WELL READ Magazine August 2024

ENCOUNTERS WITH NATURE

Amelia Island Writers and Artists

These humorous, inspiring, and uplifting tales from fifteen members of Amelia Island Writers are written by established authors and emerging writers. Amelia Island Writers is a chapter of Florida Writers Association, a 501(c)(6) educational organization. We thank Mandy Haynes for editing and formatting our book, and Story & Song Center for Arts and Culture for their publishing assistance. Reader reviewers offered helpful suggestions to improve our fiction and nonfiction stories for you to enjoy: M.J. CarlsonFlorida Writers Association, Katherine Dudley Hoehn, Catherine Masoulf, and Andrea Patten-Amelia Indie Authors. We thank the Clay County chapter of Florida Writers Association and Ocala Freedom Writers for sharing their experience in publishing an anthology. Jon Michael Miller of the Dunedin Writers Group explained to us the process of publishing an anthology, he being the catalyst for what is now their annual anthology. We share a fragile habitat with the creatures who also call Nassau County, Florida, their home. These stories express a love of nature and our appreciation of local conservation efforts. We are pleased to dedicate this book’s proceeds to Keep Nassau Beautiful (KNB), an affiliate of Keep America Beautiful. Further, Encounters with Nature is gifted to, and owned by KNB for use in their educational programming. Thank you to Pat Martocci, Coordinator, and Marla McDaniel, Originator, for organizing the project, and for inviting local artists to contribute original art to accompany each story.

In addition to individual donations, contributions from our sponsors have helped to make this book possible: Fernandina Observer, Keep Nassau Beautiful, and Story & Song Foundation

Cinnamon

Beach by Suzanne Kamata

ADEEP SOUTH MAGAZINE

Summer 2024 READING LIST

Selection

CINNAMON BEACH is a multicultural tragicomedy, told from three female perspectives, in which anAmerican writer living in Japan returns to South Carolina to scatter the ashes of her brother while trying to maintain the “perfect-family” facade she created from afar, and support her IndianAmerican sister-in-law who wants a future which might upset everyone. Sparks fly at an impromptu book-signing when the author reconnects with her college friend, now a famousAfricanAmerican country music star, and her daughter who is deaf finds ways to communicate with a secret first-love.

“Suzanne Kamata has masterfully captured the emotional nuances of love, loss and family secrets. Cinnamon Beach is as rich as it is deep. I loved it.” —Emma Grey, author of The Last Love Note.

In the Time of Spirits

by Beth Ford

An epic adventure through the world of the nineteenthcentury spiritualist movement.

In 1890,Addy Cohart is determined to defy convention and remain unmarried-until she meets William Fairley, a psychic medium who gives her hope as she grieves the sudden death of her parents.Addy becomes a devotee of the spiritualist movement, but as she takes on a larger role as William's assistant, she realizes that all may not be as it seems.As the couple moves from New York to London to Paris,Addy is forced to confront the fact that William's talents may be a ruse, and that he may even be a criminal. She must decide whom to trust and where to place her loyalties. What price is she willing to pay to protect her love and keep her faith?

“‘Children of the Storm,’Ann Christine Tabaka’s sixteenth collection of poetry, guides its readers with a gentle hand through the vicissitudes of life by offering hope, peace, and solace in an uncertain world. The themes of her poems will resonate with anyone who turns to words for comfort and offer them a sensorial reading experience. In a world gone wrong, Christine’s poetry strikes the right chords and will appeal to sensitive people the world over.”

Aishwariya Laxmi

Children of the Storm

Ann Christine Tabaka

-

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!

Loyalty: Washington Square Secrets Book 3 by Carrie Dalby

"A police officer haunted by war, a child haunted by his father's evil, and the young woman haunted by a past she gave up all come together as found family in this paranormal Southern Gothic set in 1920 Mobile, AL. Highly recommend!" --Candice Conner, The Haunted Bookshop, Mobile,AL

In the autumn of 1920, a murder-suicide shakes the residents of Washington Square. Officer JimAbbott doesn't realize the return of his shellshock is only the beginning of his concerns. Jim is assigned to keep tabs on the surviving child, Ernest Hart, who appears to be haunted by the recently departed murderer.

Neighbor Francesca Wilton grows closer to Ernest during her temporary guardianship of him, but his deteriorating emotional state reveals there is more to the seven-year-old than she expected. Then a loss of her own throws her life into further turmoil.

As the haunting looms closer, Francesca involves a friend gifted with telepathic and astral powers, as well as a skilled medium from the neighborhood to rid Ernest from his father's oppression. In their attempt to save Ernest, Jim becomes entangled in the women's unconventional abilities on a level he never expected.

“During

a time when LGBTQ stories are essential, Mike Coleman has written a powerfully touching memoir, a broad, intimate, and poetic nod to the universal truth that "love wins." Highly recommended!”

FIVE STAR READER REVIEW

The Way from Me to Us Mike Coleman

Arichly textured saga of a gay everyman moving from self-doubt to pride.—Kirkus Reviews

Leo Marble quickens in the womb during a Broadway show, but his life is lived in the Deep South in conservative Mississippi and laid-back New Orleans. He eventually emerges from the closet to become a journalist and advocate for gay rights and visibility.Along the way, he experiences heartache on an international scale, but keeps his indomitable spirit alive with show tune concerts at his spinet, eventually falling in love with a dedicated meteorologist with higher math skills.

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 self-appointed 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.

Late one night in the summer of 1897, Morris Massimo Levy, nearly sixteen, of mixed Italian-Catholic and EastEuropean Jewish background, watches as the father of the girl he loves is dropped from the Brooklyn Bridge by the notorious Jewish gang leader (and actual historical figure) Monk Eastman. The event helps propel Morris into a dangerous involvement in the notorious wars between the ethnic gangs of the Lower East Side of New York City and prompts his initiation, despite his idealistic impulses, into the ruthless means one often needed to survive and flourish in early modernAmerica.

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.

“A poignant and tender coming-of-age 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.

Amoving and well-written war drama. —Kirkus Reviews

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.

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.

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.

“This hard-hitting gut punch of a novel blew me away. Think Ozark meets Daisy Jones and the Six with an unlikely heroine Tyndall, on the autism spectrum, who saves lives at Saint Martin’s Hospital and elsewhere. The Lakes of Southern Hollow is ultimately an uplifting story about a wild group of forever friends struggling with addiction, fame, sexual longing, mental illness, a pandemic, Trumpers, evangelical zealots, and finally—Lord help them—redemption.”

—Margaret McMullan, author of Sources of Light

Bottled Secrets of Rosewood by Mary Kendall

Definition:Awitch bottle, filled with a range of items from nail clippings to glass chips to urine, was a method to draw in and trap evil intent directed at someone in particular.

After an archaeological dig at Rosewood, Miranda's historic house, unearths an ancient blue bottle of questionable origin, it seems to trigger the occurrence of inexplicable and mysterious events. While Brian, the head archaeologist, and his team try to figure out the mystery behind the blue bottle, disturbing encounters with the local folks leave Miranda shaken and unsure of the isolated, coastal corner of Virginia where she has moved.

In fact, it seems that there are forces at hand trying to oust Miranda from Rosewood with the bottle at the root of it all. When she is awakened one night by an eerie glow at her window and finds a circle of fire around her property, she must decide. Should she leave her dream house or stay--and potentially pay the ultimate price?

"Small-town suspicion, hidden family histories, unscrupulous characters, found families…it all comes together in this story that leaves you hooked from start to finish. 4.5 stars"

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 fast-paced 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

In Volume One, you’ll find thirty-eight submissions written by a fantastic mix of award-winning authors and poets plus new ones to the scene. Three submissions in this volume were nominated for a Pushcart Prize: Miller’s Cafe by Mike Hilbig, Sleeping on Paul’s Mattress by Brenda Sutton Rose, andAHard Dog by Will Maguire. The cover art is by artist, Lindsay Carraway, who had several pieces published in February’s issue.

Contributors: Jeffrey Dale Lofton, Phyllis Gobbell,

Brenda Sutton Rose, T. K. Thorne, Claire Hamner Matturro, Penny Koepsel, Mike Hilbig, Jon Sokol, Rita Welty Bourke, Suzanne Kamata,Annie McDonnell, Will Maguire, Joy Ross Davis, Robb Grindstaff, Tom Shachtman, Micah Ward, Mike Turner, James D. Brewer, Eileen Coe, Susan Cornford,Ana Doina, J. B. Hogan, Carrie Welch,Ashley Holloway, Rebecca Klassen, Robin Prince Monroe, Ellen Notbohm, Scott Thomas Outlar, Fiorella Ruas, Jonathan Pett, DeLane Phillips, Larry F. Sommers, Macy Spevacek, and Richard Stimac

In Volume Two, you’ll find forty-three submissions written by a fantastic mix of award-winning authors and poets plus new ones to the scene. Three submissions in this volume were nominated for a Pushcart Prize:A Bleeding Heart byAnn Hite, AFew Hours in the Life of a Five-Year-Old Pool Player by Francine Rodriguez, and There Were Red Flags by Mike Turner. The cover art for Volume Two is by artist, DeWitt Lobrano, who had several pieces published in November’s issue. Enjoy!

Contributors:Ann Hite, Malcolm Glass, Dawn Major, John M. Williams, Mandy Haynes, Francine Rodriguez, Mike Turner, Mickey Dubrow, William Walsh, Robb Grindstaff, Deborah ZenhaAdams, Mark Braught, B.A. Brittingham, Ramey Channell, Eileen Coe, Marion Cohen, Lorraine Cregar, John Grey, J. B. Hogan, Yana Kane, Philip Kobylarz, Diane Lefer, Will Maguire, David Malone, Ashley Tunnell, Tania Nyman, Jacob Parker, LaVern Spencer McCarthy, K. G. Munro,Angela Patera, Micheal Spake, George Pallas, Marisa Keller, Ken Gosse, and Orlando DeVito

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 a 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 $25, 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

“…There’s something so beautiful about facing down the darkness of the world and saying, “I see you. I know you. I will turn you into poetry.”

Robert Gwaltney and Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce James Wade

James Wade is the award-winning author of Beasts of the Earth, All Things Left Wild, and River, Sing Out. He is the youngest novelist to win two SpurAwards from the Western Writers ofAmerica, and the recipient of the MPIBA’s prestigious Reading the WestAward. James’s work has appeared in Southern Literary Magazine, The Bitter Oleander, Writers’Digest, and numerous additional publications. James lives and writes in the Texas Hill Country with his wife and children. His forthcoming novel, Hollow Out the Dark, releasesAugust 20, 2024.

Inside Voices (Jeffrey): Hollow Out the Dark, your fourth novel, is described as a gothic adventure set against a Depression-era landscape. Would you set the novel up for us?

It’s a bit of a classic setup with two mostly decent men on either side of the law, and both facing desperate circumstances.Abootlegger and a Texas Ranger, each trying to steady a moral compass that seems to always be spinning.

I’m sure whatever the marketing folks wrote on the jacket copy sounds a lot more appealing than anything I have to say about it, but behind all the plot stuff this book is– at its heart– a meditation on responsibility and where our moral obligations to our families and our society begin and end. That’s what the two protagonists are facing, these moral

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce James Wade

dilemmas that seem to question where their priorities lay. And like all good moral dilemmas, there isn’t really a right or wrong answer. It’s the old train track scenario of one hundred strangers being tied to one track and one person you love being tied to another. You’re operating the switch lever. What do you do?

Jesse Cole andAmonAtkins, our two primary characters, are both incredibly loyal and honorable men, albeit in different ways. Family is everything to them. They both live by a strict code. But in the novel they’re both asked to do things outside of that code in order to protect the people they love.And the further they get down this rabbit hole of criminals and corrupt officials and businessmen who prioritize profits over humanity, the more they find themselves at odds with the world around them. So then the central question becomes, what are they supposed to do about it?And I think that question is as relevant as it has ever been. Every day we’re inundated with the woes of the world and that same question is asked–either explicitly or implied or even just in our own minds for those of us who harbor any sort of love for our brothers and sisters–what are we, what are you going to do about it? What are you doing to help make the world a better place?And how does that coexist with your responsibility to your family, to yourself, or even just to paying your bills? That’s whatAmon and Jesse are trying to figure out, but because of the nature of their circumstances, their decisions are likely to have deadly consequences for themselves and others.

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton

And then the secondary theme, which plays off the title, deals with what happens in the aftermath of a loss-ofinnocence. Plenty of stories take us through the boy-toman narrative. But I wanted to see what happened in the years after the innocence was gone and the reality set in. If the world is truly a much darker place than we imagined when we were young, how do we cope with such a distressing fact? Do we turn a blind eye to the horrors that are all around us? Do we let those horrors overwhelm us–curl up, catatonic like? Or is there another path forward–one in which we acknowledge the calamity of the wide world but still find our own space to perhaps live proudly if not peacefully within that darkness.

Inside Voices (Robert): Loss of innocence is a theme shared within your first three novels. With Hollow Out the Dark, through Jesse Cole, what did you set out to address in the human condition?

Jesse deals with a lot of the same issues as most of my protagonists, what with the loss of innocence, questioning of faith, etc. When we meet Jesse he has already been to war, lost his brother, and already seen how brutal men can be. So we’re getting to see the life he has created in the aftermath of some terrible things. We get to see how he has chosen to cope. But then as the novel unfolds he is given this opportunity to reclaim if not his innocence then at least his passion. He is thrown back together with his

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce James Wade

first love and in her he sees this glimpse of the man he used to be–the man he wanted to be.As readers we see him begin to reclaim some of the optimism, some of the zest for life that he had when he was young. The question then becomes what is that worth to him? What is he willing to sacrifice to actually hang onto it this time?

Inside Voices (Jeffrey): Faith, longing for it, losing it, finding it. It’s a leitmotif throughout your writing. Will you tell us more about faith as a theme for you?

Cormac McCarthy famously said he is only interested in work and in writers that deal with life and death. I very much agree with that. Not that there shouldn’t be escapism fiction or beach reads or any of that, but it’s not what excites me as a reader or a writer. Life and death, especially in the south and in the rural areas I write about, are seen almost exclusively through the lens of faith. It’s only natural that the characters have feelings about their own faith or lack thereof. It’s also something that I’ve struggled to understand– faith and religion– in my own life and in the world at large. I was raised Southern Baptist but in my own coming-of-age I distanced myself from religion and faith; and yet that distance only increased my fascination with these concepts. There has been no greater force in the history of civilization than religion. It is the closest thing man has to a “cure” for death– a shelter against the unrelenting cold of existential dread. I find

myself constantly torn between accepting my own agnosticism and also being wildly envious of those who have that unshakeable faith in something greater. What a comforting thought–that when your heart stops its pumping and the neurons in your brain cease their firing and your body is no longer animate, your consciousness (or some version of you) lives on in a greater, more ethereal realm. You see loved ones again. You meet and are embraced by a compassionate creator. Jimi Hendrix is playing the national anthem, and so on.And yet, with all we know of science and history and psychology, with all of our myriad religions (both current and historical), with all we see of needless sorrow, with all the moral hypocrisy written into religious texts, the notion of faith becomes much less like a proud pillar of humanity and much more like a comfort blanket of denial.And yet there is no denying the power it has. It can do great good or great harm, but either way it has such a hold on civilization. And again, in our country, particularly in rural southern settings. So my characters often find themselves similarly afflicted in terms of being caught between belief and blasphemy. But more so than wanting to know the answer to black and white questions like “does God exist,” they long for an explanation for the pain of living–an understanding of their own suffering and the suffering of those around them. That is the longing that drives many people toward faith, not away from it. They are pacified by the idea that surely there is a purpose for all this hurt and all this sadness.

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce James Wade

Inside Voices (Robert): New York Times bestselling author, William Kent Kruger, says this: “James Wade is a poet of the dark. With Gorgeous lyricism, he writes of men and women caught in the bleakest of circumstances and the choices that must be made when desperate times require desperate measures.” I am a great fan of authors composing dark themes lyrically. Were you always this writer? Or did your voice develop over time?

I think, like you, I was always drawn to darker themes, especially if they were painted with a lyrical brush. There’s something so beautiful about facing down the darkness of the world and saying, “I see you. I know you. I will turn you into poetry.”

Inside Voices (Robert): Secrets, revelations, and sinewy twists of plot abound in Hollow Out the Dark. I read in another interview that you have outlined everything you have ever written, and yet, you have never followed an outline. Talk about that.

Well, it’s not on purpose. I’d love to plan a novel and then actually write that novel, it just hasn’t worked out that way yet. Usually I start writing and the characters or the narrative or something about the theme starts to shift in a way that I hadn’t anticipated.At that point I can either fight against the current or let the water take me and try to make the best of it. So far I’ve only done the latter.And I

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce James Wade

don’t mind it. I’ve said before–probably in the interview you read–that outlines are like bones and bones can certainly break.

Inside Voices (Jeffrey): I understand you had a career before your writing took off. I believe you worked as a journalist in East Texas, were a legislative director at the Texas State Capitol, and spent some time lobbying on behalf of water conservation in Texas. What parts of these do you call on to shape and influence your writing?

As a reporter I had a front row seat to fatal car accidents, meth lab busts, murders, child abuse, and just about every terrible thing you can think of. I saw the heart of darkness that beats in all men. I also saw the goodness in people. Educators, child advocates, communities that rally together and the like. Politics was similar. People did awful things and wonderful things. I draw from my past for things like dialogue and culture and all that, but the primary lesson from my experiences in the world is that people are complicated. Very few of us are all good or all bad. So I try to mirror that with my characters. Especially with a book like this one, because nobody is really innocent, but almost everyone has something about them that you can sympathize with.

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce James Wade

Inside Voices (Robert): What has Hollow Out the Dark, or your writing in general taught you?

Oh Lord. Patience? Discipline, probably. Maybe. Writing is tough. I love it more than just about anything but that doesn’t make it easy. You’re sitting alone with the entirety of your being– there’s no buffer there, it’s just you and your thoughts– and you’re asking yourself to mine some of the deepest parts of yourself. That’s a delicate prospect. Sometimes a terrifying one. But I guess what writing has taught me is that it’s better to face those fears than to let them move freely in your subconscious.

Inside Voices (Jeffrey): What is next for James Wade?

I submitted a manuscript just a couple of weeks ago to my editor and publisher and hopefully they like it enough to move forward. Since then I’ve just been catching up on emails and getting things scheduled for the Hollow Out the Dark tour coming up. But within the next week or two I’ll pull out the notebook and start slowly sketching out some ideas for what the next novel might look like, and then it will be back to work. Reaching inside and seeing what I can pull out.

“James Wade’s newest novel, Hollow Out the Dark, is a masterpiece of atmospheric crime fiction; a worthy successor to the likes of William Gay and Cormac McCarthy. Set in East Texas, it is an epic, and age-old, story of greed and generational betrayal—where vengeance is swift and forgiveness a long time coming.”

Kathleen Kent, New York Times bestselling author of Black Wolf

Hollow Out the Dark James Wade

MOUNTAIN MAGIC with ANN HITE Hiking Magic

I have more than my granny’s storytelling gene. When I finish writing a book, especially one that took a lot out of me, I need nature, the substance of peace, of creation. Granny was the same way. Even when her arthritis got the best of her joints, she would sit on her porch swing, silent. “Don’t bother me. I’m gathering wool.” She would say to me as a child.

Two weeks ago, I finished a book that I had worked on for years.Wool-gathering was high on my list. My husband, Jack, and I hooked up the camper and headed for the mountains, off the grid. No phone service, no electricity, no air conditioning, nothing. This would be my home for five days deep in the heart of Southern Appalachia. My soul’s home.

I’m not the only writer that loves unplugging, searching for the peace of the land. Richard Powers, Pulitzer Prize winner of the novel “Overstory,” lives so far up in the mountains he can’t get internet. His days are spent writing and hiking. When he needs to do interviews or conduct business, he comes off his mountain into the world of technology. Something about this appeals to my need for solitude. To my need to write and create.

In the camper at night, I fell asleep to the sounds of two owls calling back and forth in the trees. The stars were brighter than I could ever remember. Each morning, I woke tobirdscallingintheduskygraylightofdawn.Iwroteinmy notebook as deer walked around outside my window.Anew

character was whispering in my ear. Would I have heard her in my busy life at home? A five minute walk from our camperdoorwasabeautifulpaththatwounditswaythrough a valley. There was a feeling I was walking in the footsteps of mountain folk before me. Not a car could be heard. When the valley view opened, I stopped in my place. The shadows playing against the mountain sides made me yearn for something I still can’t put a name to. This was the ultimate art, a living oil painting.Awriter and photographer’s dream.

As we moved along this 12.5 mile path, we came upon a couple in their eighties. They were from Maine. Jack and I talked with them about the area, their home, our home, and the beauty of our country in general. The part of me used to staying on task, not wasting time, hated I was standing around talking. But something calming, almost nurturing, flowed through me. I needed this pace, this life. We made promises to visit them in Maine when Jack retired next year. Why not? I have always wanted to visit Maine.

Around Jack’s neck was one of his tools of trade, his beloved DSLR camera. In my backpack was my notebook and pen in case the character whispered to me some more. We hiked beside large fields of wildflowers in full bloom, bees dancing from one to another. We came to a church built in 1820, where I stopped to read the names on the gravestones in the cemetery out back.

“I got kin buried here in this place.” A man with a long gray beard, wearing a cap that said Vietnam Veteran on it

stood close by.

We talked about moonshining in our families’pasts. How plants like Sang (ginseng) were magic. How Sang only revealed itself to those that were worthy to hunt it—that’s a whole other column. He told me he made the best peach cobbler brandy inAppalachia and assured me I wouldn’t get a bit drunk unless I ate one of the peaches.There we stood in this old cemetery as if we had known each other all our lives. As if our families were neighbors. That’s how it is with mountain folk. I always feel I’m coming home when I find myself inAppalachia.

“Young lady, I don’t take anything the doctors try to give me for pain. I use yarrow and catnip. It’s the best. My granny taught me that. I stick to the old ways.”

I thought of the jar of moonshine in the cabinet under the kitchen sink at Granny’s. How she took homemade peppermint sticks and dissolved them in the shine. When I had a bad cough or croup, she gave me a serving spoon full of this and I didn’t cough again.

After telling my new friend goodbye, Jack and I cut off the well-traveled path up a steep trail.At the top was a large tree covered and surrounded by American flags. This was called the Pearl Harbor tree. Written on the flags were the names of veterans and the wars they served in. The Pearl Harbor tree was planted by a mountain main in his front yard when his two sons went to fight in WWII. He placed rich black dirt in an old ModelTtire rim and put the sapling

there. Folks fromAppalachia save everything.

The tree grew so big the rim broke but still remains partially around the trunk of the tree today.This memorial is somewhat of a secret off the beaten path in the mountains. Back on the main hiking trail, a large dragonfly landed on my chest, remaining there for quite a bit, looking at me. Granny would have said it was a messenger, telling me something important, and I should watch and listen for the reveal.

We have so much to distract us these days how can we see these messengers? What would happen if we could just be still and quiet?

That hike taught me so much. Like how most bears want no more to do with us than we want to do with them. Yes, we came upon a bear more than once. Yes, I was afraid. How the taste of cold water chilled in a mountain stream tastes better than any beverage. How most places have a deep history we are unaware of, that people lived and died, their stories embedded in the very ground where we walk. HowHolyexistsinasimplehikethroughamountainvalley.

This is the stuff my ancestors knew. They lived hardscrabble lives filled with joy, sadness, poverty, and complete abundance. And that my friends is mountain magic at its purest.

THE WRITER’S EYE

Watching The Classics

From A Different Point View

Recipe for a classic tragicomedy:

1 hopeful mid-western heiress

1 cynical dancer

1 suave producer

1 ensemble cast with actors who would later have great careers

The seasoning:

Wealthy Katharine Hepburn is hopeful of launching a theatrical career; Ginger Rogers is cynical, seasoned dancer; rounding out the ensemble are Lucille Ball, Eve Arden,Ann Miller, Gail Patrick (who almost always played the bad girl);Adolphe Menjou is the suave producer who holds actresses careers in his careless hands

The brew:

In most novels writers have an ensemble cast. This movie, based loosely on a stage play by Edna Ferber and George S. Kaufman, has a large cast of young woman living in a theatrical boarding house in New York. Hepburn plays heiress Terry Randall who comes in with lots of luggage but incognito (sort of). Rogers (Jean Maitland) is her roommate and assumes that Terry has a sugar daddy when she spots a picture of Terry’s grandfather. Gail Patrick is “dating” wealthy producerAnthony Powell (Menjou), who turns his attention to Rogers andAnn Miller when he sees them rehearsing as chorus dancers. Kay Hamilton is a

talented actress who had great success a year ago but is now desperate to find work. Broke and malnourished, she has set her hopes on the lead in Powell’s new production, “EnchantedApril.” When Powell cancels his appointment with Kay, she faints in his waiting room. Hepburn barges into his office and berates him for his callousness.

Unbeknownst to her, her father is financing the new play, and he wants her to fail so she will return home.

Fast-paced witty dialogue in the boarding house brings comedy to the fore, but the sad story of Kay Hamilton brings the tragedy when she, delirious with fatigue and hunger, commits suicide by jumping out a window. Hepburn, who is a really wooden actress, is so emotionally overcome by this, she attempts to back out of the performance, but her acting coach insists she has to go on, not only for the company whose livelihood depend on it, but also for Kay. Transformed by grief, Hepburn gives a bravura performance, much to her father’s chagrin.

What can a writer learn from this?

First, how to handle a large cast; second, how to reveal character from dialogue and character interaction; third, how to blend comedy and drama effectively to make one of my all-time favorite films; and fourth, how to layer texture into a story to add depth and humanity. Terrific performances by all concerned make this a gem of 1930s movie-making. Finally, a point of trivia; this is the movie in which Hepburn utters the classic line “The calla lilies are in bloom again.”

ALittle Feud

Anne Leigh Parrish

It happened sometimes between husband and wife, a little feud over something small and simple that became huge and complex. They’d been married long enough to have had many of these. In the early days, they could really go at it. Yelling down the night until the neighbors called the cops. Frank always got the evil eye then. Tammy was inspected for shiners. These tiffs were verbal, not physical, unless Tammy pitched a plate at the wall, which she didn’t do anymore. Plates cost money, and the set they had now was quite nice, though Frank didn’t care for the daisy pattern.

They owned a shop that sold stone monuments for gardens. Not for cemeteries.That was its own specialty, and required you to deal with the bereaved, which Tammy would be no good at. Misery made her uneasy, her sympathy ran out fast. Get a grip, she’d be tempted to say, which wouldn’t be helpful, and would probably lose her a

sale. Frank got along well with the customers, and she generally let him do the talking.

One wet Tuesday, when everything else so far had gone wrong—the milk for their coffee had spoiled and the truck wouldn’t start—they received a shipment of statues they didn’t order. They’d asked for Buddhas and Japanese pagodas because Tammy loved them, and they sold well. What they got were St. Francis (four), the Virgin Mary (six), and a flock of small, fat cherubs. Tammy was raised a Catholic and despised the whole rigamarole almost as much as she hated Republicans, though she tried to keep politics out of the workplace. She learned the hard way about that. Ben, their employee, was a staunch MAGA and regarded Donald Trump as the new Messiah and Joe Biden as the anti-Christ. Oh, that discussion got heated as hell. Tammy came close to firing him and knew she couldn’t because Ben was her sister’s boy and had trouble holding a job, so she let it go. Frank told her she’d done the right thing. Who cared what that dumb kid thought, anyway? Tammy didn’t care, not really, except for the fact that a sizable percentage of the country thought the same way.

Frank thought the new pieces were cute and put them on prominent display. He wasn’t raised in any particular faith. His parents had been hippies and believed in auras and astral signs and that kind of b.s. They lived in Florida now, a long way from Western Washington. In truth, Frank

missed them, especially his father, whom he’d come to appreciate more as he entered middle age. Life was full of unexpected challenges and insurmountable problems, and though they never spoke of it, Frank felt his father would understand.

Tammy said they weren’t keeping the crap they got by mistake. Frank said yeah, they were, and that it would sell fast enough.At home, Tammy made dinner without a word. Frank said it was important to try new things, to shake things up. Maybe the universe was trying to tell them something.Then he complimented her casserole. She raised her eyes and looked at him dead on. She said she didn’t need to remind him that Christianity was founded on the concept of patriarchy. He said most religions were, unless you wanted to talk about the Vikings or ancient Romans and their panoply of gods, though they tended to put men first, too. He understood how often she’d been smacked across the hand by a nasty cane-wielding nun, but she couldn’t blame all Christians everywhere for that. She said just try and stop her. As if Fate were mocking her, five of the six Virgin Mary’s sold by the end of that week.

The order of Japanese pagodas and Buddhas arrived. Tammy set them up right in front, where they’d always been, and Frank later moved the Buddhas to the far end of the yard. They were hollow and easy to lift, which was a blessing, given how much trouble his back gave him these

days. She told him to put them where she’d had them and he said he wouldn’t, so she moved them herself and stood them at regular intervals, in a nice, gentle arc.

She needn’t have bothered. Ben got snockered, came in after hours, and kicked them over. Then he went at them with a hammer, destroying two. He hated them, he said, with their fat grinning air of superiority. He didn’t care how much customers liked them, or that they represented good luck. To him it was all garbage, Chinese interference. Hadn’t those people done enough by giving us COVID? When he sobered up his remorse was hard to take. He cried as he picked up the pieces. His girlfriend had kicked him out,Tammy and Frank learned, a girlfriend with a particular fascination for Eastern mysticism. He told Tammy to take the cost of replacing the Buddhas he’d wrecked out of his paycheck. She said she most certainly would.

Frank saw his doctor about his back and was told not to lift anything over ten pounds for at least two weeks. He had a disk that was calcifying. One day, it might require surgery. That evening, they discussed the implications of his limited duty at the statuary yard. Tammy told him he might as well stay home.

Tammy arrived at work in the morning to find things in chaos. A St. Francis had fallen over into a Buddha’s lap. The cherubs were all over the place, even in their showcase fountain which stood five feet tall. The remaining Virgin

Mary stood close to a gnome whose cap concealed his eyes, as if ashamed of his idiotic appearance.Tammy was furious and called Ben only to be told his number was no longer in service. Ben showed up, in worse shape than usual, and Tammy accused him of getting drunk again, using his key to open the padlock that secured the chained gate, then having a fine old time ruining her set-up. Ben looked at her with red-rimmed eyes that reminded Tammy of her sister, who bawled a lot as a child, and said he’d done that once and once was enough. Oddly, Tammy believed him. Maybe some local kids jumped the fence, he said. Tammy called Frank to fill him in and he said they should install cameras in prominent locations as a deterrent. He’d read this discouraged theft more than an alarm system on the property, which they also lacked.

Tammy told Ben to help her move everything back the way it was. It didn’t take them long. She asked what happened to his phone. He said he forgot to pay the bill, but that was okay, he didn’t need it right now because he’d only look at it to see if his girlfriend had texted him. She asked where he was staying, and he said he’d gone back home. Tammy was surprised her sister hadn’t mentioned that, but they weren’t close, and her sister wouldn’t have thought it necessary.

On Thursday, the supplier called again about the pieces he’d sent by mistake. He hoped Tammy was still okay with

the arrangement they’d come to, about crediting her next shipment. She said she was. He asked if she happened to have a spare Virgin Mary left. He had a customer, well his uncle actually, who wanted one for his aunt as a surprise. Tammy said yeah, she had one, and his uncle could come by anytime. The supplier thanked her and apologized again for the earlier mix-up. He’d been having problems with their new inventory software and more than one order had gotten scrambled. Computers were supposed to be time savers, but they just seemed to complicate everything, right?

Tammy hustled him off the phone. She had to drive Frank to another appointment for his back and Ben was supposed to come in early to cover for her.

Ben didn’t show, so Tammy locked the place up and left. When she returned, more mischief had been done. The Virgin Mary, which Tammy had put by the front window for the supplier’s uncle to see easily, had her back turned. So did the Buddha she stood next to. Maybe they’d been put that way in the first place, and she just forgot. She’d been so distracted lately by everything, but when she tried to think of exactly what, she couldn’t for the life of her come up with anything other than the usual irritations and disappointments of the human condition. Well, sometimes those were enough to drive a saint to sin as her mother used to say, her mother, a hard-drinking, smoking, card-playing

Irish housewife without a drop of kindness.

Tammy turned Virgin Mary around. Then she did the same to Buddha. Poor Buddha was half Mary’s height, but he didn’t seem to mind. He was suffused with inner peace, pure tranquility, but then so was Mary, judging from the gentle tilt of her head as she gazed lovingly into empty space.

Ben arrived with two coffees he’d picked up on the way in. He apologized for being late. He’d had to help his mom around the house that morning. They’d painted the whole downstairs over the weekend and today the curtains needed to be rehung. Tammy accepted her coffee and tried to remember what color the walls at her sister’s house had been. She hadn’t been there for a couple of years. Holidays weren’t celebrated together. The sister’s husband and Frank didn’t get along, not because they had different world views, but because they could both be opinionated and loud after a few drinks and their bombast became a competition between them around the dinner table. The sister’s husband had threatened Frank one year with a fork, holding the tines perilously close to his face. Ben had been the one to break up that fight.

The supplier’s uncle came by. He was a small, timidlooking man, with neatly combed white hair. He walked with a cane. He said his wife was ill, quite ill, in fact, and he’d hired someone to redo their garden and she, the wife,

wanted a statue of the Virgin Mary placed so that it would bless the roses in spring and summer.At this the little man’s face tensed up and for an awful moment Tammy thought he might be about to burst into tears. But he pulled himself together and said he thought it might be a good idea to buy the statue now, before the roses bloomed, so his wife could see it there whenever the window beckoned. Tammy understood that she was being told that the wife wasn’t going to make it to next spring. Her throat tightened.

Tammy told the little man the Virgin Mary was on the house. He said he couldn’t possibly take it for free. Tammy said he’d be doing her a favor. She’d been trying to get rid of it and didn’t have high hopes, given how long all the others had taken to sell. At this, Ben started to correct her and she glared at him. She asked him to please put the statue in the gentleman’s car, but to wrap it in plastic, first. After a few more feeble protests, the little man accepted and shook Tammy’s hand.

“Bless you,” he said.

Tammy sat in her office and watched him drive slowly out of the yard. Ben watched him go too, then went back to work. He was moving the water features closer to the building so they could be connected to a hose for people to see them in operation when the weather improved, which it wouldn’t for several months, but Tammy appreciated his initiative.

Frank called up, bored, restless, and asked if she needed him to go the grocery store because he might as well be useful while he was on furlough. He didn’t like being dead weight. Tammy told him to take that pork roast out of the fridge and let it come to room temperature before putting it in the oven. Did he want her to walk him through it? He said he’d seen her do it often enough and he should be fine. When she hung up, she watched the rain fall gently. She wondered if the little man had someone at home to help him put Mary where he wanted her to go. It was such a nice idea, getting it for his wife to comfort her in her final days. That’s what religion was all about at its best, wasn’t it? Comfort and kindness. People should stick to that and stop using it as a weapon.

One day, maybe.

For now, she had to call the supplier back and place the order that slipped her mind before when he wouldn’t shut up about his uncle, this time for tortoises, rabbits, and grazing deer. A woman just the other day asked why they weren’t stocking animals anymore. Tammy had forgotten about the animals. They were part of everything, too, for the gentle kindness they could show one another. She’d be glad to have them back, yet wondered if they’d move themselves around when she wasn’t looking. It still bothered her that there was still no explanation for what had happened. It was. . . what was the word Frank used?

Unfathomable. There was nothing to do but take it as a handy reminder that sometimes you had to accept things you didn’t understand, and never would.

Anne Leigh Parrish’s new novel, The Hedgerow, appears in July 2024 from Unsolicited Press. Diary of a False Assassin, her next poetry collection, will arrive in December 2024, also from Unsolicited Press. She lives in Olympia, Washington. Explore her writing at www.anneleighparrish.com and her photography at www.laviniastudios.com

TheArts and ‘Bad’Words

B.A. Brittingham

During the 2018 Halloween season, NBC’s Megyn Kelly naively made some remarks on blackface as it pertained to costumes. Due to its racial insensitivity, it cost her a wellpaying news job. It is now a moot point but should bring into question the concept of political correctness vs. reality.

As anation wehavealllearned (or are learning as Megyn said in her apology) that ethnic slurs are no longer tolerable in the modern world. It is one of the good things that seems to be coming out (belatedly) from the Civil Rights Movement of sixty years ago, from the anti-bullying movement of today, the #MeToo movement (words, not just groping, can be a form of sexual harassment), the politically correct movement (which occasionally goes a bit overboard in its good intentions), and even the stated consciousness of another person’s physical differences (Internet trolls and body-shaming.)

We are stumbling, and occasionally falling flat on our

faces, in the search for judicious ways not to be hurtful, first in our words and then, by extension, in our attitudes. And that is a positive path to an improved society.

But why is the road so rocky? Why is it taking so long? Because like most change, the negative aspects of our joint thinking must be undone before the positive seeds can take root. Less than a hundred years ago, one ofAmerica’s most remarkable presidents, Franklin Delano Roosevelt sat in the White House. Scion of an upper-crust family, recipient of a sterling education, a man of wealth and ideas, FDR was nonetheless known to exchange anti-Semitic jokes. As did others. (It should be noted that he was not averse to the appointing of Jews to important posts, witness Secretary of the Treasury Henry Morgenthau, Jr. who later, during the Truman administration, became the first Jewish individual to be first in line for presidential succession.)

It is unpleasant to contemplate this high-level antiSemitism, particularly in view of subsequent world events with respect to Hitler’s treatment of the Jewish people. But we should always remember that, at the beginning of the 21st century, we cannot in conscience judge the past by today’s standards. Not only did the president and other politicians exchange Jewish jokes, but most people did likewise. Along with Irish drinking jokes, Polish stupidity jokes, German toilet jokes, and Scottish cheap jokes. It was the way of the then-world.

Humanity has moved forward since, but we still have ground to cover. Let us give ourselves and our society a brief pat on the back for our somewhat evolved thinking. And then go on to making other needed adjustments in matters of semantics.

As a fiction creator, I consider the phrase “suspension of disbelief” as Nearly Canonical in its necessity; if an author does not make a scene so real that the reader is compelled to accept it, then the story will collapse. It holds a chief position in the writing process of most authors.

This is about fabricated lying and the role it plays in story construction. The writer is basically telling a tale that didn’t happen about people that have never lived—other than in his or her imagination—and he wants you to believe it so that he may get across his point or message. To do this, she/he must create a landscape that is so real, the reader buys into it even though, under it all, the reader knows that it is basically a falsehood. Reader and writer thus become cohorts in chicanery.

A significant part of this belief suspension is the manner in which characters are drawn. We can tell a great deal about the birthplace, education, social status, occupation, or trade, and even garner some insight into the ways these “persons” think when we listen to how they speak.Are they from New York and speaking with a Brooklyn accent or from East London and talking old fashioned Cockney?

(Which is very much in decline I am told.)

This also fits the way a character gets emotional and the words he might use in its expression.

A scene set in a Southern state such as Virginia or Georgia in the 1920s or 30s and involving the racial disparity so viciously prevalent there, must contain the word “nigger.” Now before you pick up your phone or keyboard to crucify me for using a word with such a horrific history, stop and think: can the brutality of the attitude and the people involved be appropriately conveyed to persons living eighty years later?

Like the 1970s cigarette commercial said, “You’ve come a long way, baby.” We have. We’ve learned that words and unfair generalizations can bring pain, extreme dissent, and even innocent deaths. So, the use of expressions like Nword heralds an important change in our society—even if there are those who still enjoy using it. Thirty years ago, it was the F-Word that was taboo; for Brits it was bloody. Now such designations are largely passé.

What we need to remember is how to differentiate between the words themselves and their context and delivery.

Going back to the South of the above example, the need for that word is implicit in allowing the reader to begin understanding what African Americans felt upon hearing it fall—with snarling vehemence—from the lips of people

who believed that white skin made them superior. I’m not certain that those of us who are Caucasian can even begin to experience the fear, denigration, or immediate panic that poured forth from the collective racial memory of a black man faced with an angry mob of whites. Somehow, “Get a rope and let’s hang that N-word bastard” does not carry quite the same horror as what was actually meant.

When writers are trying to recreate a time and place, it is imperative that they be allowed to use the verbiage that is part of it. It is not our intention to promote the continuation of bad words and the political incorrectness of them; but rather to demonstrate how hideous and vulgar they can be and what the consequences are. Their true badness rests with those who should know better and still use them offensively anyway. All in the name of Free Speech.

Born and raised in the grittiness of New York City, Brittingham spent a large segment of her adult years in the blue skies and humidity of South Florida. Today she resides along the magnificent (and sometimes tumultuous) shores of Lake Michigan.

ASliver of Peace

Robin Prince Monroe

The summer sun was hot, white, blinding. The kind of sun that leaves light squiggles in the aqueous humor of your eyes. It was so humid I felt like I needed scuba gear to breathe. Occasionally a dandelion fluff of cloud would pass over the sun and for a brief moment I’d anticipate relief only to feel the blaze heat up again.

People were milling everywhere around the field, watching, waiting, eye-protective glasses at the ready. Dark shields to keep them from being hurt by the very thing that they can’t live without. Afraid to be blinded by the very thing that enables them to see.

Blankets were scattered across the dry, crisp grass like the bright patches of a quilt.The grass crunched as I walked carrying my soft, red blanket. My small, burlap pack patted my back with each step. I needed to find a secret place away from the people chattering, the kid’s laughing, and the smell of lunches, growing too hot in the sun.Ahidden place that was open enough to see the sky.

I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t find the right place to experience this once-in-a-lifetime event, until I noticed a large oak at the edge of the field. It stood there ready to greet me. I ran over, threw my blanket in its shadow, then reached up to climb into its arms. Maybe, just maybe, I could find a spot high enough that I could see a big swatch of sky.

I climbed hand-foot-hand, higher and higher, the warm, rough bark kept my sweaty palms from slipping.The leaves brushed my skin soothing the anxiety that we all felt. Anxiety? Somewhere deep inside of me, was the primordial feeling that light meant safety.And that without it, even for only a few moments, I was somehow vulnerable. Do the other’s feel this? Do the children? Does this tree?

Finally, I found it, open sky above a branch large enough to hold my weight. I braced my right foot on a sturdy branch below. I dangled the other foot, and had a flash of how much I had loved climbing when I was a child.

Do kids do that anymore? I hoped so.

Secure then, I gently pulled my backpack off, and opened it, looking for the certified, dark glasses I had put there. I had packed two pair. I put one on, then to test it, I looked up at the spotlight sun. When I looked back down to find my power bar, the backpack was a dark abyss. I had to remove the glasses to retrieve my snack. I munched on the bar and checked my watch. I had made it just in time. In a few more

minutes it would start. The anxiety changed to excitement, the kind that makes a minute seem like forever.

Then it happened.The moon’s shadow took a tiny nip out of the sun. A baby nip, like the ones I would sneak when Grandma made her best chocolate cookies. The nip slowly turned into a bite, then the bite changed into a soft gray blanket that was pulled slowly over the sun’s bright face. Everything went still. The wind stopped, the birds quieted, even the bug’s high pitched hum hushed. The bright, busy light became a silky twilight, then a silent night.

And with the grayness came the whispered hush I so desperately needed. A few quiet moments without artificial lights, and graphics screaming at me on too many screens. When the shadow was at its deepest, the people cheered, but the quietness owned me now.

Then the moon stopped hugging the sun, and slowly slipped away. The wind, the birds, and the bugs, started up their busy life songs. I climbed down onto the field of chattering people, giggling children, and smelly lunches, to go back to my life, carrying with me the soft peace I had found.

Robin Prince Monroe delights in writing for children; and has authored sevenpicture books, a middle grade novel, and a chapter book. Recently released titles forgrownups include, Ridiculously Easy Crockpot Recipes, Ridiculously Easy CreativeProblem Solving, Our Fabulous Fripp, and Loss of a Loved One. Her work has alsoappeared in Guideposts, and Money Matters.www. RobinPrinceMonroe.com

Waiting for Coffee as a Measurement of Time

MikeAustin

You wake at midnight and again at one. It’s been three months since you’ve slept the whole night through. The pain in your hip has only gotten worse in that time. Now it’s New Year’s Morning and you have another seven weeks of waiting until your hip gets replaced.

But whether it’s seven weeks or seven months doesn’t matter any longer. Time has lost any meaning so that you barely recognize morning from evening. Like now. It’s one in the morning but you want to make coffee. That would be a good way to ring in the New Year, with a cup of coffee in the wee small hours.

Instead you get dressed. You move just a little easier after those few hours of sleep. But it’s still a grindingly slow and groaning process of moving, of bending your leg to pull on pants, socks and shoes. In between each item of clothing you sit and stare and wonder if the effort is worth it. It isn’t, but you get dressed anyway.

You pull on your heavy parka. It feels like a comforter. Maybe you can curl up on a park bench and take a nap. All you have to do is close your eyes to drift off again.

The taverns nearby are still busy. The sidewalk here is cluttered with people, individuals and groups walking between bars or to their cars or just walking for air. One couple is arguing about driving or calling a cab. They stop when you limp past. When you smile and nod, they look away. They’re arguing again as soon as you pass.

It hurts to walk. It hurts to lie in bed. It hurts to stand and it hurts to sit. It hurts in your short hours of sleep and keeps hurting when you wake. Seven more weeks. There is no meaning to those words. Time is immeasurable. The only time that matters right now is coffee time.

You don’t know why you keep going. It’s not even a proper walk.You give up on using your left leg to walk with. It’s more of a prop to hold you upright while your right foot propels you forward.

Itseemsthatpeoplelookawaywhentheyseeyoucoming. Nobody wants to watch the show of a broken man, a man who looks like he might ask for money.

On the next block you’re alone under the scant scattering of streetlights. You’re further away from the New Year’s celebrations. It’s quiet here, and the only thing moving is your shadow as it lurches and drags before you, growing longer, then fading as the street light recedes behind you.

When you turn to look down the block, it looks like a dark foreverdistance.You’reinawalkingwakingdreaminwhich the terrain and the neighborhood are even the city are strange. You wonder if there’s a place nearby that serves coffee at this hour.

There’s a saxophone being played somewhere up ahead and brings you awake in your own neighborhood where nobody is serving coffee. The music sounds like it’s up by the river. The sax runs up and down the scales and then does a few slow jazzy riffs.You smile at the cliché of a sad sax in thedarkness.Youturnupyourcollarandpulldownyourhat. Youshambletotheriverandthefootpaththatleadsalongthe narrow river to the lake a mile away.You can picture the lake at night, rolling into blackness beyond the small reflections of homes along the shore. You won’t be able to walk there tonight.

The path is well lit. The light from overhead dances yellow in the ripples of the dark slow river. There are traffic noises up ahead but the night feels quiet, as if the noise is moreasensationthansound.It’sbackgroundtothesaxthat’s growing louder with each step you take.

The musician is a woman. She’s playing under the heavy concretebridgeofabusythoroughfare.She’sacrosstheriver from you, between the feet of two concrete arches. She’s flanked by a couple of musicians, two guys who stare at her adoringly. One is slapping on his bongos. The other is

pluckinganuprightbass.They’rebothbeingdrownedoutby the sax, but don’t seem to care. She’s their star while she makes the sax wail “Harlem Nocturne” slow and sad. It echoes past you and off the concrete abutment behind you, then back across the river.

The musicians notice you standing across the river from them. The men stop playing. Their gaze seems hostile. The woman’s playing falters as if she’s suddenly self-conscious of her audience of one.

You turn away toward a bench that’s under a light. “Harlem Nocturn” slides into “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem.” It’s a sad and sleepy lullaby that makes your eyelids even heavier.

You pull up your hood and the music is muffled, along with the traffic noise, in the pillowed quilting of the parka. If you can just get to the bench you could close your eyes. Ten minutesofsleepunderthedimstarswillclearyourmind.It’s good to have a goal. Sit. Nap. Limp home, a few yards at a time. Why did you come this far? If you ever get home, you’ll make coffee. You’ll make it as strong as you want. A thick black cup of coffee to greet the New Year. While everyone else is going to bed, you’ll be waiting for daylight, so many hours away.

While you look at the bench under the light, a sudden thump and rustle beside you makes you realize how alone you are here at night. Alone and vulnerable and almost too

tired to care. You barely move at the sight of something tumbling like a black sack of garbage down the concrete stairs from the street above. It stops beside you at the foot of the steps. It’s a young man. His face is chipped and bloodied from the fall. His head is backwards, looking at you from over his coat collar. There’s a spark in his eyes. Fear? Warning? Whatever it is, it’s fading fast.

You look up and see a shadow standing at the top of the stairs. A shadow wearing a heavy parka, the hood up and drawn tight looks down at you before it steps from view.

You look down again. There’s no spark left in the eyes of the man at your feet. Maybe it had never been there.

Thethingatyourfeetissuddenlynotworthyourattention. It has nothing to offer you. It didn’t bring coffee. It didn’t bring relief from this sleepless incomprehensible world you’re in. It might not even be real. You look at the park bench. The bench is real. You desperately want to sit there withyourhoodpulledupanddrawntightly.Justtenminutes.

But when you reach the bench, it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel safe. There’s something nearby that you don’t want near you. You’ll be better off at home. You shamble back toward the underpass, keeping your eyes on the river, away from the untidy bundle at the foot of the stairs.

You don’t look at the musicians either. You keep walking, draggingyourbadlegalongandmoaningsoftly.Ifyoucould only twist things in the right way it might pop back to where

it belongs. It might stop hurting. But it doesn’t.

You try to keep track of the music, to listen as you get further away and closer to home until the music fades far away, comes back lightly on a breeze like a distant siren and then is gone for good.

You’re back among people again. You’re the only one who’s alone. You feel like a ghost limping a few steps at a time and sometimes groaning among the living until you finallyreachyourstairs.Youdragyourselfupontotheporch, goodlegfirst,badlegdraggingbehinduntilyou’reinsidethe house. You lock the door and draw the quilted insulated curtain across the doorway. It’s safe to talk out loud to yourself now.

“Let’s get this coat off. There we go. That wasn’t so bad. How about those shoes? Come on, it won’t be so bad. Oh. No, no. It is bad. We can do this. Holy hell that hurts. So much. There we go. Now for some sweat pants. Oh. You’re already wearing them, aren’t you? Don’t you know only losers wear sweat pants in public? Get those slippers on, loser.Youwantsomecoffee?Ohyes,coffeewouldbelovely. Let’s ring in the New Year with a cup of coffee. Maybe we could whiskey it up a little. Yes, whiskey can be a verb. Don’t be pedantic, just make the damn coffee and whiskey it up. Let’s do this. Can you make it? Well, I guess I have to, don’t I? Then maybe we can sit. Maybe. If the old leg will bend.Yeah.Alittle coffee, a little whiskey, a little nap. It’s all

so far away.”

You forget whether it’s morning or evening. It’s dark out. It could be either. The clock on the stove says it’s three o’clock. It must be morning. Ray Bradbury wrote, “…three in the morn, full wide-eyed and staring, is living death!” Yeah, ol’Ray knew.

You grind the coffee beans and set up the coffee maker. While the coffee drips, you hum to match the pitch of the compressor of your old refrigerator. The harmonics clash when you change your pitch. It’s a small joy, but you take what you can get.You carry a coffee mug and a bottle of Jim Beam to the living room and set them on the table beside your easy chair. Then you drag yourself back for the coffee. You pour it into a thermos. You’re practically falling when you reach your chair again. You turn to sit, but your hip won’t bend. You start to crouch just a little, sweating while your hip grinds and pops until something breaks loose and dragsyougroaningtofinallysit.Youlaugh/sobatthesudden relief. The long walk has faded like a dream.

You’re finally able to reach over and pour your coffee. Only half a mug full, topped with whiskey. You breathe in the warm sweet aroma of evaporating whiskey. You take a long swallow and close your eyes. In an instant you’re back beside the river, looking up the stairs while the shadow above you limps and drags itself out of sight.

Michael Austin is a short story writer living in Madison, Wisconsin. He won the Eudora Welty Award for his collection of stories, “Under the Circumstances.” He is currently at work on a novel set in rural Wisconsin during Prohibition.

WAITING FOR COFFEE AS A MEASUREMENT OF TIME by Mike Austin

Forest of Lost Dreams

Sara Evelyne

Yesterday the mirror told me who I was, today I don’t agree the fracture of identity birthed seasons of change.

Change. Loss. Moving On. Transformation. Is that what lost dreams are? Where do they go — this collection of the hope of tomorrow?

the loss of self the loss of control and autonomy the transformation of power and voice the soft change of my story the new narratives, new beginnings, new desires. Does the new replace the old, smothering and stomping it down until it is no more?

Or does loss coexist with the love of today to forge a new

kind of dream?

I wish someone would tell me the answer, but then who would I be?

As wisps of dandelions crossing the sky, I, too, float through time. Some dreams go with me and some, like the dandelion seeds, float away to somewhere else. The dreams I hold in my heart my hand, my mind, and in my breath are mine to love, grieve, to transform, and to outgrow.

I just wish someone had told me sooner.

Sara Evelyne is a poet, researcher, and brain injury survivor. She writes to remind others to 'never forget how far you’ve come just by waking up today.' Sara’s poem “Written in the Stones” is forthcoming in Letting Grief Speak: Writing Portals for Life After Loss, a writing craft book by Columbia University Press. Connect with her at www.saraevelyne.com.

Loretta's Gift

Jennifer Smith

Loretta weaves baskets from willow, on a screened in porch at Lost Creek Church Camp; hands adorned inAppalachian artistry, not opals or pearls.

Fingers kindred with forest fibers, landscape sourcing the vessels deep; form and function entwined, designed in crisscross flair.

Loretta bakes in farmhouse kitchen, cinnamon swirls through sourdough raisin, suppleness sifts, palms knead dough, shaping loaves—and life.

Knowing that idleness lures devil's work, artisan fingertips form angel biscuits,

and pick blueberries ripened by summer to dot lemon scones.

When autumn comes, weathered hands tuck honey wheat bread inside a sunflower tea towel, nestling loaf into willow basket, with handcrafted recipe cards. for great niece Juniper.

Jennifer Susan Smith is a retired speech-language pathologist, residing in northwest Georgia. Her work appears in WELL READ Magazine, The Bluebird Word, San Antonio Review, First Literary Review East, and more. Jennifer is chairman of Alpha Delta Kappa Pages and Pearls Book Club, and is a member of Chattanooga Writer’s Guild. When not writing, she enjoys walking and audiobooks.

Loretta Fairley Here on this mountain

at such blue beauty I want for nothing

Loretta Fairley is a native of south Mississippi and has been writing since 1978. She has freelanced for various publications and has published two volumes of poetry at Amazon. In addition to writing, she enjoys reading, nature, photography and computers.

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

CLAIRE CONSIDERS

Journey by Diane Byington

Mia’s

“Mia's Journey” (Red Adept Publishing 2024) by Diane Byington is aboldly imagined, impeccably researched, well written and absorbing novel about a woman astronaut who must start over after a serious accident grounds her. It’s also a robust adventure tale of survival, with just the right hint of science fiction. Told in first person from Mia’s point of view, the story reveals a complex, riveting character in Mia, and the author rounds out the story well with other intriguing characters. There’s also a selfish, controlling villain to hiss at and a multifaceted mystic of a man who may or may not be a second villain—or at least a con man. When all is said and done, this is an engaging, engrossing book that works on so many levels and will entertain and educate.

Just weeks before Mia is set to go up into space for the first time on a prolonged mission, she is hit while walking in a crosswalk by an SUV. She suffers a shattered leg requiring surgery, plus a traumatic brain injury. Author Byington takes her readers through Mia’s difficult physical, mental, and emotional attempts at recovery with such personal— and authentic—descriptions as to pull them into the story and into Mia’s life. The intimacy with Mia that Byington captures in her writing is one of the great strengths of this tale of recovery and adventure.

Before her accident, Mia seemed to have everything that was important to her including a wonderful, rewarding marriage to Ramon, another astronaut, and a career that was going to allow her to fulfill her long-time dream of space travel. She and her mother are close, and she has engaging

work researching cultivating plants in outer space, she is in excellent health and is physically strong, and is an avid runner. All that changes in a moment when an SUV slams into her in the cross walk.

After the accident, Mia’s traumatic brain injury leaves her reasoning/analytical powers challenged and the once calm, reliable Mia is also more volatile emotionally. Despite surgery and rehab her leg has not regained full strength. It’s just a matter of time before such changes weigh heavily on her marriage and lead to her being grounded by the space program. Told she is no longer capable of being considered for space travel, Mia perceives betrayal by Ramon, and leaves him to flee home to her mother and childhood home in Florida. There she attempts to reestablish a dear, old friendship and to reconnect with her distant sister.

While many elements of the story lean toward what is often called “women’s fiction,” (as if men don’t struggle emotionally or have family issues!), soon the story takes on a vividly fashioned and boldly daring angle. It morphs creatively into an adventure story when Mia and her longtime female friend come under the spell of a mysterious man who seeks to communicate telepathically with other beings in space. He promises Mia that a private company will fund a trip into space with that goal in mind. Mia is desperate for another chance to travel in space and so takes risks she suspects she should not be taking. As Mia observes: “The whole thing was a weird, questionable enterprise from the start.”

It isn’t long before she, her friend, and their mysterious acquaintance are trapped in a prolonged, dangerous situation. One thing after another goes wrong, leading that threesome and four other people into an increasingly perilous snare that becomes life-or-death. Mia offers this analogy: “This feels like a horror movie, and soon, a monster will burst out of the basement and eat us, one by one, before we can get away.”

In short, they will all die trapped unless Mia can find a way out for all of them.

While devouring this novel, a reader might greedily read in a quest to find out “what happens next? But he or she might pause to also wonder: How does author Diane Byington know all this? This novel contains details of space travel, plant biology, attempts to connect with beings in other universes, telepathic communications, and the emotional and physical challenges of recovering from a traumatic brain injury. As it turns out, Byington explains how she knows these things in a long author’s note which is as compelling as her novel. Like Mia, Byington suffered a traumatic brain injury that led to her stepping down as a tenured university professor. Therefore, she knows of what she writes regarding Mia’s mental, physical, and emotional challenges.

In prepping for writing this novel, Byington also did extensive research into the varied scientific issues raised by her story as she was never an astronaut. She lists several of her sources for those who wish to learn more. Thus,

personal experience and a deep dive into reading, studying, and interviewing experts helped her create this marvelous gem of a novel. Yet, the magic ingredient that makes it all work so very well is Diane Byington’s vivid imagination. Her prior novels, “Who She Is,” “If She Had Stayed,” and “Louise andVincent” also demonstrate her imagination and ingenuity.

In the novel, Byington also raises many important concerns about space travel and attempt to communicate with other worlds. Her character Mia sagely observes, for example, that: “Because if there are other sentient beings out there, the odds of their being hostile are just as strong as them being friendly.”

All in all, this is a compelling, marvelous novel which will thoroughly entertain all the while expanding a reader’s knowledge of space travel, health, telepathic communication, and plant biology. And while there is no denying the “edge-of-your-seat” and page-turning quality, the real strength is Mia’s own journey in rebuilding her life.

Diane Byington is the author of several prior novels about strong women and has been a tenured college professor, yoga teacher, psychotherapist, and executive coach. She is an admirer of van Gogh and a painter herself. She lives in Colorado.

“I am a work in progress.”

Annie McDonnell asks Shawn Nocher

Shawn Nocher (pronounced “No-Shay”) is the author of the critically acclaimed novels A Hand to Hold in Deep Water and The Precious Jules. Her short stories and nonfiction articles have been published in SmokeLong Quarterly, Pithead Chapel, MoonPark Review, Writer’s Digest, and Electric Literature,amongothers.SheteachesintheMaster of Arts writing program at Johns Hopkins University, has given wings to two children, and lives with her husband and an assortment of sassy rescue animals in Baltimore, Maryland, where she writes in a room of her own.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

My husband brings me coffee in bed every morning and is such a loving and caring gesture—my favorite part of the day!

What is your greatest extravagance?

Definitely getting my nails done. I had a floral design business for twelve years before I sold my first book. My nails were always a hot mess and I was embarrassed about them—but there was nothing to be done. Floral arranging is messy, nail-breaking, and often dirty work with your hands in water and floral foam all day. I always told myself that if I ever closed my business I would start investing in my nails. It feels very extravagant to me but makes me happy!

On what occasion do you lie?

I only lie by omission. Seriously, I don’t outright lie but I might not fully share if I think the truth might hurt someone. I’m not one to fabricate a big story to cover my own tail but will try and stick close to the truth. Fabricating a lie only leads to complications. I learned this from my husband years ago when I tried to wiggle out of an event, if only because I was feeling overwhelmed, by saying I had to go out of town. My husband warned me it would catch up with me—and it did. The couple I lied to later ran into my mother and wanted to know how my trip went. I should have simply said I couldn’t make the event for personal reasons. Next thing I know I’m fabricating a lie to cover my lie—and, well, it didn’t end well. So, I vowed to never do that again. I have an inventive nature and love weaving an outrageous tale, but now I save it for my fiction!

What is the quality you most like in a person?

An openness to new ideas. To me, that indicates a willingness to change and evolve.

What or who is the greatest love of your life?

I met my husband when I was seventeen and we’ve been married for forty-two years. But longevity doesn’t necessarily make a marriage a good one. We’ve had our rough patches—children, finances, health scares, losses— but always we come out the other side feeling like together we can conquer anything. Ours is a relationship that

empowers rather than drains. I’m lucky and I know it but a lot of this is just that—luck. Sometimes I think it also boils down to the fact that we trust one another to have our best interests at heart. I couldn’t ask for more.

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

I’d be taller. That way my weight would be more appropriate for my height.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?

That’s a hard one. My head (and my heart) go right to my children—both of them adults now with their own families, but at the same time I realize that who they are probably has nothing to do with me. I made a lot of mistakes, and they turned out to be happy healthy adults in spite of me. So, really, I can’t claim them as an achievement!That said, I am so proud of my first novel if only because it took me nearly twenty years to write. I had no idea how to write a novel, only felt a scalding story inside of me. I stuck with it through dozens of rewrites and finally, in my 50s, went back to get a masters in fiction writing. When I finally sold it, I couldn’t help but sit back and think “Oh, so THIS is what it feels like to believe in myself and be willing to do the work.

If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing,

what would it be?

I can’t even imagine. I would just say to the universe, surprise me!

Where would you most like to live?

Right where I am. I’ve thought about this a lot. But my network of friends and family are also the greatest joy in my life and so long as they’re here, so am I. Travel satisfies my wanderlust but it’s always good to be home.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

I co-founded an organization that supports families of those who have lost a child to Substance Use Disorder or are struggling with a child in addiction or early recovery. www. loveinthetrenches.org. Having been through this awful disease with one of my own children (now in recovery for ten-plus years) I can confidently say that addiction is the worst hell I’ve ever known or been witness to. The collateral damage to families is gut-wrenching. The shame and secrecy, the anger and the blame are so destructive. I urge anyone who is going through this to reach out for help and support. Getting through this requires the love and support of others who have been through it.

What is your motto?

I am a work in progress. This motto also allows me to say, “lesson learned” and forgive myself when I make a

mistake, and it leaves me open to change. It’s a win-win when it comes to moving forward in a healthy way in my life.

"A devastating family drama driven by engrossing and believable characters. " --Kirkus Reviews

A Hand to Hold in Deep Water

Shawn Nocher

TripLit

“Marching On Together”

It was a windy and wet day in Leeds, England and the first stanza of “Marching On Together,” was running on a continuous loop in my head: Here we go with Leeds United, We're gonna give the boys a hand, Stand up and sing for Leeds united, They are the greatest in the land.

For those unfamiliar with this catchy little tune, it’s the anthem for Leeds United Football Club. And if you’re totally unfamiliar with Leeds, its rich football history and not so wholesome reputation, watch the movie, The Damned United. You will shed a tear, but hopefully you will get a taste for what the club and their fans have gone through. Why loyalty means and matters. Follow the movie up with the series, Take Us Home: Leeds United (20192020). Even recently, I’ve heard the team referred to as “Dirty Leeds,” a lingering sentiment from their glory days. I’m not sure I agree today with this moniker, but at one juncture from their past, the name held some merit.

I inherited the Leeds’s addiction through marriage. My hubby, Nick, a Brummie (born in Birmingham, England and notAlabama, though my family fondly nicknamed him the English Redneck), is Leeds through and through and has been a massive fan since childhood. He’s fifty-six. If you need a frame of reference, think George R. R. Martin’s Game of Thrones series where he depicts his characters

from “The North '' as fiercely loyal. I’m pretty sure Leeds’s fans were his inspiration.There’s no words to describe what it’s like to attend a game at Elland Road. I won’t even attempt it.

Dawn Major & hubby Nick Cook at the Leeds United Game

Now, if you’re wondering if this piece is about an English football team, I’m wondering the same. I’m fairly certain something literary will develop soon if you stick with me. You see I’m what writers refer to as a pantser which means when my muse begins whispering word magic into my ears I start typing what she has gifted me

until the volume gets softer and softer, the words and sentences eventually becoming inaudible and that’s it for the day. Not! The whispering commences a few hours later because my muse is an attention whore. Absolutely relentless. I don’t know if I sold my soul to her or vice versa, but we sort of battle throughout the evening with me pondering a word choice, a character, or worrying over her shunning me before a deadline because I did something silly like called her an attention whore. Largely, I try to placate her until the following morning. You never quite know what you’re going to get from day to day, where you will land. That said with all this football talk, I have managed to say something writerly. But it’s simply impossible to write about the literary sides of Leeds without commenting on the giant who resides there. So…

It was the morning after the last match and Nick was sick as a dog. Truthfully, he was sick on the night of the match, but like I said…fiercely loyal. He wasn’t going to miss the match even if he had coughed up both lungs. Plus, ten of his mates from Leeds United America had traveled there and were sharing a box. Big doings. Two days into the future Nick landed at the Linda McCartney Centre in Liverpool where he underwent breathing treatments and came close to being admitted to the hospital. Sidenote: The NHS rocks. Imagine getting care that isn’t monetized. We paid nothing and the medical staff were so compassionate. That’s a

different hobby horse and I haven’t even touched on literary Leeds like I promised.

So, I wasn’t sick (yet), which meant I had an entire day to explore Leeds by myself. And me being me, I wanted to investigate the city’s literary attractions. Of course, it was spitting rain and damn cold; staying out of the elements was key. The restored Victorian and Edwardian shopping arcades offered me much needed shelter from the weather.

I’m sure I looked like a lost tourist ambling through the arcades staring at the ceilings. The Yorkshire dales are breathtaking, but if you’re looking for urban beauty, Leeds city center is spectacular. The arcades vary from farmer’s markets with local vendors to luxury shopping, but each possess their own charm, and merge the past with the present. And guess what? I found my “literary destination” at Thorton’sArcade. Three stories up amongst a glass roof and lancet windows I discovered The Thorton’s Arcade: Clockmakers: Potts & Sons / Sculptor: John Wormald Appleyard

Ivanhoe Clock. It’s absolutely exquisite, featuring four lifesize characters from Sir Walter Scott’s novel, Ivanhoe. From left to right: Robin Hood in green, Friar Tuck in black, Richard the Lionheart in red, and Gurth the Swineherd in khaki. I have a thing for cuckoo clocks and bells, so the Ivanhoe clock was a delight to experience.

After discovering the Ivanhoe clock, I wanted to see what other literary curiosities Leeds might render. It was still raining; I was still staring into the sky. That’s what it’s like visiting Europe. With all the cathedrals and magnificent architecture, you constantly walk with your head in the clouds. I’m glad I did because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have seen three glorious words carved into a building above some shops: The Leeds Library. Go ahead and add an inflection to the “the” prior to “Leeds Library.” This library without doubt deserves an extra umph.

There was a woman with a child hovering under the enclosure to the entrance. I tucked in right behind them and overheard the receptionist saying, “Sorry, this is a private members-only library and not really a children’s library.” She did, however, provide the option of a quick look-about. The woman was a little put off; I was also confused. My mind was doing the math: Little girl loves books (had one in her hand actually) + Little girl standing before the doors of a library = LET LITTLE GIRL IN IN. But no, nope. They opted to continue on their way foregoing the mini

tour. And once I had finagled my way in, I understood the receptionist wasn’t being unkind. It wasn’t the right place for children.

So, how was I to get into this VIPlibrary without being a member? Because now after hearing “private” and “members only,” I desperately wanted to see what mysteries dwelled behind those double doors. I waited a couple of minutes, long enough for the woman and the child to be out of earshot, and I did what any red-blooded American does when they want something.

“Hi, I’m an American. I don’t have a membership, but I write a column about literary destinations, and I was interested in doing a piece about your library. I was wondering if I could just pop in for about fifteen minutes.”

Pulling the American card had some risks, but there was no getting out of my Yankee accent. Maybe after WWII, it would have gone off without a hitch. And to my Southern friends reading this, I know. I know I’m not a Yankee. But over the pond, they don’t make distinctions between our North and Street Level entrance to The Leeds Library

South (they certainly do with their geography), so I got called Yank or Yankee a bunch of times. The point is, I was hoping the American bit would indicate my dedication since after all I had traveled some distance to be outside the library’s doors. Truth. I came for the football. But no one had to know that.And why would aYank be going to watch Leeds United play anyway?

If the American tourist card failed, then surely the part about “writing a column about literary destinations” and being “interested in doing a piece about your library” angle would secure my way in. Plus, I promised fifteen minutes. Promises, promises. I didn’t overstay my welcome, but I lingered beyond those fifteen minutes.

I must admit something before I go any further. The literary destination column was a teeny fib. I had conversations with WELL READ Magazine’s editor, Mandy Haynes, about writing a column, but I hadn’t pitched “TripLit With D. Major” to her. I didn’t even have a title for the column. Yeah, maybe I stretched the truth while I sat outside those locked library doors, but after hearing myself say out loud: “I write a column about literary destinations,” I knew it would happen; I was simply making the universe aware.

She buzzed me in! I had the same sensation from my younger years when the girls and I hit the clubs somewhat wearing clothes and breezing past folks waiting behind two

stanchions with a red velvet rope between them and a doorman. Ohhh…I was giddy with expectation. Wow. If a fancy rope and a bouncer were blocking the entrance to anything I deemed worthy of my time, I’d turn promptly around. I’m shaking my head whilst typing this.

The Leeds Library didn’t disappoint. It’s a hidden gem concealed in a Neoclassical Georgian building off Commercial Street in the city center. From street level you walk through the atrium past glass display cases.Awinding Georgian staircase with a domed ceiling lightens your climb as you past by busts of prominent early members.At the top of the stairs, you encounter more doors—unlocked this time—and from there you enter the main room where

you are hit by the most enchanting fragrance, thousands of books. Heavy dark wooden bookshelves, tables, and chairs abound. The counter dates back to 1821 though it was later extended. Spiral staircases lead from the main room up to the East and West galleries. Finely crafted, ornate wrought iron balustrades surround the balconies overlooking the main room and of course the provide more floor-to-ceiling books. Large windows afford the perfect amount of natural light.

I would gladly while away a dreary Yorkshire day lounging on a window bench while reading. And my muse was going berserk when she spied the multiple writing

Spiral Staircase in Main Room

nooks tucked away under the gallery balconies and secreted between bookshelves.

The library was expanded in the 1800s and adjacent to the main room is “The New Room,” ironically still referred to by that name even today at its tender age of 140 years old.There are only two entrances from the main room to the new room and I sort of stumbled upon those entryways while traveling through the maze of bookshelves.

Entrance between Main Room and New Room

The New Room

Reading/Writing Nook in the New Room

One of multiple writing areas

The staff were ever so friendly. I must say that Yorkshire people are often misunderstood, mistakenly stereotyped as a tad gruff. I didn’t have that experience at all. When I inquired about buying a signed, limited edition, watercolor print of the main room, I never considered haggling. I was happy to pay the asking price even though there was a smudge or two from it being the last print and from being on display. I mean the funds go to support this incredible institution which by the way is 255 years old and the longest surviving and oldest subscription library in the U.K. If you're scratching your head about what a subscription library is, think of it in terms of being member-owned. There is a fee, but it's nominal. In any case, by the time I was handing over my credit card, the librarian had lowered the price three times. It’s probably a good thing I got a great deal with the cost of framing. It hangs in my own writing space, and I cherish it. She also gave me a complimentary book on the history of the library (Beckwith, Frank, The Leeds Library 1768-1968, The Leeds Library, 1994.). Any of the historical information I’ve mentioned in this piece I found in this book or on The Leeds Library’s website. I so wanted to join that day, but at the most we might return every two years to Leeds.And sometimes, Nick goes on his own for a boy’s trip. I didn’t inquire about membership, even though my muse had already set up shop in a writing nook and was refusing to leave.

But here's the thing: remote access. It was the only way I was going to wrangle my muse out the library. You won’t get all the in-person perks members receive like author events, art exhibitions, book chat, book club, craft club, film club, and writing groups—but online material may be accessed remotely and it’s extensive.

The online catalogue has approximately 140,000 tiles as well as over sixty magazines, daily newspapers, audio books, CDs, and DVDs.Their PressReader service includes more than 6,000 newspapers and journals. Drama Online offers collections from the National Theatre, The Globe Theatre, Royal Shakespeare Company, and LA Theatre

Print of the main room in The Leeds Library

Works. Academy courses are offered via The Idler. They have a podcast called “Tales from the Leeds Library.” I seriously doubt you would be able to take advantage of postal loan services unless you lived in the U.K. No bother. So, after you’ve worked your way through your assigned Leeds United Football watchlist, booked your airline ticket, somehow obtained a much coveted Leeds United gameday ticket…wait not a fan yet? If after all that you’re still not convinced about the football and you still find yourself in Leeds one day, I hope I’ve presented some alternatives to get out of the cold and damp weather. And if you’re book fiend and librarian aficionado, do schedule a tour of the Leeds Library in advance. I found out after the fact that they offer tours, so the whole VIP fantasy from before and even my fib weren’t necessary if I had booked ahead of time. How was I to know? I wonder how many locals know about this little beauty. Its location is totally obscured by the shops below it and easily overlooked. Though no one was pushing me out the door, my time was up. I had already made a blood oath to my muse to move to Leeds and I needed to get back to poor Nick and inform him we would be putting our home inAtlanta on the market and setting up residency near The Leeds Library. And can you already guess it? What happened within moments of leaving paradise? No sooner had I hit the pavement and “Marching On Together” returned.

Something in the air, I swear. I will say that this time the words meant a little more to me. That song isn’t just about the football or the team. It’s about loyalty, it’s about pride for the city of Leeds and its people. And hell yeah! I love Leeds, too. Perhaps, I was a little high off all those books and the blood sacrifice to my muse, but on my way back to my ailing husband I may have sung the last stanza out loud: Everyday, we're all gonna say, We love you Leeds! Leeds! Leeds! Everywhere, we're gonna be there, We, love you Leeds! Leeds! Leeds! And I meant every word. Some items of interest that I learned after the fact: The library comes with a ghost at no extra cost. The librarian had mentioned their ghost while I was paid for commemorative ink pens and my lovely print. The sixth librarian, Mr. Vicent Thomas Sternberg, passed away in 1880, but his spirits was later seen entering the gentleman’s lavatory. Here’s the thing, the librarian didn’t tell me the full story. I read about it much later on their website. But for some odd reason I captured an image of the lavatory. Mmmhmm….

Gentleman’s Lavatory and last sighting of the librarian ghost, Mr. Vicent Thomas Sternberg

For Moby Dick fans, the first edition of Heman Melville’sTheWhale (1851), better known toAmericansas Moby Dick resides at the library. Melville decided to change the title at the last minute so only five hundred copies of the English edition were published and were released in three volumes. A brilliant idea in my opinion since I still experience residual trauma after reading Moby Dick. I shouldn’t admit this, but with only fifteen pages left, I quit reading that damn book just to spite it. That was back in the day when I would only read one book at a time before starting a new one, so I rather resented Melville at the time. And hey, if you want to learn more about The Leeds Library, visit their site at: The Leeds Library - Homepage | The Leeds Library

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.

Authors’

I’m looking for Authors Interviewing Authors and would love to shine a spotlight on your favorite Independent Bookstores, Book Sellers, Libraries, and Librarians.

A monthly column that takes us off the page and into the life of

If living in this new millennium has taught us anything, it is that things don’t always go as planned, and thus it was with this month’s column. I was all set to share with you the story about that time I got sued by Metallica. Yes, that Metallica. It was to be a tale of misunderstandings, and something called Napster, and a young teenaged boy who was headstrong like his mama, and a hapless dad who kept saying that someone was going to want to get paid, and by golly he was right. Anyway, I was all set to send this humorous story of woe to Mandy when she informed me that she wanted to go in a different direction.

Mandy: Let’s run another chapter from your new book!

Ray: Well, I don’t know…

Mandy: Our readers loved it and want more!

Ray: But I’ve got this great Metallica essay…

Mandy: You know, that’s a good-looking Republican cat you’ve got there. It would be a shame if something happened to him…

*Note from the editor: Ray’s only joking a little bit. After last month’s column I had to have another chapter and from the responses from you - the readers - I think y’all feel the same. So turn the page for another great read!

The image above is proof that Republican Cat is safe and sound.

Horace

I knew Horace was going to die when I dreamed about the wedding. Mama had always told us that dreaming about a wedding foretold someone dying, and that telling about the dream before breakfast would surely make the tragedy come true. It was a just a silly country superstition, to be sure, but she was right as rain when it came to my husband. And to herself, for that matter, which kind of makes me wonder sometimes when I ponder on it. The night before she died, she dreamed of a beautiful wedding in a faraway land, although why she spoke about that dream the next morning while I was frying the eggs I've never been able to fathom. She forgot herself, I suppose, due to her fever, and sure enough, she was laying a corpse that very evening, leaving me with no mama and with a brother to cook for in the bargain.

But I didn't tell a living soul about the wedding dream I had until this very day, never mind before breakfast back then.And I might just as well have painted the news on the side of the barn for all the good it did to keep silent. To be

frank, I'm not exactly sure that anything we mortals do—or don’t do—has much to bear on the good Lord's fancies, anyway. So for whatever reason, Horace died. He was killed by a German boy, I guess, although I never knew the long of it, because the letter I received was a little scarce of details. I've kept that letter, and I fold it out and read it from time to time, even though I can recite it like my alphabet without even looking.

"Dear Mrs. Brown," it began, and it was a neat hand for a man's writing. "It is my sad duty to inform you of the death of your husband, Private Horice Brown. He met his end bravely while engaging the enemy. Please accept my heartfelt sympathy over this terrible loss." It still makes me blue after all this time when I consider on it, but sorrow is a part of living just like the rest of it— maybe the biggest part—and I've learned that it does not do to dwell on the sadness. The words from the captain were kind, considering the circumstances, and I never held it against him that he spelled Horace's name with an i instead of an a. I supposed that he had the hard chore of writing to more young wives and crying mamas than he could remember, and that the burden was as heavy on him as a trace chain. The letter was a trifle short, as I have said, but then, there just wasn't that much more to be said, anyhow, once the sad news had been broken to me.

Preacher Bob White told me at the memorial we had for

my husband that the good Lord needed Horace in Heaven and that was where He was going to have him, and there wasn't much that I could do about that, like it or not. Preacher White was the pastor over at Will's Chapel, and I never cared much for him or his church, although I am not the one who burned it down, no matter what you might have heard to the contrary. He knew his Bible, which was mostly to his credit, and I have always believed in giving praise where it was warranted. But he was harsh when he was dealing with his flock, even when a gentle word was in order, and even though it wouldn't have cost him a red cent to use one. He was a short man who had not missed too many meals, and he was generally in a full sweat even in the dead of winter, which always led me to wonder what had him so heated up.

"For dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return," he said, while he laid his hands on me for solace, although I was not sure whether it was my comfort or his that he was trying to accommodate. But the words were the divine truth regardless of the messenger, and they didn't need interpretation, which is not always the case with Scripture. We each owe one death, and it was Horace’s time to pay. The old Reaper will come for us all, and well I know it now, but it didn't make it any kinder for me to bear back then, eighteen and a widow, alone in the world and not quite knowing where my next plate of food was coming from.

I wonder sometimes if I'll be a young girl again when I see Horace away beyond the clouds, or if he'll be decrepit like me, or if I’ll be an old woman and him just a boy of twenty. But I don't suppose it matters much either way, because see him I will, and he is still my husband even though death did us part. It may not be entirely Christian of me, but I hope I don't encounter Preacher White at all when I make my journey, and if only half of what all I heard he got up to while he was alive proved true, then it's not likely that I will be seeing him on the business end of the pearly gates, preacher or no. But that is for the good Lord to decide, not me, and if He wants my opinion, I suppose He'll ask for it.

I can still see Horace standing there at the train depot, young and handsome, trying to be brave in his soldier suit. I couldn't look at him long, to my shame, because I didn't want him to see me cry. But I bawled just the same, and I always hoped that the thought of me being upset at his leaving wasn't what got him killed. This was a foolish idea, but it seems like those kind pop into your head easier than the other variety, and I expect I was entitled, anyway, seeing what all I was going through at the moment.

"Take care of yourself, Girl," he hollered as the steam whistle blew and the train began to pull away. He always called me Girl instead of Ruby, and he always spoke with kindness and affection.

"I love you, Horace!" I cried as I ran down the platform beside him. He smiled and blew me a kiss, and I could see that he was about to cry, too.

"Take care of Mama," he yelled as the train picked up speed.

Well, I promised him then that I would, because he was going off to war and he needed to think that all the folks at home were going to be all right. I don't make vows lightly, as a general rule, and once a promise is made, I try to honor it. So even though Horace's mama was a difficult woman, to put it kindly, I mostly managed to look after her like Horace wanted. At least, I did until the day I knocked her out of her rocking chair and hastened her departure to the promised land, but that was not necessarily my fault and is a whole other story, besides, and right now I want to get back to Horace.

It was the last time I saw him alive or dead, and he has lain cold in his grave somewhere in France for endless years with no one tending to him, unless some good-hearted Frenchman took on the toil, which isn't likely, although poor Horace gave all he had to give for those folk, and someone ought to have kept the weeds pulled off him.

He was twenty years old and had been my husband for two years. I was a slip of a girl at the time, no bigger than a penny, and I was with a child but didn't know it, being that I was fairly ignorant for a married woman. Mama had

passed on, and Horace's mama never quite took to me—or to anyone else, much, that I could tell—so I didn't have a soul to talk to about female problems, and that kind of business wasn't addressed much in the books of the time, and there weren't that many books around, anyhow. So a little one was on the way—a boy, as it turned out—but Horace never knew, and I know he would have been proud. He wanted an armload of children, and I was determined that he would have them, no matter how much of that wifely business I had to put up with to get them here.

But the good Lord moves in strange and mysterious ways, which is surely a fact and not for the likes of me to figure. So I received back the letter I wrote to Horace when I found out that his seed had planted, and got back more of my letters besides, because he was already gone. He only lasted in those trenches a short while before the bell tolled, and I hope he wasn't alone when his time rolled around. He was a gentle boy who deserved better than he got, but that can be said of a lot of folks, and Mr. Woodrow Wilson and General Black Jack Pershing should have left him home safe with me. But should have never did, and it has been a source of misery to me that he never knew about his sweet baby.

I've heard it said that time heals all wounds, but that has not been my experience. The passing of the years dulls the ache a touch, but the cut has been over eighty years in the

mending, and I don't think it will ever scar over if it hasn't by now.

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.

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 in Atlanta, GA with her family. The Bystanders, Major’s debut novel, just won finalist for 2024 GeorgiaAuthor of the Year for Best First 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.

Junebug Fischer by

Mandy Haynes

Junebug Fischer will be ninety-six come June. She's ready to set the record straight and let you know what really happened the summer she turned fifteen. It’s true, she killed someone, but she never killed nobody on purpose. That was purely accidental.

“I don’t know what caused me to shoot the arrow. I didn’t think about it. I just did it. Was it fear or was it pride?”

5.0 out of 5 stars One of the most compelling story/book writers in America.

“Outstanding book. Intelligent, and yet creative, in the best sense of the word. The story/book keeps you engaged right up until the final page. Great, great book!!!”

5.0 out of 5 stars Will leave you wanting more!

“Junebug Fischer is the kind of strong, feisty young lady hero we love, and Mandy's writing of her story draws you in from the start. You'll feel like you're sitting on that porch with her, and I guarantee you'll want more. Her characters come to life in all of her stories, and I recommend you read everything Mandy has written, and will write! You won't be disappointed.”

5.0 out of 5 stars A Southern Voice to Remember

“There's an echo of 'To Kill a Mockingbird' in the voice of the central character here, and I mean that as a high compliment. You'll like her after the first two sentences and root for her the rest of this short but powerful book. I don't want to give anything away. Buy it and read for yourself. 5 stars.”