner table each night. The wreckage was hidden, but no less severe.Andlove,itsnightlycasualty,begantorollawaylike

the names of the dead each night on the news.

My brother finally agreed to go to the draft board and was rejected. 4F, asthma.

But no matter.The war, between my father's faith and my brother's growing distrust continued at home. Finally my father, with tears in his eyes, told my brother to pack and leave.

Hemingway famously wrote that the world can break just aboutanything,butthatsomebecomestrongerinthebroken places.But1968,it'sfracturedfamiliesandbrokenfaith,did not feel strong to me. Some boys I suppose, are strong at 19. Many leave much younger. I myself, an unrepentant fool, left at 16. But my brother, was not strong.

I watched him pack and listened to him lie to me that everything would be all right. And, just a boy, I felt the wrong in it all. Some kind of sin like stealing or lying or not standing up when everything in you whispers you must...or be lost forever

I went to my father and told him that he was making a mistake. I pleaded with him. Something's wrong, I said. This is some kind of sin there isn't a commandment for.The kind you can't forgive yourself for. The kind you carry all your days.

He gazed at me in silence with a look I did not recognize and finally said, “You don’t understand. You’re too young to know.”

I understand that look now.

It was grief.

ThedaymybrotherleftIstoodatthefrontdoorwatching. The old man, slowly limping down the street, stopped by him. They talked for a moment. And I watched as the old man, put a hand on his scarred and unsteady heart, then tenderlytouchedmybrother'sarm.Hewhisperedsomething and my brother bowed his head like it was some kind of absolution passed only between the wounded. Then my brother turned away forever.

That year, 1968, was long ago but I still feel its fracture. My family, my country, my heart. I still feel the phantom pain of the part cut away from me, gone these many years. AndIbecamestainedbythememoryofthewaythingswere supposed to fit, but never would again.

Nixon resigned, the war ended, and the country, like the old man’s heart, eventually grew stronger. And, though it took some few years, my brother died alone. Of that year's wounds.

But 1968, its quiet wars and rejected hearts, its riots and o unforgotten sins became a bruise on my memory. Its self inflicted wounds crawled into my 12 year old eyes then down until they finally reached my heart that now, like the old man's, sometimes feels worn out and tired of beating against this world.

And now 2024, has begun to feel to me like 1968.

I can feel it coming like a freight train. And once again all we believe lay in it's tracks. I feel that it's dark shape rushingtowardusandfeelit'scomingcollisionbegintocast a shadow of undeclared war.

All around a kind of mass hysteria has taken hold.Atoxic mix of grievance and outrage fills airwaves and phone screens whispering that democracy has failed. It bellows that we must free this one man from law and accountability to do what he will, because he and only he can restore our fractured hope.

Talk of poisoned immigrant blood and dictators, vast deportation camps and retribution are now cheered by millions. Never mind that many of these rabid ideas were defeated in 1946. Today they are coated in a fresh veneer of patriotism and called righteous.

Fathers and uncles, brothers and neighbors have been convinced. These misguided people want to cut out the heart of democracy and replace it with something smaller. Something meaner.

They tell us again and again that the only way to save America, as they demand it should become, is to destroy America as it is.

And like 1968, I am beginning to feel that rending of families. Of country. I have seen this before. I know where it leads.

Ihavewatcheditsflickerandslowrollofloss.Ihaveseen its mournful demands, calling still from long ago, in my father’s eyes.

We…each of us… have to decide.Will we honor the kind of people we still aspire to be or will we surrender to this other colderAmerica.

I am Irish, which is another way of saying that I know in my bones that the world is meant to break your heart.

But I am American too. Which is another way of saying Ibelieve…prayreally…thatHemingwaywasright.Thatthe broken I feel barreling toward us will somehow...please God..., in the end, make us stronger.

WillMaguireisasongwriterandwriterlivinginNashville.Hiswork has appeared in a variety of magazines and journals most recently Salvation South, The Memoirist and the WELLREAD Collected Anthology

Recent Events

AJ Concannon

I’m wondering if I should risk a shower, but I can’t decide, see it’s the people next door, this dog outside, barking, they keep it tied up outside and it barks just keeps barking morning noon and night, rowf rowf rowf, drive you absolutely mental. I would say something but one look at you and they panic, bloody foreigner at the door, saying something about the dog in his mangled Japanese, I think he wants to take it for a walk or something and I probably would, you know, take the thing for a walk, I’m that much of a pushover. Walking with the yapping Shiba, it would become a regular event, you know, I would go round to shoot the bloody thing and end up taking it for a walk and picking up its poo.

I put the TV on to drown out the dog and Hiroshi Kume is in full flow, incredulous, something about the little boy, the head on the school gates, and after the sarin gas and the earthquake these recent events have him stunned. And I am getting wound up by the barking as well as

thinking about recent events with herself and the phone goes. I don’t snatch at it because then you’re too keen, and she knows, you see, she can tell you’ve been sitting by the phone waiting for her to call. So I let it ring a couple times and answer very nonchalant, you know, very me answering the phone as a regular event, you know, which it certainly is not, not in this house.

It’s a woman but not her. I can’t hear who it is over the yapping and Kume’s outraged tones but I know it’s not her. And I’m really wound up now. Then I realize it’s this company who phone me up now and again, to check their English tests, all these tests they send out to hundreds of kids,thousandsofkids,torearrangethesebizarresentences; ‘You‘re right, we don’t have enough tangerines’, and they pay me seriously daft money to tell them it’s grammatically correct but nobody would say it. And they hate when I tell them that, but it’s true. They tell me I should comment only on structure, but I just happen to come from a land where we speak English, you know, they want to ask real teachers about that. And even if I could tell them they wouldn’t get it, they are all History and Literature graduates and stuff, you know, except the one who is on the phone just now competing with the Shiba and Kume for my attention, she graduated in Life & Culture or some such nonsense. They did have one who spoke good English for a while, but they moved her to Domestic Science.

And we’ve done the preliminaries and she’s asking me about ‘acceptable.’I love this acceptable, I argued for hours about it once with them, ‘Acceptable to who?’I kept asking but they just agreed and kept repeating my own questions to me. “’She is honest’ is acceptable?” she says. And I’m wondering if this is some kind of ironic comment on my privatelifeandrecenteventsbutIletitpass,mypersecution complex acting up again.

“Acceptable.”

“And ‘She is honesty’is acceptable?”

“Not acceptable.”

“But honesty is a noun,” she says.

AndI’mthinkingtotellherthatshiteisbrownbutwhat’s that got to do with the price of mince? But she never met my granny and probably wouldn’t comprehend her profound sense of irony. “It is,” I tell her, confident. The nouns I am good at, the doing words and describers I tend to struggle on.

And there is a silence. Even the dog. But Kume’s still talking. He’s going on about the age of the boy, the fact that he was only fourteen. I thought he was eight, but no.

“So, ‘She is just’is acceptable?”

And again the reply ‘not in my book’forms in my head, based on recent events.

“Okay,” I tell her.

“So ‘She is justice.’Acceptable?”

“Only in a kind of abstract, superhero sense, you know, like if she is Wonder Woman, you know?”

I’m feeling quite proud of that answer. The mutt disagrees and starts up again.

“Sorry?”

“Not acceptable,” I tell her.

And again, there is a silence.

“Thankyou,”shesays,andthanksmethreeorfourmore times, and apologizes for bothering me, and by the time we hang up the Shiba is in lung-bursting form, really howling at the heavens now, and I want a shower, but it would be my luck for her to ring while I’m in there. The flex is long but when I try taking the phone to the shower it doesn’t stretch anywhere close to the bathroom door.And it’s cold, I’m not wanting to be on the phone in the hall wet from the shower, and freezing cold, you know.

But I really need a shower, it's been four days, and I put the hot water on so the shower fills up with steam and it's not so cold when you go in. And I'm in, but the towel is outside so I open the door to get it and the blast of cold air cuts right through you. I hang the towel up and start soaping up. The water pressure is not great, it's an old building and the shower head holder is level with my shoulder, put in when even the natives were smaller, although they sit down in the shower, so perhaps not. And I've got a plastic holder gluedonthetilesabove.Ihadtogetmybrothertosendover

the superglue specially. “All they hi-fis and computers and they can't make superglue?” he said. “A mystery right enough.”

See I shave in the shower but there is no mirror in there. Ihadagreatweedisposablerazor,singleblade,shavedwith it for three months. It's great how that happens sometimes, you'll go months using razors that cut you to pieces, then you'll get one you can just keep on using. I had to stop because I let the growth go for three days, and it was too blunt to handle it, hurt like hell. I had to go half-shaved to the convenience store at Sannomiya Center Gai for a new packet. And they only had these twin blades, I'm not keen on them, but it worked fine. I threw the other one out but thatwasstupidIshouldhavekeptitandwentbacktoitafter the twin blade handled the three-day stuff.

Standing there naked with the hot water coming down, you get all worked up, you know, and I'm thinking of her naked in here beside me, it's been a while, but the recent events come to mind and I calm down a wee bit and start shaving. Like I say I don't like the twin blade, and they are worse the second day. And the only thing worse than a seconddaytwinbladeisaseconddaytwinbladeonaswivel head. Whoever thought that up should be shot. Fits the contours of your face? Only if your face looks like the side of a cliff, and if it doesn't it soon will after the swivel head has a go at it. Before you know it, I've cut my throat. Pretty

bad. The blood running down the razor onto my fingers and dripping onto the floor. Bloodshed and recent events. I am seeing signs everywhere. The facecloth is red so the stains don't show up. But the bleeding won't stop. And I've got grazes and cuts on my legs from recent events that start to hurt now they are being washed, and the bleeding won't stop, and I'm thinking about what I'm going to say to her on this bloody phone, she won't meet me, she loves that phone, and we talk, and what do we say we talk about this and we talk about that we just talk talk talk and we get nothing, it leads nowhere.

So I dry off but I forget the blood and the white towel has got blotches of red, it's streaked through with it, and it's a good one, the big fluffy Sailor Moon job. And with the water off I can hear the yapping Shiba and something else, I'm pulling the t-shirt over my head, trying to keep it away from the blood on my neck, and the towel tied round the waist, and I can hear, under the dog, the phone going, and I'm out and across the kitchen floor, but the answering machine is on and it's my voice followed by another, and Kume is saying that the killer was fourteen, I thought it was the victim, but no, my Japanese isn’t great but I’m sure he’s saying they’ve arrested a 14-year-old boy, the head on the school gates, he was only eight right enough, and Kume’s outraged, going on about children killing children, trembling earth, sarin gas attacks and children killing

children, what have we come to he asks, and I’m thinking about this as I'm running past the fridge and the fridge cartwheels into the air, but then I realize it's me, and I land on my backside but my leg shoots out and my ankle cracks the corner of the door jamb, crushes the bloody thing, the wood splinters, and there is a wee blank in time and then pain, the leg broken, lying there, wanting to touch it, but scared to, and my throat bleeding on the tatami now, and I pickupthephone,shehasn'thungup,she'sstilltalking.And she realizes the machine is gone and it's me now, a person, she's talking to a real person.

“’She is right’is acceptable?” she says.

I'm on my back and the leg, dear God, twitching now, the damp towel in the cold, the blood streaking the towel, throat like a butcher's dustbin, and the yapping Shiba going bananas next door, and Kume is, I think, crying, sobbing on live TV, but I'm elsewhere, on recent events, and I want to say“She'salwaysright,that'stheproblem.”AndthenIthink I have, you know, said it, kind of spoken the words out loud. And there is a silence.

AJ Concannon is originally from Glasgow, Scotland, but has lived in Japan for more than three decades. Writing both fiction and nonfiction, his work has appeared in such publications as Scottish PEN and The Japan Times. He is an award-winning screenwriter and his films have played at various international festivals

She Would if She Could Patricia Feinberg Stoner

Why was it, Dora wondered, that it was always the nerdy, the needy or the downright nasty who got in touch?

The gorgeous boyfriends so light-heartedly discarded. Theveryspecialgirlfriendswhohadsomehowdriftedaway. Their names never turned up on Facebook or What’s App. Their emails never dropped into her in-box with the inevitable ‘Don’t know if you remember me but...’

That’s how the message on her computer today began, of course. She re-read it with a faint sense of despair.

‘I remember you so well, with your lovely blonde hair, and always laughing. Where are you now? It would be so good to meet up...’

‘I’msosorry,’sheemailedbackkindly.‘It’slovelytohear from you, but I live in West Sussex now and hardly ever go up to London.’

What a monstrous fib!

‘I’llnevergettoheaven,Ben,’shesaid.Hearinghisname, Ben looked up at her and thumped his plumy tail. ‘Time for

a walk?’said his hopeful grin.

BenandshewereagreedintheirlovefortheirtinySussex bungalow with its small, pretty garden. It was less than two minutes’ walk to the Greensward, a swathe of unspoilt, grassy walk stretching from Littlehampton to East Preston, with the beach below.

It was a million miles away from their second-floor flat in London, slap bang on the Edgware Road–one of the main roads leading to the M1, and noisy twenty-four hours a day. The flat itself had been lovely, but the building hadn’t had an enclosed garden, so walking Ben had been a daily chore: either a trudge round the streets with the retriever straining at the lead, or a ten-minute drive north to the park at Dollis Hill.

The break-up of her marriage had been sudden and devastating; once the dust had settled and she and Martin had achieved a shaky truce, her first thought had been to get away from London.

She was a Sussex girl at heart. Born in Brighton, she had gradually moved west, as her parents relocated first to Shoreham and then, in retirement, to Rustington. By that time, of course she had flown the nest, thankful to be away. Uni had provided an escape, and then her career as a successful publicist took over.

Now, older, her loyalties were divided. Coming back to

livebytheseafeltright,butLondonhadwounditstentacles into her heart.

‘I’m a Londoner now,’she used to tell her friends. ‘I own an Oyster card. I Mind the Gap! This is my city.’

And so her friends were astonished when she fetched up in Rustington.Astonished, and highly amused.

‘It won’t last,’ they told each other. ‘Not Dora. You can takethegirloutofLondonbutyou’llnevertakeLondonout of the girl.’

‘But then, they didn’t know about my Cunning Plan, did they, Ben?’

She had done her research carefully, poring over maps and train timetables before settling on this part of the South Coast. Anywhere along here, Littlehampton, Rustington, Angmering,Worthing,waswithineasyreachofanexcellent train service to London–and the theatre. Dora’s passion was thetheatre.Andtwoorthreetimesamonthshewouldtravel to the city–her best friend Maggie lived conveniently close to Victoria station-and together they would go to a matinee. Which brought her back to the monstrous fib–and the troublesome email.

She smoothed back the “lovely blonde hair” that Swithin remembered so fondly. The years hadn’t been too unkind. So often a natural blonde would fade into dispirited mouse, but with a little help from nature–and a lot from her salon–it was now a shining silver-gilt.

She remembered him too, from her University days. He wasn’t one of the nasty ones. Needy, yes, a little. He was one of those boys who, with an ounce of confidence, could have been devastating: tall, slightly craggy, with a perpetually untidy thatch of russet hair. But at twenty-one he had been uncertain, shy, hiding behind thick-lensed glassesandahesitantsmile,andthenineteen-year-oldDora, pretty and popular, had had better fish to fry.

She could just imagine him as he would be now. Stooped, peering through even thicker lenses, his hair a flyaway of white wool from a bald and shining pate.

Nerdy he certainly was. Today we would call him geeky, shethought.Terrifyinglybrainy,hewasoncourseforafirstclass physics degree and a high-flying career in astrophysics. Dora would never have met him—as a firstyear languages student her path would never have crossed his—but that she had shared a room, briefly, with his sister during Freshers’Week.

She and Freya had become friends and eventually ended up sharing a flat. Swithin was a frequent, though silent, visitor. Over the years Dora and Freya had kept up an intermittent email correspondence but they had not met for alongtime.Swithinhaddisappearedunnoticedofftheradar. She pushed back from the computer, stretching the ache out of her back. Ben leapt to his feet with an excited bark. Thiswashisbesttimeofday,themomentwhenDorafinally

agreed it was time for a walk. There were five points in his doggy compass, she thought fondly, tugging at the silky ears. Walks, food, cuddles, play and sleep.

‘It won’t be a long one today, Ben,’she told him. She was still limping slightly: Maggie had given her a balloon ride forherbirthday,atreatshehadalwayslongedfor.Theflight was glorious but the bumpy landing had caught her unprepared and she had twisted her knee.

As soon as they got to the Greensward Ben disappeared as usual, snooping and snuffling through the bushes, always hopeful of flushing out a rabbit.

Shetoowashopingforanencounter,thoughshepreferred not to admit it to herself. To begin with, she had called the man “Mr Purdey” in her mind. Dog owners always know the names of other dogs long before they get to know their owners, and so people become dubbed with whimsical names such as “Mrs Fluffy” and “Mr Gizmo”.

When he had first appeared on the Greensward some months ago, Dora—and a lot of other lady dog walkers— had noticed him at once. Although clearly in his sixties, he had an erect, almost military bearing. His strong features, thick white hair and rather forbidding aspect discouraged instant familiarity.Anod and the occasional "lovely day" or "dreadfulweather,"whichwasthecommoncurrencyofthis little community, was all she could hope for.

Ben, though, had other ideas. Dogs don’t know about

British reserve—thank heavens!—thought Dora the day Ben and Purdey made friends. “Mr Purdey” turned out to be Sam,shediscoveredastheychatted.Atfirstitwasalldoggy talk—Purdey was another golden retriever and she and Ben made a handsome couple.

‘Why Purdey?’ Dora once asked teasingly. ‘I’ll bet you fancied Joanna Lumley in TheAvengers!’

It was a mistake. Sam’s face changed and she was afraid she had offended him.

‘No, actually, not at all. It’s an appropriate and not uncommon name for a gun dog. Purdey, as you may know, is a maker of exceptionally fine shotguns.’ He paused, then, as if aware that he was being pompous, continued rather diffidently: ‘Of course, that wasn’t the original reason we called her Purdey. She had been lost, and we adopted her. My wife decided to call her Perdita, which became Purdey.’ Damn! There it was. "My wife." The good ones were always married.

Many hopeful walks later, Dora learned more. Yes, there had been a Mrs Sam, but she had died of cancer some 18 months ago. She could tell from his face, and the tone of voice in which he spoke of her, that the loss had hurt Sam deeply. A doggy friendship, it seemed, was all that was on the cards. Sam was reticent about his background, but from things he let slip from time to time she deduced that he was a well-respected scientist.

Over the next few weeks, Dora exchanged a few more polite emails with Swithin and then the correspondence tailed off. She dismissed him from her mind: she was busy with other things. She went to the theatre twice and concentratedonherFrenchlessons.SinceBenhadacquired a passport they had made several trips across the Channel together.

Summerturned,andthedaysgotshorter. Afteraglorious golden October, the weather deteriorated sharply. Battling across the Greensward one morning, her umbrella held shield-like before her against the biting rain, Dora ran slap bang into Sam coming the other way. After the flurry of apologies they stood a moment to chat.

‘Have you got any plans for Christmas?’he asked.

‘Oh, yes, I’ve got a real treat planned: I’m going to Paris for the big Christmas fair in La Défense. I’ve been wanting to go for ages.’

Alook of something like dismay crossed his face.

‘What’sthematter,youdon’tlikeChristmas?’Doraasked quickly.

‘Let’s just say it doesn’t have the best of memories for me. I plan to be away for most of December.’

A whole month without meeting him! Dora struggled to conceal her disappointment.

‘So when are you going to Paris?’he added casually.

‘The market opens at the end of November this year, and I’m planning to go on December 5th. I’ll travel up to London and spend the night with my friend Maggie, then we’ll take the train from St Pancras the following day. I’ll be back on the 8th.'

‘Oh, that’s all right, then,’Sam muttered. Dora looked at him quizzically but he didn’t elaborate.

‘But what about Ben? Surely you aren’t taking him with you? I could have him, if you like. I’m not going away till the 10th.’

Dora’s heart did a flip: what a missed opportunity.

‘That’s very good of you,’ she said regretfully, ‘but my neighbourJessieisgoingtotakehim. Theyadoreeachother and she spoils him rotten.

Dora came back from Pars to find a new email from Swithin awaiting her.

‘I don’t want to pester you,’ he wrote, ‘but I know how you love the theatre.’ Dora paused. How did he know she loved theatre? That had come later in life, after she had left Uni.

‘It’s just that I happen to have a couple of tickets for She Would if She Could at the Old Vic,’the email went on.

‘I was going to go with my colleague, Jim, but his sister has been taken ill and he is going to go and stay with her to look after her. It’s next Wednesday, frightfully short notice, Iknow,butIwonderedifyouwouldbeinterested.I’mafraid it’s only a matinee, though.’

It was a dilemma. She Would was the hot ticket of the Christmas season. Half pantomime, half farce, it had audiencesontheirfeetcheeringateveryperformance. Seats inthestallswereeye-wateringlyexpensive,butevensothey went like the proverbial hot cakes. By the time Dora tried to book, the show was completely sold out.

‘No, Dora!’she admonished herself. ‘That would just be using the poor man. But it’s She Would if She Could, and I so wanted to see it.’

‘Dear Swithin,’ she wrote back, rather guiltily. ‘It so happens that I am free next Wednesday, and I would love to go to theVic with you.’ Was that too gushing? Never mind. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she continued, ‘a matinee would suit me well. I have a large, soppy dog these days, and he gets rather disapproving if I am away overnight.’

Neatly put, she congratulated herself. Using Ben as an excuseshehadquashedbeforeitaroseanypossibilityofher remaining in London with Swithin for the evening.

The following Wednesday she walked into the foyer of the Old Vic with a certain amount of trepidation and some curiosity. Swithinhadsuggestedtheymeetattwoo’clock— the performance was at 2:30—so they could have a drink and a sandwich in the bar first. But the first person who met Dora’s eye was not Swithin, but his sister.

She was unmistakeable. The copper curls had become a softwhitecap,butthedeterminedchinandhumorousmouth hadn’t changed. Although they hadn’t seen each other for almost ten years, Dora knew her at once.

‘Freya!’ she exclaimed, and her real delight was tinged with an element of relief. If Swithin had had the tact to include Freya in the party, the whole enterprise wouldn’t be so awkward after all.

After the hugs and kisses and exclamations, Freya suggested they go downstairs to the bar, where Swithin was waiting. She stood back to let her friend precede her, so that Dora had a clear view of the tiny bar area.And there, tucked into a corner, was someone she recognised. Coincidence? Serendipity? Or a set-up? She glanced sternly over her shoulder at Freya, who seemed to be choking back a giggle.

In two strides, Dora crossed the room.

‘Sam! What are you doing here?’she demanded.

‘Er, it’s Swithin, actually,’ he said, standing up. ‘I’m afraidI’veratherdeceivedyou,Dora.Idon’tliveinLondon anymore—in fact I’m almost a neighbour of yours. I’d

always wanted to live by the sea, so when my wife died Purdey and I moved to East Preston.

‘Freya has been keeping me up to date with your news. I knew you lived in Rustington and that you had a dog too, so it was a pretty good bet that we’d meet sooner or later. You haven’t changed a bit. You’re just the same shameless little liar you always were. “I hardly ever come up to London” my foot!’

Dora had the good manners to blush. Then a thought struck her.

‘What about you?’ she demanded. ‘You called yourself Sam, didn’t you? And we’ve been chatting on the Greensward for months. Wouldn’t it have been simpler just to tell me it was you?’

‘It was a lot more fun this way, and it gave us a chance to get to know each other again. It was Freya who came up with She Would. She knew you wouldn’t be able to resist that. Oh, and by the way, I’m not going away this month. Purdey and I both agree that the best place to celebrate Christmas is in your own home. So perhaps we’ll see each other over the festive season.’

Christmas lunch was a success. The goose was golden and succulent, the obligatory sprouts were crisp and well

larded with chestnuts, the pudding had flamed most satisfactorily. Dora sighed happily and settled back against Swithin’s shoulder.

‘That’s the best Christmas I’ve had for years,’ she said. ‘And I’m fairly sure Ben enjoyed himself too.’

‘Purdey certainly did,’ said Swithin. ‘I think she’s fallen for your Ben big time. It’s a pity she can’t tell us how she really feels.’

They looked across at the hearth, where two warm bodies merged in a golden fluffy heap of dog. Purdey raised a sleepy head and her tail thumped twice.

‘She would if she could,’said Dora.

Patricia Feinberg Stoner is an award-winning British writer, a former journalist, copywriter and publicist. She is the author of three humorous books set in the Languedoc, in the south of France, At Home in the Pays d’Oc, Tales from the Pays d’Oc and Murder in the Pays d’Oc, and also three books of comic verse: Paw Prints in the Butter, Pelicans Can’t Read and The Little Book of Rude Limericks. A Londoner to her fingertips, she now lives in West Sussex, on the south coast of the UK. You will find her on Facebook (Paw Prints in the Butter and Arun Scribes) and on Twitter @pawprints66.

Wildfires

Gregg Norman

to think that fires in our Canadian woods could send smoke to choke a Manhattan cabbie a Jersey gangster a Georgia peach tumbling gouts of flame fly along a long fiery front ravaging our green sward belching a mantra OUT OF CONTROL from around the world they come in yellow suits and hard hats to dance a haka in the fire’s face

pundits chat about cycles and change but does anyone listen to the fire?

Gregg Norman lives in Manitoba, Canada. His work has been accepted by numerous poetry journals and literary magazines, including Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Dark Winter Literary Magazine, Borderless Journal, Synchronized Chaos, Book of Matches Literary Journal, Medusa’s Kitchen, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Littoral Magazine, MasticadoresUSA, The Piker Press, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Raconteur Magazine, and Suburban Witchcraft.

Grief

Robin Prince Monroe

She walked through fire. The flames licked her tender skin pieces of her singed, then sizzling, fell to the ground.

Pain screeched deep into the hollows of her heart where love lived She wanted to give in to the heat. To stop.

Stop trying to breathe.

Hands reached for her through thick, dark smoke. She tried to grab hold. She couldn’t.

There was nothing left but raw, empty hurt.

Until

His big hand stretched down to scoop her up,

and lift her out of the haze. He gently set her on a rock. Where living water tumbled over her weary head and into her mouth, and over her charred skin-that cooled and healed then toughened with scars. The ache in her soul moved to the background of living becoming bearable, but never gone. Areminder of how much love it took to die, and how much love it takes to live.

Robin Prince Monroe delights in writing for children; and has authored seven picture books, a middle grade novel, and a chapter book. Recently released titles for grownups include, Ridiculously Easy Crockpot Recipes, Ridiculously Easy Creative Problem Solving,TimeTreesandGrandpa’sKnees,andLossofaLovedOne. Her work has also appeared in Guideposts, and Money Matters. www.RobinPrinceMonroe.com

Gordy’s Poem: The Cornerstone (a poem written for my father after his death)

Ramey Channell

"Then what is the meaning of that which is written: The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone?”

Beneath the birding sky, cold blue and safe, bricks laid one to another, timeless bond and true, by hands long learned and destined to this trade, a world of walls and beauty, shelters made.

Unlost, unvanished, close beneath blue skies, and yet somewhere a’wandered, biding still, he built a hearth within our hearts laid strong in patterns laid of mortar, brick, and song.

Ramey Channell is the author of three novels: Sweet Music on Moonlight Ridge, The Witches of Moonlight Ridge, and The TreasureofMoonlightRidge,andchildren’spicturebook,Micefrom the Planet Zimlac. Ramey’s poems and stories have been published by Aura Literary Arts Review, ASPS, Birmingham Arts Journal, Ordinary and Sacred as Blood: Alabama Women Speak, Belles Letters 2, Well Read Magazine, and many other collections.

The Goddess of Books and the Singer-Songwriter (For Dale)

April Mae M. Berza

I am but a goddess of books welcoming you with my loveliest chapters, the soul of eternal words and finite worlds.

You are a mortal, a singer-songwriter, who crafts poetic kisses and embraces to my lips, mellifluous, mellifluous.

Music embraces the two of us and I sing paeans for you as you immortalize me with songs.

Open up the library of my wounds and a vast kingdom of lexicons will show you a way to my heart.

The gates to a secret Paradise

are enchanted pages to my skin, leaf through the pages and own me.

My divine bones and sinews are passages to a beautiful realm, read me up until the breaking dawn.

We both drink the sweetest wine from an immortal cup, immortal cup making you a deity, an equal.

We meet in bookshelves of dreams, the sweetest Philomels serenading. Worship me with welcoming worlds.

April Mae M. Berza is the author of Confession ng isang Bob Ong Fan (Flipside, 2014) and Berso de Berza (Charging Ram, 2012.) Her poems and short stories appeared in numerous publications in America, France, Canada, Belgium, Romania, India, Japan, Great Britain, and the Philippines. She received an Honorable Mention inthe19thHIAHaikuContestandthe7thAkitaRussia-JapanHaiku Contest. She currently resides in Taguig, Philippines.

HELLO

WRITERS &ARTISTS

CALLFOR SUBMISSIONS IS OPEN!

*No prompts or themes - no boundaries*

WELL READ is looking for submissions from writers and artists who have stories to tell –through words and art. We combine new and established voices from diverse backgrounds and celebrate different perspectives. We want people who aren’t afraid to shake things up, speak their mind, and share their humanity.

Click here for SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

RhettDeVaneisatrulyfinewriter,onewhocreatesbooks where the many conflicts are warmly coated with insight, compassion, and the right dash of wry humor—and sprinkles of Southern wisdom in the form of pithy sayings. DeVane is a gem, really, and so it is no surprise that she displays her talents and wit once more in her most recent novel, “Ditch Weed” (Twisted Road Publication June 2024)( https://twistedroadpublications.com/). “Ditch Weed” is a heartfelt story, ultimately uplifting, about transcendence and friendships. It is all the more engaging because the friendships at its core are unusual. And while thesefriendshipsformtheemotionalcoreofthenovel,don’t think that means things don’t happen because there’s action a plenty in the rich plot.

Danae,arunawayteenagerwholandsinthesmallFlorida town of Chattahoochee, is befriended by a much older woman, Mevlyn, when they meet in a laundromat that Mevlyn owns. Mevlyn quickly judges that the 18-year-old is a “purty much ruined” and thinks this is “etched all over her, as clear as if it been printed in permanent marker.” But Mevlyn is a wise old soul who also notes the teen is polite, and so the older woman offers to help the younger one with herloadsofdirtyclothes.It’saslowstarttowhatbuildsfirst into a solid friendship and then a mother-daughter family relationship.

Danae is hiding a secret, or maybe more than one, that

much Mevlyn sees early on, but she respects the young woman because Mevlyn has a few secrets of her own. Yet what is not secret is that Mevlyn is being overwhelmed with the demands of owning and running the laundromat while caring for her much beloved husband, Sam, who is dying of cancer. Danae soon becomes the helpmate Mevlyn and Sam both need. The scenes between the two women and Sam remaintender,honest,andtouching,neveroncedippinginto sentimentality or cliche.

Danae also befriends, or is befriended by, a Black youth named Malcolm, who steps lightly around some of the town’s more threatening sorts as he recognizes: “Some of the kind, upstanding citizens in this very crowd would gladly string me up” for being Black. Their relationship is not a romantic one, though some in the town appear to think so and to be angered by the possibility of a Black man with aWhitegirlfriend.ThatMalcolm’sfatherisawell-respected policeofficerinthetownwillprovehelpfultobothMalcolm and Danae. Malcolm dreams of leaving the small town and making something of himself, and in the meantime, he tells Danae, “I don’t want to bring down that bucket of hate over my head.”

Gradually Danae’s unhappy back story is revealed. To DeVane’screditasanexperienced,talentedauthor,thisback story is eased into the seams of the novel naturally and also createsthe“whathappensnext?”elementmostnovelsneed.

The story drops in lines such as this which propel the reader onward: “Next time, she’ll do more than leave the old man in a pool of blood, out cold.”

Danae’s sister, who disappeared as an apparent runaway when little more than a child, floats through the developing story as both memory and as someone Danae seeks. When Danae spots a young woman in the town who she believes could be her lost sister, she does not directly confront the other woman. Rather, she warily gathers information about this person, leading to yet another small mystery and building suspense as to why Danae is so cautious and reluctant to simply introduce herself and ask if the woman might be her sister.

It's not a plot spoiler to mention Danae has a child. The story opens with that fact. But the mystery of who the father is and other circumstances surrounding this child are only slowly revealed, once more creating a tension in the story that moves the plot onward with interest. DeVane knows well how to pace a story for maximum interest.

Though the story has far more lightness than darkness, the darkness is there. Physical abuse, violence, attempted rape, vandalism, and racism all find a sinister place in the plot. As Malcolm observes: “The South may be covered with a drape of civility, but the hate is there, waiting for a good enough reason to pop out. I am no crusader. I don’t plan on providing that reason.” Yet, with the optimism that

dominatesthestory,theauthorwrites:“Necessitymakesfor strange bedfellows, another old saying Mevlyn holds up as truth.Agay black man and a redneck white man cooped up in the same space. Their mutual love for the gal sets aside differences. Still, Mevlyn would pay good money to eavesdrop on the conversation in that truck.”

While the action and interplay among the characters drives the plot, DeVane excels in her world-building. Readers will feel like they are living in Chattahoochee and moving in the same environs as Danae, Mevlyn, Sam, and Malcolm. DeVane elicits the five senses as she pulls readers into the fabric of the novel with passages like: “The room feelswarmandclose,andreeksoffakemountain-springair. Too much heat radiates from the [washing] machines…”

DeVane is well known for sprinkling Southernisms throughout her many books, and “Ditch Weed” is no different.These saying mesh with the plot and also stand on their own. For example, she writes: “What you put out— goodandbad—hasawayofdoublingbackatyou,”and“No matter that Danae isn’t blood kin. Heart kin can be as good, better even.”

Allinall,“DitchWeed”isawonderfulbook,entertaining and uplifting, warm yet suspenseful, well written and genuine.

FansofDeVane’sbooksmightrecognizeafewcharacters in “Ditch Weed” from her prior seven adult novels set in

Chattahoochee, Florida. The author is originally from Chattahoochee, and now lives nearby in Tallahassee, Florida. In addition to her adult Southern fiction novels, she also writes Middle Grade and Young Adult fantasy series. HerworkshavewonnumerousawardsfromtheTallahassee Writers Association, Florida Authors and Publishers Association, and the Florida Writers Association. "Suicide Supper Club" won first place in 2014 for fiction from the Florida Authors and Publishers Association. Visit her at https://rhettdevane.com/

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

I’m not sure I believe in “perfect” happiness, but for me, safety and security are paramount. If I’m in a place where I feel safe, with people who are supportive and good to be with, that’s very happy.Another part of happiness for me is feeling secure with myself: able to count on myself, able to keep my feet on the ground and let my mind do its imaginative stuff. The work of the imagination is a big source of fulfillment and satisfaction. If I have security inside and out, that’s the best place to be.

What is your greatest extravagance?

Any time I can buy something for myself only and exactly because I want it, not because it’s a necessity. I’m not given to treating myself, so those occasions are special. Things like a flowering plant or some nice shampoo are very satisfying. Most recently, I treated myself to the entry fee for a wonderful generative writing contest (writing nerd here!).

What is your current state of mind?

Cautiously optimistic.

On what occasion do you lie?

If I make a mistake and don’t want to be found out, I’d definitely be inclined to lie. For me, lying happens because of fear. Usually, the fear is out of all proportion to whatever actually happened, but I’m hard-wired to avoid conflict as much as I can, and I get scared on a profound level if I think someone will be angry at me.

What is the quality you most like in a person? (note – I combined the “man” and “woman” questions, because for me, it’s the same answer)

Kindness. I’ve learned, especially over the past few years, that I respond deeply to real kindness, when it’s clear that a person has genuine empathy and caring for those around them. Sometimes this goes with “niceness,” i.e. good manners and getting along well with others, but not always. Real kindness impresses me like nothing else.

What or who is the greatest love of your life?

I’ll take both the who and the what! The “who” is my husband, Paul. He’s been the reason that I’ve been able to figure out who I am and dive so deeply into the kind of work I care about. He is my anchor, and has been my beloved and best friend through the almost twenty years we’ve been together.

The ”what” would have to be writing. I love to dig into story, especially a big project like a novel. No other work is as satisfying (though there are other things, like playing the piano, that I also love to do). Working on a project feels like the best kind of exercise, or like sitting down to a good meal, and it’s always solid ground underfoot.

When and where were you happiest?

This is a great question. My mind went right to a trip my husband and I took to Spain, back in 2015. It’s the only time I’ve been abroad. We explored the northwestern corner, mainly Galicia andAsturias. It was such an adventure; in fact, it was more than a little overwhelming, especially at first (and for someone like me with a wide anxious streak). There were many surprises. We quickly discovered that the Spanish I learned back in high school and college wasn’t just helpful/optional, as we’d thought it would be, but essential for getting by. Several of the hikes we took were quite a bit tougher and more daunting than we’d expected. Food could also be a surprise: I would read a menu and think I knew what a certain dish would be like, but what arrived wouldn’t be at all what I’d imagined. I had a kind of slogan while we were there: “Welcome to Spain, where nothing is what you think.”

At first, I had a really tough time enjoying it. Paul is much more intrepid than I am, better able to navigate the unexpected. When I did start to relax, though, I absolutely

fell in love with the scenery, the history, and everything about our adventure. The northwest coast is incredibly beautiful; I still want to get back there and experience the turquoise ocean and the tide pools again.Also the churches, with their centuries of history, and the IronAge settlements that gave me the trip’s biggest gift: the seeds of my novel Fourteen Stones. I came home with ideas for a setting, a storyline, and the character who would become my favorite and the driving force behind the book.All in all, when I look back on it, that trip was definitely one of my happiest times.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

I’d love to be better at trusting myself. I’m a highly anxious person, and I sell myself short a lot and hold myself back from trying things that scare me. I work on this all the time, but I do wish I could snap my fingers and fix it.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?

Building a life that matters to me. When I was growing up, I got a lot of negative feedback about being an artist and especially a writer. I’m very proud to have gone ahead anyway and built a writing life. Even the word “writer” seemed dirty to me for a long time, but now I own it,

which makes me very glad.

If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be?

I think it would have to be a sea bird: maybe a gull or a tern. I’d love to experience flying, and the ocean is my favorite place to be.

Where would you most like to live?

I’m very fond of where I do live, but if it could be anywhere, I think it would be amazing to be near the ocean: say within walking distance, or an easy drive, and able to get to the water any time I wanted. It would need to be quiet, too, more wild than settled.Assateague Island in Maryland is one of my favorite places. It would be lovely to live in or near somewhere like that.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

Being lost from yourself, unable to connect with what matters to you or remember who you are.

Who is your hero of fiction?

I’ll go with my first fictional hero here, even though he’s not a human. When I was ten, I read RichardAdams’s Watership Down for the first time. It had a huge impact on me. I lovedAdams’s gentle, meditative, descriptive style. I got lost in the world he created and the struggles and triumphs of his rabbit protagonists. Especially, I loved Hazel, who in my eyes was everything anyone could want in a leader and hero: strong, wise, thoughtful, compassionate. I often imagined what it would be like to know him, if a human child could talk to a rabbit; what it would be like to tell him about things that troubled me and have his advice and support.

Watership Down helped me through a lot of difficulty when I was growing up and did a lot to influence who I became as a writer. I think my style owes more toAdams than any other individual author.As I think about Hazel, too, I can’t help noticing the traits he shares with one of my own fictional creations, Ribas Silvaikas from Fourteen Stones. Even down to the physical weakness he has to contend with. That wasn’t deliberate, but Watership Down has remained a go-to ever since that first read thirty-five years ago, and those roots go deep.

What is your motto?

Working on this too, every day, but the motto I try to hold onto is “choose again.” I often feel as if I’m not allowed to make mistakes or fail at things, that failures are terminal

and there’s no way forward from them. “Choose again” reminds me that I do have agency, that if something doesn’t go the way I’d hoped, I can try something else.

Kris Faatz (rhymes with skates) is a fiction writer and musician. Her first novel, To Love A Stranger, was a finalist for the 2016 Schaffner Press Music in Literature Award and was released May 2017 by Blue Moon Publishers (Toronto, ON). Her second novel, literary fantasy Fourteen Stones, was released in 2022 by The Patchwork Raven (Wellington, NZ), with anAmerican edition forthcoming in 2024 from Highlander Press (Baltimore, Maryland).

Kris’s short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in journals including Los Angeles Review, The Baltimore Review, Kenyon Review Online, Streetlight Magazine, Potomac Review, and Reed, and has received recognition in competitions run by Philadelphia Stories, Uncharted Magazine, Dzanc Books, and others. Most recently, she received NELLE‘s 2022 Three SistersAward. She has been a contributor at the Sewanee Writers’Conference and the recipient of a Peter Taylor Fellowship at the Kenyon Review Writers Workshops. In 2018, she served as a preliminary-round judge for the Flannery O’Connor Short FictionAward. She currently teaches creative writing with the Community College of Baltimore County, Baltimore County Public Library system, and Baltimore Bridges, and

is a regular presenter at the Bay to Ocean Writers Conference, run by Maryland’s Eastern Shore Writers Association. She is also a performing pianist.

As a no-holds-barred reader, Kris has special devotion to Barbara Kingsolver, Terry Pratchett, RichardAdams, F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Steinbeck, Christopher Moore, and Neil Gaiman. She loves hiking and exploring the outdoors, especially if it involves lakes, oceans or streams. She lives in Maryland with her husband, jazz saxophonist and composer Paul Faatz, and feline contingentAlafair, Templeton, and Fergus.

“IlovedreadingFOURTEENSTONESby KrisFaatz!Khari,theyoungVaialampcarrier,andtheblue-eyedhelpersheseeks standattheheartofthisbook.Their spiritualgiftsbringtogetherfolkfrom threenationsinathrillingquestfora peacefulsolution.Youngandoldwork togetherandfindpowerfulhealing, transformationandtruthfortheirpeople andfortheirindividuallives.Richinworldbuildingdetailanddepthofcharacter explorationandtransformation,Iwas unabletoputthisbookdown!”

FiveStarReaderReview

FourteenStones KrisFaatz

TripLit with D. Major

One Night in Macon Dawn Major

“Can you sit down?”

From the aisle a lady stood making up and down motions with her hands; I couldn’t quite hear what she was saying.

“What?” I asked automatically. I suspected her intent by now.

“Can you sit down?”

Did she just…no. At this moment and at this time! Yep, that’s what I thought. My brain finally figuring the strange math of her presence plus her sign language. Still, it didn’t make any damn sense. Did I mention Dwight Yoakam was playing live?And that my husband and I had bravedAtlanta trafficthatafternoonandheadedtoMacontoseethe67year old singer/songwriter/actor perform?This was our first time seeing him. He doesn’t get around that often.

The absurdity of her request was roiling in my gut. Why me? With just about everyone in the auditorium standing in front of their seats joyfully toe-tapping and couples twostepping in the aisles, why was my dancing causing such a disruption? Did my dancing arouse desire in her menfolk?

Did I offend? Why amongst all the revelers doing the exact same thing—some better than others—did she select me to sit down?

Now Dwight had just finished one of favorites.The lyrics of “Guitars, Cadillacs” still vibrated in my soul:

Girl, you taught me how to hurt real bad and cry myself to sleep

You showed me how this town can shatter dreams

Another lesson 'bout a naive fool that came to Babylon

And found out that the pie don't taste so sweet

Now it's guitars, Cadillacs, hillbilly music

And lonely, lonely streets that I call home

And George Dickel was warming my veins and certainly might loosen my tongue enough to tell her exactly what I thought about her suggestion. I’ve often thought there’s an old timer sumbitch dwelling in my gullet. About this time, he wanted to make an appearance. If you know me well enough, you may have met him and know him by name— Ronnie Jo. Go ahead and poke the bear, lady. The gall, I thought.

A couple of comebacks ran through my mind: “Can you open your mouth so I can insert my fist?” “Can you f%#@ off?” I can make hand signals, too, lady. I was definitely going to make her repeat herself a few more times. I had

hopedaftersheheardherselfoutloudshemightrealizehow ridiculous she sounded.

“What?” I asked again.

She was resolute. “Can you sit down?”

Why didn’t someone in her party talk sense into her, lightly restrain her arm, and advise her to think again before approaching a stranger at a damn concert to sit down? I imagine it went like this:

“Nah, nah, Lyn (I have no idea what her name is, but she needs to be called something by now). It’s a concert. People stand up. People want to dance.”

“But, I can’t see!” She complained. Maybe that same person recommended she wait it out for common decency sake in case she had planned to stomp up to my seat during my favorite Dwight song. Such sage advice. If he was playing “Little Sister,” things may have got ugly. Instead, she makes her Mecca when my husband goes to the bathroom.

What irked me about the request more than anything was the fact that she didn’t lead with any of the following: “would you mind,” “I hate to ask, but,” or “sorry to bother you.” But even worse was she didn’t follow up with a “please.”

By the third time she asked me, it came off more like an order ringing true and loud.

“No, no. I heardjah,” I said. “Can you say ‘please?’”

“Huh?”

This is the part where Lyn can’t hear me. I repeat my request, but louder. It works both ways, Lyn. “Please.” Face shattering realization. It was her turn to be shocked. Again, “Please. Can you say please?” I repeated. “Please” came out as though from the mouth of a scolded child.

If you put Lyn’s facial expression into a blender, hit the chop button, then puree, I’d call that look an umbrage milkshake. It’s bad enough she had to leave her seat. This was supposed to have been a quick in and out where she made her demand and got back to “enjoying” the show. She hadn’t considered the lady (me) might be hard of hearing. The friends in my salon, M’ville, have been laughing about when we meet how we can’t hear each other and the fact that we have a good ear and a bad ear. I’m still recovering from an inner ear infection from weathering the weather in the UK for three weeks and right now my left ear is dodgy. Butdon’tgetmewrong.I’mnotatthatagethatIgruntevery time I sit down or get up, and I’m sure as hell not at the age where I sit still in my seat at a Dwight Yoakam show. Imagine all that negative energy directed towards my swayingbackside,andmetotallyoblivious.Mywardswork well. Clearly, Lyn had waited just long enough to get really pissed at me. By the time she made it to my seat, she was well past the edge of reason. Her mind control tactics had

flopped—her telekinesis all wonky tonight because of the sheer number of people surrounding her, many of whom didn’t have the decency to sit down nicely while the Honky Tonk Man boogied on stage. Just so you know, Dwight is a lotlikeTomJones.Itdoesn’tmatterwhatagetheyare,those two will always have moves. And if you’re wondering, he does still pour himself into his jeans.

Sidenote: I bet Dwight was as happy as I was when someonedecidedtoaddLycratodenim.In2020,at63years old he welcomed his first kid. I did honor Lyn’s request and rested my boots for a song or two, and it was while sitting politely in my seat that I contemplated the arrival of a child in his later years. Dickel or no Dickel, my frontal lobe was problem-solving,andafewquestionswerepercolating.Was Dwight just like us during the lockdown? Did he live in scuzzy PJs for a week? Was this when he traded in his signature skintight jeans for loungewear? Since he couldn’t go on tour and was confined to the interior, did he finally have time to procreate and did that time coincide with stretch jeans?

I should mention that later, on my way back from the ladies’ room I saw my friend, Lyn. Her seat was four rows backfrommineandshewassittingintheaisleseat:I’msure someone nicer than me forfeited their seat so she could better see. So, it wasn’t like I was pirouetting into her beer all night.

After she returned to her seat, after she had asked me to sit down, the man in back of me said, “Those seats are sure causing y’all a lot of problems tonight.” I hadn’t considered this, but in retrospect, perhaps they were cursed. We had to kickouttwoladieswhohaddecidedthey’dgivenusenough time to show up and we had confiscated them during the second act, The Mavericks. They suggested we sit somewhere other than the seats we paid for. Uh, we’re from the big city, but it’s not like that. Later, another lady in the inside of our aisle made the poor decision of walking across folding chairs rather than in front of us to get out. She fell into me when my chair folded in (uh, duh, folding chairs) and we had to pull her out of the beartrap hold my chair had on her limbs. Too bad she didn’t have a Lyn like me who could tell her to sit down. Perhaps, this is what happens whenAtlantans mix with Maconians.

I came to understand while writing this piece that it wouldn’t have mattered if my pal Lyn were front and center or even backstage because she just didn’t want to be there. She was having a moment and her moment collided with my moment. Not for long though because Dwight got to telling the background story to “I Sang Dixie” and had me rising from my seat to his singing:

On this damned old L.A. street Then he drew a dying breath

Laid his head 'gainst my chest

Please Lord, take his soul

Back home to Dixie

Lyn, if you’re reading this I’m not sorry you couldn’t see because I’ve been there, too. Concert venues tend to attract lot of people, so if you’re not a people person or in an antipeopling spell, give yourself a break next time and refrain from attending peoply events. I am sorry out of the thousands of dancing folk you decided to focus your irritability at being at a Dwight Yoakam show and turn it into an issue with my joy at being at DwightYoakam show. Iamsorrythatyourlaserfocusmayhavecausedyoutomiss out on listening to the stories that Dwight’s lyrics told us that evening.

See, I didn’t go to Macon to drink Dickel, wear my cowboy hat out in public, or take pictures to post on social media to say, “Look what I’m doing. Ain’t my life grand, y’all?” I went there to hear the storytelling and I came home with one to tell. I should probably thank you, Lyn, since have you something to write about for July’s “TripLit with D. Major.”

If I were clever and could actually quote Bible verses I would’ve said to Lyn, “Let them praise his name with dancing and make music to him with timbrel and harp.” But I’m not that clever, my memory isn’t that good, and I don’t

go around quoting the Bible.

Instead of Psalms, I’ll sign off with a line from Dwight, well, a character Dwight played in Billy Bob Thorton’s movie, Slingblade. My husband and I watch it every year. Dale Samples, the villain in my book, The Bystanders, was partially inspired by Doyle’s character. You see Dwight Yoakam transcends this single performance in Macon. He’s in my blood.

Anyway, Dwight plays a nasty piece of work named Doyle and the line is from one of our all-time favorite scenes. The band members are drinking and contemplating whattheyneedtodotogetthebandofftheground.Ifyou’ve been in a band or you’ve dated or are or were married to a musician, you may have been subjected to a similar conversation amongst band members. It’s enough to drive you to the edge. Dwight’s character has had enough and yells, “We ain’t got no goddamn band” and violently kicks themoutofthehousecallingthemsomechoicenamesalong theway.Oneofthebandmemberssayssomethingsoclassic thatmyhusbandandIusethelineineverydayconversation. It’s just one of those lines that applies to anything that simply “ain’t right.”

So, I’ll leave it with this line and call it one night in Macon. This is for you Lyn:

“This ain’t right, Doyle [insert Lyn]. There is something wrong with ya.”

“A piece of driftwood is moved by the forces outside of itself until someone picks it up. We are called to lift up others around us.” Dale Pfeiffer

Driftwood Neighbors – a Tiny House Story

Jude Forsyth

Therearealwaysnewcomerstothecommunitywhowant to make a difference for our Mobile County displaced (homeless) population.They join the many organizations in our area that are devoted to the various aspects of helping displaced people. These groups vary from providing immediate needs such as temporary shelter, food and water, emergency medical treatment or medicine, to long term planning on how to prevent more people from becoming displaced and to finding permanent homes and services for our existing local population.

Newcomers have a path that can become challenging and also full of amazing strides.

Driftwood Housing Project and two of the founders, Dale and Reba Pfeiffer have quite the story to share.

Dale, who retired in 2019 from a career in technology, and wife Reba, a former schoolteacher and avid world traveler, moved to Midtown

Dale and Reba Pfeiffer. Photo credit Lyn Oldshue

Mobile, Alabama from Winston-Salem, North Carolina. In 2020 the Covid19 health crisis shut down their retirement plans to travel. Staying closer to home, they attended a Midtown event named Jazz on the Roof, an outdoor jazz concert at Central Presbyterian Church. Upon noticing that the church was sponsoring a food pantry, they decided to volunteer two mornings a week. They met the pastor, Chris Bullock and volunteer Connie Guggenbiller, who oversaw the food pantry outreach. Connie introduced them to many of the kindhearted volunteers who oversaw the strenuous workload that needed to be done each week at the LoveAll Food Pantry to prepare for the hundreds of families who would be picking up bags and boxes of fresh and packaged food.Rebafoundhergiftingreetingguests,familybyfamily.

Having been a counselor for many years in a low socioeconomic community, Reba is particularly sensitive to people who are suffering. In November 2022, Reba and Dale’s story was featured on the Our Southern Souls Facebook page. Reba shared, “My missing hand helps me have a connection with people going through hard times.” My purpose is always serving and giving back.” A world traveler, Reba spent a summer in Pakistan and came into contactwithwhattheycall“untouchables.”“Ipaidattention, and tried to understand, but there is nothing fair about the castesystem.”Sherelatesthattimewithherexperiencewith localdisplacedpeople.“Thehomelessareouruntouchables.

Most of them have lost their families or have been rejected by the people around them. My whole life has been looking out for others, it once was students and now it is the homeless.”

Dalefoundhisplaceloadingthemanyvehiclesatthefood pantry. Dale, once a pastor, experienced a lot of pain suppressed from a difficult childhood. He shared with the readersof Our Southern Souls thathispaindidnotdisappear and that it “left no room to address what was happening inside.”Heoftendranktogetthoughhispainandsharedthat he was at one time suicidal. “I didn’t realize until I was in recoverythatIhadtofacemypain.Ilearnedhowtoreconcile and forgive.” Perhaps it was those experiences that led him tohavesuchempathyforthosewhosufferandarehomeless. VolunteeringattheLoveAllFoodpantry,servingover650 peopleaweek,becameamainstayinDaleandReba’slifefor most of 2020, and all of 2021.That is where it all began.

Volunteers in action, Central Presbyterian Church, LoveAll Pantry, Mobile,AL

While volunteering, Connie noticed that Reba and Dale had empathy for the displaced guests. They didn’t arrive in cars or trucks. They walked up to a special receiving line where they kindly received their ration of groceries. Reba and Dale pulled and set aside canned goods that had flip top lids, peanut butter, and meals that could be microwaved. They stored this food in small boxes that would be easily carried. Soon, the Pfeiffers were responding to calls during the week from displaced neighbors, organizing bags of donations before the holiday outreach, and distributing blankets and clothing. It became apparent to them that there was so much more to be done and that they needed help. Soon they solicited the help of two friends, Thomas and Martha Doran who had also moved from North Carolina. Dale met Thomas, a Vietnam Veteran, at Celebrate Recovery, a Christ-based, twelve step program. Thomas attended a “step study” with a group of men that Dale was leading through their program. The Dorans, like Dale and Reba, were concerned for the homeless and soon the two couples were working together to try to help. In January of 2022, there was more to battle than just the COVID19 pandemic. A recognized reporter for the Alabama Public Radio wrote a news article that was released on January 24th, entitled, Critics Say Mobile City Council Proposal Will Target the Homeless. Oldshue reported that Ben Reynolds, the councilman from District

4, Tillman’s Corner, was about to introduce an ordinance at the city council meeting. The ordinance would make it illegaltocampinpublicspaceslikeparksandrightofways. Reynoldsarguedthathewasreceivingcomplaintsaboutthe growing homeless population in Tillman’s Corner and stated his concern for public safety. Elizabeth Chiepalich, part of the Facebook page, Homeless in Mobile, spearheaded the opposition, saying, “I think it’s almost opened a can of worms and exposing what needs to be exposed.” The Pfeiffers agreed. Led by Elizabeth, an assembly of homeless service providers and volunteers serving the displaced brothers and sisters gathered at City Hall, week after week on Tuesday, many wearing yellow arm bands, to protest the new ordinance that was introduced by Reynolds. After weeks of protest, the ordinance was tabled. Proving again, that one person can make a difference, especially if they are effective at rallying other people to their cause.

Dale and Reba weren’t deterred by any opposition but were instead more inspired and motivated to work in many capacities with the displaced community. But inspiration wasalsotoappearinadifferent way. While Dale and Reba

Elizabeth Chiepalich

wereenjoyingadayatDauphinIsland,heranacrossasmall piece of driftwood on the sand. The weathered piece of driftwood fit in the palm of his hand. He recalls how that momentchangedtheirlives.Ashestudiedthedriftwood,he began to think about the hundreds of displaced neighbors in Mobile, the ones that they served at Central Presbyterian Church and others that they were serving all over Mobile County. He shared his thoughts with Reba, “Look, Reba. It reminds me of our homeless friends, especially those who are misunderstood and are displaced by the battering winds and waves of life.” It was the combination of serving the homeless in Mobile, their opposition to the Reynolds’ ordinance, Dale’s encounter with the driftwood on Dauphin Island, and experiencing a sense that God was calling them to do more, that led them to incorporate as Driftwood Housing Project, Inc.

Driftwood Housing Project launched on February 9th, 2022, during the COVID19 pandemic. With the help of a sympathetic Mobile attorney who had been a homeless advocate for many decades, Dale completed the necessary legal paperwork for the newly formed group, and convened a like-minded executive committee where Dale served as executive director and Reba as secretary. The members came together to identify their mission as: “To provide housing for the chronically homeless where they will receive services in a safe environment.” They define

themselves as a “501(c)(3) nonprofit organization, a no or low-income housing developer, and a property manager.” With information provided by the Alabama Association of Nonprofits,thegroupmovedforwardandlaunchedacapital campaign. Driftwood Housing received their 501(c)(3) charitable organization designation letter in June 2022.

Over time, a Board of Directors was added to help fulfill the mission, and several talented individuals with specific skill sets also joined as members. Members of the group made the decision to focus on chronically displaced individuals and began to research types of homes that might serve their needs. Almost all members selected shotgun style tiny houses. Shotgun houses are small, single-story houses that are recognizable for how narrow they are and are typically only one room wide and two to four rooms deep. This selection made sense since shotgun houses were the first tiny houses built all along the Gulf Coast.

As the group moved forward, the idea of a displaced village emerged; a place that not only would build a variety of mini and micro homes, but also have common areas and offer a place where all resources for the displaced could be accessed. Dale and members of the board worked continuously on all aspects of making the village a reality. Fundraising was ongoing. Dale set up a GoFundMe campaignwithalinkfromtheDriftwoodHousingFacebook group. They raised over $10,000.00 through fundraising

efforts. Speaking engagements, including at several Rotary Clubs netted more contributions, such as an orthopedist, who believed so much in the cause that he contributed $7,000.00 towards the building of a future house in the village. With money in the bank, they started the building of the first tiny home. The president of the Sunrise Rotary Club, Bill Youngblood, mentioned that he might be able to help with finding property.The search for a village property was on!

Members of Driftwood continued to be encouraged by the progress of the mission to build the village. However, it wasn’tallsmoothsailingforthegroup.Itwasn’tlongbefore resistance in Mobile, so common to people who are trying to house homeless people, reared its ugly, “not in my neighborhood” attitude. Zoning was a major issue and the local Down the Bay Neighborhood Association rejected Driftwood Housing’s idea to use the neighborhood facility to provide a day center and housing for the homeless. But the members of Driftwood weren’t deterred from their mission.

The idea that one person can make a huge difference was also proved by Eric “Bump” Overstreet who had heard about Driftwood Housing’s village mission. Eric made the decision to start living outside with the homeless for three months to raise money for Driftwood. Eric began recording daily videos and posting those clips on Facebook.

Thousands of people began to watch and listen to his daily podcast. The press took notice and Eric was on the news. Eric relayed to Dale that a stranger watched one of the videos and then saw him on TV. His name was John Kozlinski.

John owned a huge warehouse on Old Canal Street in Mobile and said that he’d make the warehouse available for a homeless ministry. The day arrived when Dale, Eric and John met at the warehouse. The warehouse had many items in it from John’s construction business and did not have electricity, water, heat or bathroom facilities. Still the Driftwood members came together to clean up, offer blankets,flashlights,spaceheaters,aport-a-John,andwarm food for displaced people on a particularly cold evening. Several members, including Dale, spent the night together with their homeless neighbors. Here is his account of that special evening.

Itwasfreezingcoldthatnightinthewarehouse.Thewind was blowing against the metal framed building which made loud spooky noises all night long. Some of the neighbors were talking to themselves. There was one senior man, Mario, who in the middle of the night needed to go to the hospital. Sadly, he was in a lot of pain and was crying out forhelpinthedarkroom.Healsohadtogotothebathroom. Remember, there was no functioning bathroom on the first

night. So, not being able to sleep, I walked over to Mario and helped him get up on his feet. I tried to comfort Mario, “I can take you to the hospital.” Then, as we were heading toward the entrance door, Mario changed his mind, and said that he was okay. Mario turned around and plopped back down into his blankets. I did my best to cover him with blankets. Sometime during the situation, Mario soiled his pants. The stench surrounding Mario, and generally in the facilities, was becoming unbearable. I couldn’t sleep, so stayed awake praying for everyone in the room. Sadly, Mario died in June of 2023. Many of our displaced neighbors die in the streets for one reason or another.

One of the things that happens when you begin to continually volunteer in working with the displaced community, is that you meet so many other people and organizations with similar missions. Kendall Young, Director of Community Outreach at Housing First, Ana Maria Ramirez Sawyer from Colors of Love, leaders from PortCitySarmatiansHouse,TristaWalkerfromUnitedWay with the online UWSWA Community Resource Network, leaders in the United Way of Southwest Alabama and the Red Cross, Colette Huff with Dearborn Y.M.C.A., Derek Boulware, the Chief Executive Officer for Housing First, Cassie Calloway, Mobile’s Chief Resilience Officer and many more became aware of Driftwood’s mission and helpedtospreadthewordorofferservices.Mobile’sMayor,

Sandy Stimpson, thanked members of Driftwood for serving our homeless neighbors in Mobile.

Members of Driftwood Housing researched the villages across America that were successful and then incorporated many of their best practices. With help from a volunteer architect, they designed their village to include:

• affordable housing

• a day center where displaced neighbors could visit

• an emergency shelter

• a garden, outdoor kitchens, and a dog kennel

• a hygiene center where the villagers and visitors could take a shower or do laundry

• a warehouse where we could collect and store furniture and fixtures for transitional neighbors who get back on their feet and find permanent housing

• and possibly, a memorial garden where those who die while homeless can receive dignity in burial. Plan for the Day Center building

This was a huge dream that was exciting to the membershipwhowerealreadychippingawayatthemission objectives.

While continuing to advocate for their dream of a displaced village, Dale and Reba, and many of the member volunteers continued to serve the needs of the homeless by participating in the clearing and cleaning of homeless encampments,sponsoredindividualsindwellingsneartheir homes and enlisted others to do so as well. They also recruited nurses for well visits, helped individuals get into work programs, arranged anger management counseling, and so much more. Through all of this, everyone involved was learning so much about what it meant to be displaced and exactly how the advocate community needed to help. Dale has shared, “A piece of driftwood is moved by the forces outside of itself until someone picks it up. We are called to lift up others around us.” Members began lifting up displaced individuals by becoming personally involved. They see them as their neighbors. Dale explains:

Vickie, Frederick, Larry, Steven, all these neighbors have been or still are chronically homeless. All are financiallydistressed.Allhavehadsomesortoftrauma in their lives accompanied by post-traumatic stress.All have food insecurities. Most have transportation challenges. Some have physical handicaps. Some have mental illnesses. Some have addictions. All have

dysfunctional family issues.

All are like driftwood—lodging here, lodging there, adriftbutforthewhimsofothers.Ittrulytakesavillage to support each one of them, hours and hours of time and material on a day-to-day basis coaching them to make better life choices. The Reba’s, Connie’s, Elizabeth’s, Lori’s, Eric’s, John’s, Angie’s, and others serving the homeless in Mobile are empathetic neighbors helping displaced neighbors. They are all loving their neighbors and helping their neighbors to live a better life and be the best version of themselves that they can be. It’s exhausting work for these saints, but they all bear their neighbor’s burdens without complaining or recognition. They’re all examples to us all, and they know that they are doing the next right thing.

Throughout all this generous volunteering, the vision of tiny houses and the village persisted. Finally, there was a breakthrough. Joyful news came that Julien Marx Foundation Trust had donated eight acres in Semmes for the village! Members have visited the site and what was a proposed

Grateful that Larry let us use this photo

architectural plan began to be visualized on the property as members walked the grounds and excitedly planned where the structures, houses and common areas might be located.

Driftwood Housing members celebrated as they continued to work toward their common goal.With donated money, Dale and the team of volunteers began to build the first micro house. It took months and numerous resolute volunteers to complete the building. They understood that if the public could see the house, they would be better informed and inspired to join the group and help to fund and build the village. With more funding and continued skilled labor, the first micro house was dedicated by members and supporters at the Central Presbyterian Church in February 2024.

Driftwood Housing celebrated their second anniversary onFebruary9th,2024.Theyarereadyforphaseoneoftheir

DWP members begin the micro house build

village plan. Information from their website states:

On phase one of this project, we are applying to foundations for infrastructure capital to gravel roads, drill a well, install a sewage system, and establish our electrical grid. All construction will be subject to the Semmes planning department’s approval. Phase one, when completed, will include 15 micro homes (no plumbing) with access to a shared facility with bathrooms, showers, a laundry room, a food pantry, a post office, an outdoor kitchen, and office space for service providers. We will build 5 custom tiny houses with plumbing for our handicapped neighbors.

At the April 2024 Art Walk in downtown Mobile, the public had the first chance to see the finished house and tour the interior. The sense of pride and hope was palpable as Dale, Reba and friends of the Driftwood community fostered the tour of the little home and spoke to visitors about their village dream. Many people signed up at the table and new members continued to be enrolled.

Membership in the Driftwood Housing Project grows as more and more people are excited at not only the prospect of the tiny house village, but the reality of the dream with donated land and funds for the houses. Hopefully new donations, small and large, are around the corner. The website, driftwoodhousing.org offers more information and the opportunity for membership, donations, and active

volunteering. Readers may also make contact at DriftwoodHousingProject@gmail.com

“One of the many blessings that I am sure God planned in this mission is the people themselves who have joined, their generosity and the wonderful friendships that have emerged.” Dale Pfeiffer

Thank you to Dale and Reba and other members of the Driftwood Housing Project organization for their contributions to this article. Excerpts from Dale Pfeiffer’s personal memoir is the basis of the historical aspects of this article.

Exterior and Interior Views of the First Mico Home

You come to the city because your passion called you here. Whatever that passion may be. That thing you love. And you wander out into the streets searching for a place to pull up a stool, order a drink, chat with the bartender about all things divine.

Welcome to God On The Rocks. Serving up great drinks and soulful conversations since time began.

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Hello gentle readers (yes, I have been watching Bridgerton).This month instead of my column I am sharing with you the first chapter of my novel in progress. I would like to know what you think of both the character and her voice. You can email me at raymondlatkins@aol.com or message me on facebook. I hope you enjoy!

Mama

The old folks used to allow that if you lived long enough, you would see almost everything. But now that I'm the oldest person I know, I can't say that I share the sentiment. The long years have blown past like clouds on a windy day, andinmytimeI'vewitnessedacenturyofliving,butIknow there is more to behold. I've been a daughter, a wife, a mother, and a widow, and I still haven't seen it all. I've been a farmer, a teacher, a storekeeper, and a midwife, and I still haven'tseenitall.IlivedthroughtheHooverDays,andthey weren'tallthatbad,consideringthatyoucan'tgetanypoorer thandirtpoor,whichiswherewestarted.Ilivedthroughthe wartoendallwarsandtheoneafterthat,bothtomysorrow, and several other wars as well. Small or large, they were

deadly just the same, with the young men coming back broken and scarred if they came back at all.

Irememberautomobileswhentheywerenewandmoving pictures when they couldn't talk. I remember being afraid the first time I ever saw an airplane. My brother, Spartan, shot up at it with his shotgun because we didn't know what it was. I remember Sputnik, but to this day I can't tell you whatallthatfusswasabout.Irememberwatchingwhatthey claimed was a man walking on the moon, which you can believe if you want to, and I'll just keep my opinion to myself.I'vebeenaliveinthreecenturies,andIhaveoutlived everyone I ever cared about and some that I didn't. All of them laid aside their burdens years ago, and they all rest in the boneyard now. I am one-hundred and two years old, and I've seen till my eyes burn with the memories. I still haven't seen all there is to see, but I have seen about all that I care to, and it will be a relief to me when I close my eyes that final time. It will be a mercy long overdue. I am tired, and I am ready to go on home.

I was born on the twenty-fifth day of July in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and ninety-nine. My grandfather would have said that I am as old as the hills and twice as dusty, but he was a rounder who wasn’t always as clever with the words as he thought he was. The old home place was on Dirtseller Mountain over across the Alabama line near Dirt Town, and I lived there with my mother and with

my brother, Spartan. It wasn't our land, which was just as well, I suppose, because the soil was thin and rocky, more suited to digging chert than to raising crops. But we sharecropped it anyway and managed to make a living, at least until Mama went to live with Jesus. Then I married Horace Brown, and Spartan went off to theArmy.

After Mama was called home—a little early, in my opinion—Mr. Stuart, who was the owner of the acreage, allowed me and Spartan to continue cropping for our keep. This arrangement was a little queer, since I was only eleven and my brother was just fourteen, but I suppose Mr. Stuart took pity at our plight. He had enough money to burn a wet mule, but he was a kindhearted man. Or maybe he just couldn't find anyone else who would take on such a meager tract.

"You children stay on," I remember him saying, with one eyeoneachofuseventhoughwewereagoodfivefeetapart. Mr. Stuart was cross-eyed, and he was ugly enough to run a hungry dog off of a meat wagon. Then he unloaded two sacks of seed, five chickens, and a baby pig. "This will get you started," he said as he climbed back onto the wagon and grabbed the reins. If I live to be one-hundred and three, I will never forget that man's kindness. I suppose that Spartan figuredatthetimethatMr.Stuarthadotherreasonsforbeing benevolent, reasons that had more to do with our departed mama than with us, but I didn't know that theory then and

don't necessarily hold with it now. Spartan was always the suspicious type, even as a boy, but he always tried to look out for me, and nobody is perfect.

Mama claimed to be a widow woman until the day she crossed the river, and I never knew the facts of the matter until Spartan told me after he died that she had never had a husband, and that my daddy and Spartan's daddy had been just two of the crowd, in a manner of speaking. I received this information in the letter that Spartan sent to me after he wasburied,althoughhedidnotseefittotellofhowhefound out the news—or when—and it was too late by several days and six feet for me to ask him.

"Now that I am dead," his letter read, "I hope I can find thecouragetotellyousomethingthatIshouldhavetoldyou longago."Thenheproceededtofindhisgumptionandshare with me the story of Mama's checkered past. I loved my brother, and for that reason I hope he got some good out of unburdening himself, because if he did, then that would have been one of us. He told me that he didn't know for sure who my daddy was, but he figured that his buck teeth and crossed eyes made him a likely candidate to be heir to the Stuart fortune, thin dirt, wet mule, and all. I will have to admitthattheoldermybrothergot,themorehefavoredMr. Stuart, but Spartan’s wife, Sophie, hadn't married him for his looks in the first place, and his children didn't seem to mind, and it certainly didn't matter to me. He was my

brother,andhehadakindheart,andbeautyisonlyskindeep and fleeting.

That was thirty years ago, when I was almost seventytwo, and the news was a blow to me, at first. I took to my bed for three days until the shock of it wore off, although I should have known better than to act the fool. Nowadays, it seemsmorecommonthannotforyoungwomen—andsome older ones that should know better, for that matter—to wallow without the benefit of matrimony. But in the old times it was not done much and talked about even less, and it shamed me at first to find out that Mama had been giving away the milk without selling the cow, if you'll pardon my expression. But a long life has many miseries, and you can't live as long as I have without realizing that most people are doing the best they can, despite the fact that it usually isn't nearly good enough by plenty. So I got over my embarrassment, because it wasn't for me to judge, anyway, and if it had come down to it, I guess I would have done the same if my own child was hungry or cold

Mama died when she was thirty and I was eleven and Spartan was fourteen— the same year they say that Mr. Mark Twain rode off on that comet, which is hogwash if I ever heard it, but some folks will believe anything—and I don'trecallasmuchaboutherasIwishIdid.ShewasaBell, Mae Bell, and I carry her first name as my second, with my first being Ruby. It's a name I've never really cottoned to,

and I don't suppose I ever will if I haven't by now, but it doesn't really matter much, since everyone I know calls me Granny, anyhow. But Mama thought it was a fancy name, and poor folks tend to give their children fancy names because they don't have much else to give them. She always told me that I was her fancy girl, which is the kind of thing a young girl likes to hear.

My memories of her have gone scant over the years, and I can only get a small glimpse of her in my mind from time to time. I realize now that she was a beauty, but back then she was just my mama. She had red hair like mine used to bebeforeIturnedwhite-headed,andinmyone-hundredand two years I have never seen a greener pair of eyes, although Spartan, bless his color-blind soul, always remembered them to be brown. I recall she had two dresses—a blue one for everyday use and a pretty green one that she wore when gentlemen came to call. She called her visitors uncles, and I can remember thinking as a child that it was peculiar to have so many kinfolks.

I can see her rolling out the biscuits in the kitchen in summer, with the heat from the wood stove as hot as the hinges of Hades. I can see her hoeing her garden, wearing overalls cuffed up nearly to her knees. I recall her rocking me as a child, singing a lullaby I can't recollect, but which I know I'd recognize if I heard it. She never laughed out loud, but I do recall her wiping at tears from time to time.

She died holding my hand—the influenza was bad that year—and my final memory of my mother is of her laying there in that pine box up on those saw horses, wearing that pretty green dress and looking peaceful but kind of sad. It's not much to say about someone's life, especially if it is your mama. But that is all I can bring up from my feeble memories, and wishing there was more won't get the butter churned.

When I get to Heaven, I intend to tell her a thing or two that I wish I'd said when she was here but didn't have the chance to, because she was gone so soon. But that is the way of it. I was only a sprout and I didn’t understand that life is a precious gift that the good Lord takes back at His ownwhim,andHecanbeprettywhim-ishattimes,meaning no disrespect. But while she was breathing, Spartan and I had food to eat and a roof over our heads, and shoes to wear in the winter, and it isn't for any man nor woman to say it was wrong for her to provide for her children the only way she could figure to do it. And after she passed, Spartan and I set to farming that pitiful patch of ground on Dirtseller Mountain. We didn't have much of anything, so we didn't have a whole lot to lose, and over the next few years we managed to not starve, although to this day I can't eat a turnip, and I don't care much for turnip greens, neither.

Mandy Haynes, Editor-In-Chief

Mandy Haynes is afreelance writer for Amelia Islander Magazine, Amelia Weddings, author of two short story collections, Walking the Wrong Way Home, Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth Eva and Other Stories, and a novella, Oliver. She is the co-editor of the Southern Writers Reading reunion anthology, The Best of the Shortest. Mandy is the creator, designer, content editor, and publisher of WELL READ Magazine.

Raymond L.Atkins, Contributing Editor (OFF THE PAGE)

Raymond L. Atkins resides in Rome, Georgia, on the banks of the Etowah River in an old house with a patient wife and a lazy cat. His hobbies include people-watching, reading, and watching movies that have no hope of ever achieving credibility. His first novel, The Front Porch Prophet, was published in 2008 and was awarded the Georgia Author of the YearAward for First Novel. Camp Redemption, was awarded the Ferrol Sams Award for Fiction and the 2014 Georgia Author of the Year Award for Fiction. Sweetwater Blues was aTownsend Prize nominee, the 2015 GeorgiaAuthor of theYear runner-up for fiction, and the 2016 selection for One Book, Many Voices. South of the Etowah, his first creative non-fiction book, was released in 2016. It was nominated for a Push-cart Prize and was the 2016 Georgia Author of the Year Award runner-up for essay. In 2017, he was awarded the Lifetime Achievement Award by the Georgia WritersAssociation.

Robert Gwaltney, Contributing Editor (INSIDE VOICES)

Robert Gwaltney, award winning author of southern fiction, is a graduate of Florida State University. He resides inAtlanta Georgia with his partner, where he is an active member of theAtlanta literary community. Robert’s work has appeared in such publications as The Signal Mountain Review and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. His debut novel, The Cicada Tree, won the SomersetAward for literary fiction. In 2023, Gwaltney was named Georgia Author of the Year for first novel.

Dean James, Contributing Editor (THE WRITER’S EYE)

Dean James is the USA Today and New York Times bestselling author of the Cat in the Stacks and Southern Ladies mystery series. A seventh generation Mississippian, he lives and writes in the Jackson, Mississippi area with four cats and more books than he can ever count. He keeps his younger sister Carolyn Haines locked in the attic. Despite his best effort she escapes constantly and wreaks havoc on the countryside.

Meet the staff

Dawn Major, Contributing Editor (TRIPLIT with D Major)

Dawn Major is an associate editor at Southern Literary Review and a graduate of the Etowah Valley Creative Writing MFAProgram. In 2019, she was awarded the Dr. Robert Driscoll Award as well as Reinhardt University’s Faculty Choice Award, both in Excellence in Writing. In 2018, she was a recipient of the James Dickey Review Literary Editor Fellowship. Major is a member of the William GayArchive and has helps edit and publish the late author’s works. She also advocates for southern authors on her blog SouthernRead. She lives inAtlanta, GAwith her family. The Bystanders is Major’s debut novel.

Claire

Hamner

Matturro , Contributing Editor (CLAIRE CONSIDERS)

Claire Hamner Matturro is a former attorney, former university writing instructor, avid reader, and the author of seven novels, including four published by HarperCollins. Her poetry appears in various journals including Slant and Lascaux Review. She is an associate editor ofThe Southern LiteraryReview and lives happily in Florida with her cross-eyed rescued black cat and her husband.

Jeffrey Dale Lofton, Contributing Editor (INSIDE VOICES)

Jeffrey Dale Lofton hails from Warm Springs, Georgia. His years telling the stories of playwrights and scriptwriters as a stage and screen actor taught him the pull of a powerful story arc. Today, he is SeniorAdvisor at the Library of Congress, surrounded by books and people who love them. Red Clay Suzie is his debut novel, a fictionalized memoir written through his lens—gay and living with a disability— in a conservative family in the Deep South. It was longlisted for the 2023 Center for Fiction First Novel Prize and awarded the Seven Hills Literary Prize for Fiction, among other distinctions.

Annie

McDonnell,

Contributing Editor (ANNIEASKS)

Annie McDonnell, best selling author of Annie’s Song: Dandelions, Dreams & Dogs, contributor to In Flow Magazine, NZ and founder of the Write Review, teacher, speaker, book reviewer, author consultant, co-administrator of the World of the Write Review Book Club, blogger, and author online event planner.

Oliver by Mandy Haynes

Reader’s Reviews:

“What a sweet Southern yarn. Make no mistake: the narrator has plenty of spitfire and sass, which keeps the tale lively, but it's the sweet brother most of the town has bullied and dismissed who carries the story to its heartwarming conclusion. The author has a good ear for Southern dialogue and prose rhythms, but this is a tale that calls upon the Yiddish and Eastern European tradition of the wise fool. Think Isaac Bashevis Singer, "Gimpel, The Fool," for example. Think Aristotle and peripitas, or reversals, in which the weak become mighty and the mighty weak, and then just enjoy a good, colloquial Southern read.”

“Mandy Haynes' Oliver takes us back in time to a warm summer place where a boy and girl can ride their bikes all over town, observing, exploring, and enjoying each other’s company without adult interference. But it’s more than that. It’s about the magic that percolates in a child’s heart. It’s about fierce loyalty and sibling love and the way the moonlight unites us all. Oliver does not take long to read. But in that short space you will be transported to a very special world.”

“Reading the fast paced, witty, heartwarming story of siblings Oliver and Olivia places author Mandy Haynes in the company of great Southern writers. Heck, great writers. This novella is a joy and a lesson. Scout and Boo Radley together. This book has feeling! Haynes perfectly captures the voices of her characters.”

“Mandy Haynes’ writing always compels and moves me, and I blinked back tears as I turned the last page of her latest, Oliver. The characters are a gift and the impact of her storytelling spreads compassion to an audience-and world-in need of many more like her. Treat yourself to Oliver-and all of Haynes’ work.”

“This novella charms like chocolate melting on the tongue and captivates like the scent of lavender in the air, so its power sneaks up from behind and taps you on the shoulder. Don't be surprised if the pure goodness of Olivia and Oliver, the sister and brother who inhabit this book, brings a tear or two to your eyes. And you don't have to be a Southerner to enjoy this story. Anyone who recalls even a tiny bit of what it was like to be a child will love this sweet read. It has timeless, universal appeal.”

“Oliver by Mandy Haynes is a marvel, quietly drawn and elegantly refined in its restraint. You instantly delve into the psyches of the twelve-year-old narrator, Olivia, and her older brother, Oliver. With Haynes’s gift for dialogue and understanding of voice, her young characters are credible and vibrant.

Scrappy, mischievous, brave, and funny, Olivia is fiercely and unabashedly protective of her brother. And Oliver, despite being discounted by almost everyone except his parents and sister, is wise and true, loyal and compassionate. Oliver, unaware of his fundamental goodness, brings out the “better angels” in others. When Oliver follows his instincts and Olivia follows his example, sometimes in spite of herself, their acts of kindness begin to change the community. This winsome duo will have you cheering loudly for them and for Haynes, who could single-handedly bring back the novella as a literary form. Cheers for Mandy Haynes!”