WELL READ Magazine December 2023 by three dogs write press

You Belong Here Now by Dianna Rostad "It's so hard to believe that this is a debut novel! It's an historic novel. Talk about hitting me on so many good points." John Busbee, The Culture Buzz, weekly on www.KFMG.org "Set against the harsh backdrop of Montana, You Belong Here Now is a novel as straightforward and powerful as the characters who populate it. I love this book, and I guarantee you won't find a finer debut work anywhere." -- William Kent Krueger, New York Times bestselling author of This Tender Land "You Belong Here Now distills the essence of the American spirit in this uplifting story. Perfect for book clubs looking to discuss the true meaning of family." -- Kathleen Grissom, New York Times bestselling author of The Kitchen House In this brilliant debut reminiscent of William Kent Krueger's This Tender Land and Lisa Wingate's Before We Were Yours, three orphans journey westward from New York City to the Big Sky Country of Montana, hoping for a better life where beautiful wild horses roam free. Montana 1925: Three brave kids from New York board the orphan train headed west. An Irish boy who lost his whole family to Spanish flu, a tiny girl who won't talk, and a volatile young man who desperately needs to escape Hell's Kitchen. They are paraded on platforms across the Midwest to workworn folks and journey countless miles, racing the sun westward. Before they reach the last rejection and stop, the kids come up with a daring plan, and they set off toward the

Yellowstone River and grassy mountains where the wild horses roam. Fate guides them toward the ranch of a family stricken by loss. Broken and unable to outrun their pasts in New York, the family must do the unthinkable in order to save them. Nara, the daughter of a successful cattleman, has grown into a brusque spinster who refuses the kids on sight. She's worked hard to gain her father's respect and hopes to run their operation, but if the kids stay, she'll be stuck in the kitchen. Nara works them without mercy, hoping they'll run off, but they buck up and show spirit, and though Nara will never be motherly, she begins to take to them. So, when Charles is jailed for freeing wild horses that were rounded up for slaughter, and an abusive mother from New York shows up to take the youngest, Nara does the unthinkable, risking everything she holds dear to change their lives forever. "From the moment the reader steps on the train with these orphaned children, You Belong Here Now shows how beauty can emerge from even the darkest places." --Erika Robuck, national bestselling author of Hemingway's Girl "Rostad's bighearted debut is full of surprises, and warm with wisdom about what it means to be family." -Meg Waite Clayton, New York Times bestselling author of The Last Train to London

Set List: A Novel by Raymond L. Atkins SET LIST begins in 1970, when Blanchard Shankles and John Covey come together and start making music in a rock and roll band named Skyye. They were two young men from Sequoyah, Georgia, with limited prospects and big dreams, who were joined in their quest for fame and fortune by their friends Ford Man Cooper, Chicken Raines, Jimbo Tant, Tucker McFry, and Simpson Taggart. These fledgling musicians set out upon a musical voyage that spanned four decades, fifty states, and uncounted miles as they pursued the elusive success that was always just one song ahead of them. Along the way the band played bars and clubs, carnivals and dances, dives and festivals, and together through good times and bad, sickness and health, romance, marriage, divorce, birth, and death, they each built two lives: the one out under the lights that they were drawn to like moths to a flame, and the one they came back to when the music stopped and the crowds went home. The story alternates between present-day North Georgia and the 1970s and is the story of a bar band as told primarily through the eyes of its lead guitar player, Blanchard Shankles, and its bass player, John Covey. Each chapter is built around an original song in the band's repertoire plus an iconic song from the archives of rock and roll, and together these songs and these chapters form the set list of the band members' lives. “After reading CAMP REDEMPTION and SWEETWATER BLUES, I became a serious fan of Raymond Atkins's writings. With his latest novel, SET LIST, I may have just become his biggest fan. The novel and its main character are more than a little identifiable to me

personally. Blanchard Shankles is a sixty-year-old, life-long guitar player who has played in bands for over forty-five years. Now the rough life of a rock and roll musician is catching up with him, landing him in the hospital with serious heart problems and forcing him to look closer than ever into the deepest recesses of his own life. Atkins titles each chapter after a rock song, usually the songs that most of us players of that same age have performed countless times, from "Free Bird" to "Crazy Mama," "Lucky Man," and "Heart of Glass." The conversations and nostalgic memories discussed by Blanchard, and his songwriting partner John Covey, ignite a fire within those of us who recall the music with love and happiness. One side note that I found absolutely cool was Atkins including actual, complete lyrics of many songs penned by Shankles and Covey. SET LIST is an honest, wellwritten novel for anyone who longs for the days of Grand Funk Railroad, Black Sabbath, or the James Gang--a story of life, love, mortality, and music--a true rock and roll dream.” --Michael Buffalo Smith, author of FROM MACON TO JACKSONVILLE Raymond L. Atkins resides in Rome, Georgia, where he is an instructor of English at Georgia Northwestern Technical College. He lives on the banks of the Etowah River in an old house with a patient wife and a fat dog. 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 by Medallion Press in 2008 and was awarded the Georgia Author of the Year Award for First Novel. His second novel, Sorrow Wood, was published by Medallion Press in 2009. His third novel, Camp Redemption, was released by Mercer University Press in 2013 and was awarded the Ferrol Sams Award for Fiction and the 2014 Georgia Author of the Year Award for Fiction. His fourth novel, Sweetwater Blues, was a Townsend Prize nominee and 2015 Georgia Author of the Year runner-up for fiction. South of the Etowah, his first creative nonfiction book, was released on March 1, 2016. 6

WELL READ MAGAZINE

HELLO READERS!

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Nominations for the 2023 Pushcart Prize

What are you reading? TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

WHY YOU SHOULD ADVERTISE IN WELL READ

INSIDE VOICES 47 Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Silas House and Jason Kyle Howard WELL DONE! PROSE, POETRY, AND ART

A FEW HOURS IN THE LIFE OF A FIVE-YEAR-OLD POOL PLAYER by Francine Rodriguez 63 NEUTRAL GROUND by Tania Nyman

THE STORM by Jacob Parker

THERE WERE RED FLAGS by Mike Turner

AUTUMN’S LAST LAMENT by Ashley Tunnell

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ANOTHER VIEW: JUDAS SEASON by B.A. Brittingham

109

SUMMER OF HAM by Mickey Dubrow

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BAD KITTY by George Pallas

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AN AMAZONIAN PHOTO SAFARI by Orlando DeVito

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WHO’S BLACK AND WHITE AND RED ALL OVER? by Ken Gosse

143

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

147

ANNIE ASKS Her Favorites Through The Years

151

LAGNIAPPE A LABOR OF LOVE by Renea Winchester

159

NETWORKING

171

WHAT’S YOUR STORY?

177

OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

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LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

DECEMBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 17

NOMIN for

2023 Pushcart the Small Pr

NATIONS the

t Prize: Best of resses series

Nominations for the 2023 Pushcart Prize

WELL READ Magazine is honored to announce the nominations for the 2023 Pushcart Prize: Best of the Small Presses series, the prize chosen by Pushcart Press that anthologizes the best of the small presses publishing this year. There were so many fantastic submissions this year, and I was proud to publish them all. Thank you all for your submissions!

Congratulations to all the nominees!

Fiction: A BLEEDING HEART by Ann Hite A HARD DOG by Will Maguire SLEEPING ON PAUL'S MATTRESS by Brenda Sutton Rose

WELL READ MAGAZINE

Nominations for the 2023 Pushcart Prize

Non-fiction: A FEW HOURS IN THE LIFE OF A FIVEYEAR-OLD POOL PLAYER by Francine Rodriguez MILLER'S CAFE by Mike Hilbig

Poetry: THERE WERE RED FLAGS by Mike Turner

DECEMBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 17

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BETWEEN THE PAGES - INTERVIEWS, READINGS, AND MORE

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The Treasure of Moonlight Ridge (The Moonlight Ridge Series Book 3) by Ramey Channell When winter weather up on the mountain went from unusually cold to undeniably arctic, and a surprising stranger appeared at the door, Lily Claire Nash and her cousin, Willie T. Nock, found themselves knee deep in chilling circumstances beyond anything the two young sleuths had ever imagined. But Lily Claire and Willie T. never turned away from a challenging adventure or a puzzling mystery. So that’s how they ended up searching for treasure on Moonlight Ridge. “If J.M. Barrie’s Neverland were in Alabama, it would be located right in the middle of Ramey Channell’s Moonlight Ridge. The Ridge may be a place of the mind, but in Channell’s skillful hands it becomes a symbol of that era that once existed in rural America, or the era that we would like to believe existed. Precocious protagonists, Lily C. Nash and Willie T. Nock, find themselves embroiled in a bizarre kidnapping and a wild treasure hunt while being pursued by a trio of off-beat criminals. A delightful read even for cynical old men like me.” — Mike Burrell, author, The Land of Grace

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Liberty Biscuit by Melanie Sue Bowles Does a family mystery stand in the way of saving Kip's best friend? Katherine Pearl Baker--"Kip" for short--is the only child on her family's rural peach farm. She longs for a pet to ease the loneliness. Unfortunately, her father has an angry opposition to all animals--horses in particular. Why he dislikes them is a confounding mystery. Hiding in the woods on the Fourth of July, Kip encounters a bedraggled donkey with one eye and a floppy ear. Immediately smitten and compelled to protect him, she feeds him biscuits and takes him home. When it is discovered the donkey fled an abusive owner, Kip's father finally relents, reluctantly allowing him to stay. Kip is elated when her grandfather agrees to help her foster the donkey, who she names "Liberty Biscuit," along with two emaciated horses removed by the local sheriff from the same home, as the cruelty case goes to court. While caring for the animals, Kip's happiness is overshadowed by a shocking discovery in a trunk in the family farm's hayloft--a faded photograph of her father as a boy that reveals secrets long kept. A court order to return the horses, and even worse, Kip's beloved Liberty Biscuit, to the owner who had starved and beaten them, throws Kip's world into turmoil. She knows she must find a way to keep them, or she will have betrayed the best friend she has ever had. But saving the animals means risking the complete unraveling of her family as she exposes the long-buried truth about a tragic accident and a hurt like she's never known before.

DECEMBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 17

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The Word Dancer: An Appalachian Tale by Stephanie Edwards Maribelle Saunders leaves her comfortable life in Nashville for a rough existence in 1960s Appalachia. Her dream is to teach deaf children American Sign Language (ASL) as well as how to read and write, helping them communicate with their families and prepare for school. She doesn't expect to fall head over heels for Sam, the kind mechanic, or that Jeremy, the town preacher, will become obsessed with her. As she fights to find her place in the small mountain community, she faces the challenges of being a new teacher, the townspeople's skepticism, and the deadly fallout from an unrequited love. Will she survive? “…THE WORD DANCER, with all its colors of humanity, tells a story of the heartwarming, the mysterious, suspenseful, and the romantic, and sings its tune of hope and healing through the harshest of realities we would expect from a Southern narrative where culture and tradition run deep.” Five Star Reader Review

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Greetings from Lavender Valley (Sisters of the Heart Book 1) by Tammy L. Grace This is a free first book in a six-book women's fiction series! Six women. Four decades. One long, unexpected reunion. Jewel Austin is a foster mother to dozens, but forms a special bond with five foster girls she welcomed under her roof long ago. Through handwritten letters, Jewel keeps in touch with these women she nurtured to adulthood. Now in her eighties, Jewel’s time is short, and her last letter spells out an unusual request. The five women have never met but Jewel’s last wish is for them to return to Lavender Valley Farm together, back to the refuge where they once found the love and support they craved. Jewel has a keen sense of knowing their needs before they do and she knows they are going to need their sisters of the heart. Life’s been hard, but facing the inevitable loss of the only parental figure you’ve known can be harder. Will the five women be able to overcome the obstacles that stand in their way of granting the beloved matriarch of their family her last wish? Get to know each of the women through Jewel’s own letters in GREETINGS FROM LAVENDER VALLEY, the first book and prequel in the Sisters of the Heart Series. Fans of heartwarming, feel-good women’s fiction like those by Debbie Macomber or Sheila Roberts will devour this series by USA Today bestselling author, Tammy L. Grace.

DECEMBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 17

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A Woman's Story by Francine Rodriguez The stories of these Latina women's lives depict conflict in gender bias, experiences of exploitation, violence, and powerlessness, sometimes resulting in pain and despair in their turbulent world. But these stories also tell of these women's celebration of life itself that empowers them and gives them the will to sustain. These stories resonate on a deeply emotional level "Extraordinarily provocative vignettes of love, sex, violence, and injustice. Vivid descriptions of the lives of women as heroines and as victims stir all one's emotions." Rocky Barilla. International Society of Latino Authors "A unique and untimely feminist reclaiming of dirty realism. An intimate yet dystopian journey into the effects and inner workings of identity-based marginalization. These silence memories may never be known, not only because they were once forbidden, but because they are still mostly inaccessible to a mass U.S. audience." Liliana Conlisk Gallegos Ph.D.

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As the Sycamore Grows: A Hidden Cabin, the Bible, and a .38 by Jennie Miller Helderman NEW UPDATED EDITION WITH RESOURCES FOR THOSE SUFFERING INTIMATE PARTNER ABUSE. A cabin behind a padlocked gate, no power, no phone, only Revelation and a .38-a true story of abuse, loss, redemption and hope, which winds from south Texas to a sycamore tree in Tennessee… “Jennie Helderman has taken a heart-breaking issue and boiled it down to human beings, of flesh and blood and lost days and fearful nights. It opens the door on a toocommon human story and closes you in with it.” — Rick Bragg, Pulitzer Prize-winner and international bestselling author of All Over But the Shouting and many other The New York Times bestsellers Big Announcement from the Author Coming Soon!

DECEMBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 17

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The Life That Sits Beside You by Marion Cohen In a Brooklyn hospital, in 1954, five babies, four girls and one boy, were born on the same day. In Sweden, on that day, another baby girl was also born. This is the story of how these individual's lives eventually intersect, and how they not only become acquainted with one another, but become lifelong friends. All of these individual lives are viewed through the lens of Adina Claudette Saville, whose dreams are unlike the others.Adina falls in love while in Paris with Tristan but must return back to NYC. Amelia, Anna, Alice and Astrid, together with Adina form an alliance of cherished friendships. They offer steadfast support throughout their adolescence and into their adult lives, as each woman embarks on a different life path to happiness and fulfillment while Adina continues her relationship with Tristan. However, there is one journey Adina must take, and she decides not to allow these friends any knowledge of her predicament. Some journeys that challenge one's fortitude, must be traveled alone. The Life That Sits Beside You is an uncommon story of a woman and her unique devotion to the man she loves, to her family, and to the lifelong friends, she holds dear to her heart. 26

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End Times by John M Williams “Jon Karl and Summer Odom, siblings attached at the hip and heart, navigate a fascinating cast of both ne'er-do-wells and dogooders in the tiny southern town of Douvale, Georgia, in this novel of Biblical proportions. Both comical and tragic, John Williams's End Times offers a glimpse of small-town characters wanting to get out, as the reader understands that, perhaps, getting out might be much worse. I loved living with these people, plus a dog named Food Stamp.”George Singleton, author of The Curious Lives of Nonprofit Martyr. “If there's any justice left in the world of literature, this book will find an audience. Williams has the best ear in the business, hearing the music in the language of the South without contorting or condescending. His characters sound and act legit. The story of two orphans is compelling. Demon Copperhead has nothing on Jon Karl. You will keep this book.” Five Star Reader Review

DECEMBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 17

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The Last Laird of Sapelo by T. M. Brown The Last Laird of Sapelo is based on the tragic story of Randolph Spalding, the youngest son of Georgia's most well-known antebellum-era coastal planter and influential political figure, Thomas Spalding. Following his father's death in 1851, Randolph parlays his father's fame and gifted landholdings on Sapelo Island, hobnobbing from Charleston to Savannah to Milledgeville and ultimately failing to thwart Georgia's decision to follow South Carolina into secession by early 1861. Within weeks after the assault on Fort Sumter, Lincoln's naval blockade threatens the entire southern coast. Colonel Randolph Spalding, now a reluctant commander of militia, faces a storm of life-altering events in the months that follow, imperiling his family's legacy, livelihood, and lands. He ultimately must decide between supposed justice and saving the life of a slave who exacted revenge for the murder and rape of two children on Sapelo Island. *To read about the author’s decision to set aside his Southern Small-town Mystery/Suspense series to write the historical novel about the Spalding legacy on Sapelo Island that provides the history of today's struggling Geechee Community on Sapelo today, click here From Shiloh to Sapelo: Our Past Remains Unchanged

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The Cicada Tree by Robert Gwaltney The summer of 1956, a brood of cicadas descends upon Providence, Georgia, a natural event with supernatural repercussions, unhinging the life of Analeise Newell, an eleven-year-old piano prodigy. Amidst this emergence, dark obsessions are stirred, uncanny gifts provoked, and secrets unearthed. During a visit to Mistletoe, a plantation owned by the wealthy Mayfield family, Analeise encounters Cordelia Mayfield and her daughter Marlissa, both of whom possess an otherworldly beauty, a lineal trait regarded as that Mayfield Shine. A whisper and an act of violence perpetrated during this visit by Mrs. Mayfield all converge to kindle Analeise's fascination with the Mayfields.Analeise's burgeoning obsession with the Mayfield family overshadows her own seemingly, ordinary life, culminating in dangerous games and manipulation, setting off a chain of cataclysmic events with life-altering consequences-all of it unfolding to the maddening whir of a cicada song. When an eleven year old, whisky drinking, piano prodigy encounters a wealthy family possessing supernatural beauty, her ensuing obsession unleashes family secrets and a cataclysmic plague of cicadas.

DECEMBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 17

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Red Clay Suzie by Jeffrey Dale Lofton The coming-of-age story of Philbet, a gay, physicallymisshapen boy in rural Georgia, who battles bullying, ignorance, and disdain as he makes his way in life as an outsider--before finding acceptance in unlikely places. Fueled by tomato sandwiches and green milkshakes, and obsessed with cars, Philbet struggles with life and love as a gay boy in rural Georgia. He's happiest when helping Grandaddy dig potatoes from the vegetable garden that connects their houses. But Philbet's world is shattered and his resilience shaken by events that crush his innocence and sense of security; expose his misshapen chest skillfully hidden behind shirts Mama makes at home; and convince him that he's not fit to be loved by Knox, the older boy he idolizes to distraction. Over time, Philbet finds refuge in unexpected places and inner strength in unexpected ways, leading to a resolution in the form of a letter from beyond the grave.

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All Night, All Day: life, death & angels edited by Susan Cushman All Night, All Day is an inspirational collection of personal essays, stories, and poems by outstanding women authors who write about the appearance of the divine in their lives. Some of these angels come to save a life or change a flat tire. Some appear to warn people, tell them what to do, suggest more vegetables and maybe better shoes.

Contributors: Cassandra King - Suzanne Henley River Jordan - Sally Palmer Thomason - Natasha Trethewey - Sonja Livingston - Johnnie Bernhard Frederica Mathewes-Green - Angela Jackson-Brown - Christa Allan - Renea Winchester - Jacqueline Allen Trimble - Mandy Haynes - Wendy Reed - Lisa Gornick - Jennifer Horne - Ann Fisher-Wirth Averyell Kessler - Lauren Camp - Cathy Smith Bowers - Nancy Dorman-Hickson - Joanna Siebert Susan Cushman - Claire Fullerton - Julie Cantrell

DECEMBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 17

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Annie's Song: Dandelions, Dreams and Dogs by Annie McDonnell In this shimmering debut-a crossgenre blend of memoir, auto-fiction, magical realism, and poetry-Annie pours out her dreams, her loves, and her hopes along with her complicated grief compounded by betrayals, medical misdiagnoses, and innumerable losses that would break most people. Her determination to live a life of love, joy, and meaning despite her great suffering shines throughout the dark themes of many of her essays and poems. Annie, who is in the end stages of Stiff Person Syndrome and has several other rare diseases, writes with raw emotion about traumas from her childhood best friend's rape and murder to her own lifealtering car accident at age 19 to her decades-long odyssey through a medical system where women's symptoms are frequently dismissed, misdiagnosed, and minimized. Annie's experiential memoir, for which she's provided QR codes linking to her favorite songs throughout, allows the reader to get a hint of what it's like living suspended between this earthly existence and the afterlife. This is her love song to trauma survivors, dog lovers, and love seekers. She lives each day and night knowing that her next breath could be her last and keeps her heart focused on heaven.

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My Musings by Ruthie Landis GREAT HOLIDAY GIFT! This journal is all yours. It invites you to set one appointment with yourself each week to connect with the hidden crevices of your being in a unique way. That's why, in MY MUSINGS, there are fifty-two weekly journal prompts and activities. There are a few bonus activities to play with as well, at the beginning and end of your journal, plus one at the beginning of each seasonal section. Do whatever intuitively suits you. Perhaps you want to draw or make art in addition to writing. That's why there are no lines on your pages; nothing is here to limit you. If you are a musician, maybe the prompt becomes the muse for a new song. The title MY MUSINGS means exactly that. This is completely your own. Let it meet you where you are. "My Musings" is a delicious invitation to deeply learn about myself through journaling to inspirational phrases and prompts created by the amazing Ruthie Landis. Like every book Ruthie has written, we are invited on a gentle journey of self-exploration. Ruthie loves her reader. That is always clear to me in her books. She holds the space through her writing that we will be able to love ourselves. I have started working my way through "My Musings." I admit, I skipped ahead and read through many of the inspirations and journal prompts to see how Ruthie wove these together with the Chinese Five Element Theory she used to organize our learning. I was quickly hooked. The prompts resonate with me and what I am working on now in my life. I can't imagine a more impactful book crossing my path at this time. "My Musings" is a weekly gift I am giving myself.” Five Star Reader Review

DECEMBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 17

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Beyond the Bookclub: We Are The Books We Must Read by Ruthie Landis “Beyond the Bookclub is more than a handbook for personal evolution. It’s also a wealth of resources to support any change-maker leading a community of introspective activists, something desperately needed in today’s challenging times. Written with a reverence for the wisdom of the integral self, the Enneagram and the natural and creative world, the reader is able to explore their human experience through a diverse exploration of perspectives. Ruthie expertly guides the reader using a heartfelt narrative, a grounded sense of humor and an ability to gently dig deep into the tough questions we all need to ask to consciously evolve. Throughout the book, I often felt as if I was engaging in an intimate and meaningful conversation with Ruthie herself, allowing me to reflect on my own vulnerabilities with compassion. As Ruthie writes: “We read books to learn more and expand our consciousness and perspective. We read ourselves to do the same. We must commit to shining light in the dark places of our psyche.” Fortunately for us, Ruthie has provided us with a personal torch in Beyond the Bookclub to illuminate our way in taking action toward positive transformation.” —Emanuel Kuntzelman, philosopher, writer, public speaker, social entrepreneur and founder and president of the Chicago-based non-profit Greenheart International, and a founder of the Global Purpose Movement. He is the author of Riding the Wave of Global Purpose and contributing author and editor of Purpose Rising: A Global Movement of Transformation and Meaning

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Acting Lessons for Living Play the Scenes of Your Life with Intention, Presence, and Pure Potential: A Living, Acting and Enneagram Master Class by Ruthie Landis “I LOVE this book! Landis draws on her experience as an actor, a body-centered therapist, and her own experiences as she skillfully weaves together a guide to self-exploration, personal development and healing in all aspects of life. The metaphor of life as the stage on which our personal narrative gets played out through our many roles is a powerful one. Adding the subtext of the Enneagram and wisdom from many sages, she offers a rich and complex, yet accessible model for self-examination, and application of the life lessons presented. As a Clinical Psychologist, this book has been a resource for my work, both personal and professionally! I highly recommend it to anyone who is on the path of personal transformation.” Ann Cusack, Psy.D.

Acting Lessons for Living: Guided Journal by Ruthie Landis DECEMBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 17

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PRESS PLAY Ruthie Landis believes life is an opportunity to learn and grow. She believes we are all teachers and all students. In her first book, Beyond the Bookclub: We are the Books We Must Read, an Amazon e-book best seller, she invites the reader to learn how to read themself in order to selfactualize and become a kinder, more collaborative New Human. Using Mind, Body, Heart, the Enneagram, Intuition, Nature, and the Creative Force as a way to read the content

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of ourselves, and through catalyzing essays and experiential group gathering designs, she takes the participant on a magnificent journey with themself and others: long, wide and deep. Now in Acting Lessons for Living, she continues to explore the exciting journey of self-engagement and relationships by entering through the doorway of the actor's world. Using the theatrical paradigm as a metaphor for how to live a purposeful life, Ruthie Landis believes we are all human-actors in the big play of our lives and that in that in our lives we play many roles. In her personal life she began as daughter, granddaughter and sister, then became friend, wife, and mother. In her professional life her roles continue to be diverse. She is a best-selling author, body-centered psychotherapist and coach, certified hypnotherapist, Enneagram teacher, Award winning international workshop designer, trainer, and facilitator, visual artist, actress, director, acting and presence development coach, Spiritual guide, and Reiki master. Ruthie uses the Enneagram, Nature, Ritual and Ceremony, life transition directed interior design, Psycho-spiritual awareness techniques, Creativity and the Chinese Five Element theory. It is her mission to reclaim our wholeness with gentle, insight-driven intentional change. Her own intention is to bring all these interests and skills together to cocreate unique encounters of waking up, self-empowerment, and healing. For more information, visit www.ruthienergy.com. DECEMBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 17

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The Best of the Shortest: A Southern Writers Reading Reunion Editor: Suzanne Hudson with Joe Formichella and Mandy Haynes

Featuring stories by: Marlin Barton + Rick Bragg + Sonny Brewer + Doug Crandell + Pia Z. Ehrhardt + David Wright Falade’ + Beth Ann Fennelly + Joe Formichella + Patricia Foster + Tom Franklin + Robert Gatewood + Jason Headley + Jim Gilbert + Frank Turner Hollon + Suzanne Hudson + Joshilyn Jackson + Bret Anthony Johnston + Abbott Kahler + Doug Kelley + Cassandra King + Suzanne Kingsbury + Bev Marshall + Michael Morris + Janet Nodar + Jennifer Paddock + Theodore Pitsios + Lynn Pruett + Ron Rash + Michelle Richmond + Dayne Sherman + George Singleton + Robert St. John + Sidney Thompson + Daniel Wallace + Daren Wang + James Whorton, Jr. + Mac Walcott + Karen Spears Zacharias

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

DECEMBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 17

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South of the Etowah: The View from the Wrong Side of the River by Raymond L. Atkins Novelist Raymond L. Atkins offers a lighthearted change of pace in this collection of humorous essays. He explores a diverse range of topics as seen from the porch of his home on the southern bank of the mighty Etowah River in northern Georgia. From this lofty height he holds forth on holidays, parenthood, cars, home ownership, aging, travel, medicine, technology, ballet, movies, marriage, Shakespeare, dogs, cats, music, swimming pools, vintage television, nicknames, amusement parks, restaurants, school projects, language, computers, hair, bad jobs, William Faulkner, weddings, advertising, Broadway plays, yard work, hospitals, cooking, Elvis Presley, moving, money, art, college, dinner theater, and a variety of other subjects.

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Death By Theft: A Josiah Reynolds Mystery by Abigail Keam Lady Elsmere’s mare, Jean Harlow gives birth to a foal sired by Shaneika’s stallion, Comanche. Lady Elsmere and Shaneika are delighted with the ebony foal blessed with a white star on its forehead. Excited by the colt’s broad chest and long legs, they are putting their dream of winning the Kentucky Derby on this frisky colt. They name him Last Chance as Lady Elsmere believes the foal is her last chance to win the Kentucky Derby. Eager to show the foal off, Shaneika invites Josiah for a visit. Josiah is happy for her friend and can’t wait to see the new addition to Lady Elsmere’s Thoroughbred Farm. As Josiah and Shaneika enter the nursery barn, they hear Jean Harlow frantically kicking the door of her stall. Rushing over, they discover the foal is missing. Shaneika tries to calm Jean Harlow while Josiah searches the other stalls for Last Chance and the surrounding area near the barn. The only thing she finds is a security guard taking a nap in his car. Josiah knocks impatiently on the car window. When the man doesn’t respond, she opens the car door only to have the man slide out onto the ground. Startled, Josiah searches for a pulse, but it’s too late. The man is dead.

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WHAT ARE YOU READING?

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. A place 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.

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TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

Oliver by Mandy Haynes “Dear God…and Jesus and Mary…” Even though eleven-year old Olivia is raised Southern Baptist, she likes to cover her bases when asking for a favor. Unlike her brother Oliver, she struggles with keeping her temper in check and staying out of trouble. But Oliver is different, and in the summer of ’72 he proves to Olivia there’s magic in everything - it’s up to us to see it. Mandy Haynes spent hours on barstools and riding in vans listening to great stories from some of the best songwriters and storytellers in Nashville, Tennessee. After her son graduated college, she traded a stressful life as a pediatric cardiac sonographer for a happy one and now spends her time writing and enjoying life as much as she can. She lives in Semmes, Alabama with her three dogs, one turtle, and helps take care of several more animals at Good Fortune Farm Refuge. She is a contributing writer for Amelia Islander Magazine, Amelia Weddings, author of two short story collections, Walking the Wrong Way Home, Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth Eva and Other Stories, and a novella, Oliver. She is also the editor of the anthology, Work in Progress, and co-editor of the Southern Writers Reading reunion anthology, The Best of the Shortest. Mandy is also the editor-in-chief of WELL READ Magazine, an online literary journal created to give authors affordable advertising options that supports and promotes authors of all genres and writing backgrounds. Like the characters in some of her stories, she never misses a chance to jump in a creek to catch crawdads, stand up for the underdog, or the opportunity to make someone laugh.

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When you purchase an “ad” for $50, you get a full page slot in WELL READ’s What Are You Reading? section with a live link to your website and a live purchase link of your choice. Readers asked for full page, easy to read, “book recommendations” in place of traditional looking advertisements and I was happy to oblige. As a bonus, there are personalized individual graphics made of your book image and author photo (if you choose to purchase a two page spread or more) with your book description and/or blurbs, bio, etc., shared to eight additional FB bookish accounts and to WELL READ Magazine’s Instagram, Pinterest, and Facebook sites – (that’s 39K potential views of your book when you combine all the sites). WELL READ is distributed through ISSUU (the world’s largest digital publishing and discovery platform available). WELL READ Magazine receives an average of 7,000 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.

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DECEMBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 17

INSIDE VOICES

“…I think respect and trust are the keys to working together. It can be really hard for couples but I think it’s always been a very bonding experience for us.”

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton talk with two incredibly talented authors, Silas House and Jason Kyle Howard 46

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INSIDE VOICES with Silas House and Jason Kyle Howard

INSIDE VOICES Silas House and Jason Kyle Howard

Silas House is the New York Times bestselling author of seven novels, including Lark Ascending, which was a Booklist Editors' Choice and is the winner of 2023’s Southern Book Prize and the Nautilus Book Award. In 2022 he was the recipient of the Duggins Prize, the largest award for an LGBTQ writer in the nation. And the following year he was inducted as the Poet Laureate of Kentucky for 2023-2025. House was executive producer and one of the subjects of the documentary Hillbilly, winner of the LA Film Festival's Documentary Prize and the Foreign Press Association's Media Award. His novel Southernmost is currently in pre-production as a feature film. Silas teaches at Berea College, where he is the National Endowment for the Humanities Chair, and at the Naslund-Mann Graduate School of Creative Writing. A native of Eastern Kentucky, he and Jason now live in Lexington, Kentucky. Jason Kyle Howard is a journalist and nonfiction writer. His feature stories as well as his social and political commentary have appeared in the New York Times, The Atlantic, The New Republic, Town & Country, Oxford American, and NPR to name but a few. The breadth of

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Silas House and Jason Kyle

topics examined by Jason’s keen mind and nimble pen include how the media should cover Trump’s indictment, Queen Elizabeth II’s death, heirs’ property rights of Black South Carolinians, and a gay coal miner suing energy conglomerate Massey Energy for sexual harassment and gender discrimination. Howard is the author of A Few Honest Words, an exploration of how Kentucky has shaped American music. He and Silas wrote both Something’s Rising, an unflinching look at mountaintopremoval coal mining, and the story for the Grammynominated music video of In Your Love by Tyler Childers. Jason serves on the faculty of Spalding University's Naslund-Mann Graduate School of Writing. Inside Voices (Robert); How did you meet? Jason: We first met in Fairfax, Virginia. I was living in DC and I met Silas at a reading that was part of the Fall for the Book Festival. But we really got to know each other the following year at a week-long writing workshop, and we had an immediate connection. But we started as friends, sharing music and books, talking for hours and also enjoying easy silences. Silas: We were pretty instantly joined at the hip, with a tremendous amount in common, and an ability to sing together, which helped move the emotions along nicely. When I first met Jason I felt like he was the person I’d been waiting for my whole life.

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Silas House and Jason Kyle

Inside Voices (Jeffrey): Silas, this question is for you. I am struck by the title of your most recent novel, Lark Ascending, which is the name of the sublimely beautiful piece for violin and piano by Ralph Vaughn Williams, inspired by the poem of the same name by George Meredith, a 19th Century poet. How did either or both of those works inspire you? Silas: The musical composition is transcendent. I’ve probably listened to it a thousand times and I’ve been deeply moved every single time. I was about halfway through writing the novel when I first heard it. My character’s name was already Lark so my antennae were up for anything lark-related. So I listened, and I was blown away by what a journey the piece of music is. Just about every emotion is contained within and it sounds like an odyssey, which is what I was writing, of course. So I knew right away that it was the main soundtrack for the book. I learned of the poem via the musical piece and there’s a couple of lines in there that are very important to the book: “Because their love of Earth is deep,/And they are warriors in accord”. I think once you read the book you understand how epitomizing of Lark, Helen, and Seamus those lines are. Inside Voices (Robert): I have another question for you both. Your lives and your work reflect a profound respect for the land and the people and animals that inhabit it. Where does this appreciation come from?

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Silas House and Jason Kyle

Jason: I grew up in the same small community where my parents were both raised. Everybody knew each other, and so I had a lot of freedom to explore the woods and ride bikes with my friends. But I also spent a lot of time alone. I’m an only child and I was raised to be independent and fend for myself. I was always going outside to climb a tree or to read a book somewhere with my dog trailing along behind me. I think that solitude helped develop a deep love of animals and books and trees. And as a little gay boy growing up in southeastern Kentucky in the 1980s and 90s, who knew I was different even when I didn’t have the language to name it, having those companions was a salvation. Silas: I think we were both really fortunate to grow up outside, roaming the woods and hills and creeks. When you know the land intimately you come to care for it in a different way. I still have the ridge above our house memorized; I know every inch of it. And I have never not had a dog. I think the natural world and animals build more empathy in us and that’s one thing that artists need the most. Inside Voices (Jeffrey): As we mentioned briefly during the open, you guys have collaborated on a book and a music video story line. Talk to us a bit about your approach to professional collaboration; and how do you separate the personal from the professional? Silas: The most important thing is that we both have a

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Silas House and Jason Kyle

deep respect for each other’s writing. We really trust each other and we also both know that any criticism we have of each other’s work is completely constructive because we only want what is best for each other. So I think respect and trust are the keys to working together. It can be really hard for couples but I think it’s always been a very bonding experience for us. Now, moving a piece of furniture is a whole other story. But writing together is always a pleasure with him. Jason: Yes, you don’t want to be around when we’re moving furniture. But that’s probably true for most couples. Beyond respect and trust, I think it helps that we mostly write in different genres. While Silas does write nonfiction, his literary home is fiction, so we don’t step on each other’s toes too much. And even though we share some similar sensibilities, we also have different interests, aesthetics and experiences. We surprise each other with those differences sometimes, and I think that helps to strengthen our critiques and creates interesting, invigorating discussions. Inside Voices (Robert): When I was coming along, there were no positive role models in my rural Georgia community. I struggled imagining a future for myself. What lives did you both imagine for yourselves as young people? Jason: I always knew that at some point I would leave. Part of that was I wanted to leave. I knew from a young

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Silas House and Jason Kyle

age that I belonged in a city. But beyond that instinct, by the time I was in middle school I knew I would have to leave. I knew who I was by then, and apparently others did too. It was a pretty inhospitable place for a gay teenager who was forced to stay closeted. Music was a lifeline for me then. I played Barbra Streisand’s “Gotta Move” and “Somewhere” on repeat. I took Sondheim’s lyrics—there’s a place for us—as a promise. Rosanne Cash’s album The Wheel helped me put language to all the desires and doubts I was feeling, not just as a young gay boy but also as someone who loved language and had started to write. All those songs helped me conjure a future in which I could see myself fulfilled. Silas: As a child I could have never imagined that I would someday be happily married to a man, much less one that is adored by my parents. If anyone had told me that when I was thirteen—or even when I was twenty-three—I would have laughed in their faces. The only queer people where I lived were very ostracized and treated badly. They had to lead very quiet lives and do most everything in hiding. I always say that half acceptance is not acceptance at all. And there were not very many gay role models in pop culture, either. That representation just was not there when I was growing up in the 1980s. Inside Voices (Jeffrey): Jason, what responsibility do you believe the arts and those who create art have to speak sometimes-uncomfortable truths?

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Silas House and Jason Kyle

Jason: To me the arts are the natural arena where we begin to work things out in our culture. People often turn to art when they feel they’re not being heard or seen or understood. As much as art can provide comfort or identification—that feeling of being seen—it can also provoke and disturb, and I think we often need that to move us forward. I also often think about something President Kennedy said, how the pursuit of power can narrow our vision, but poetry opens us up to “the richness and diversity of existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses.” God knows we need more poetry now. Inside Voices (Robert): Silas, with Southernmost currently in pre-production, tell us about the sequence of events that take a writer’s work from page to screen. It seems very exciting. And, of course, inquiring minds want to know not what but who will you be wearing to the premiere? Silas: Well the dressing up is always the best part! I am so superstitious that I will not be sure this movie is being made until I actually see it on the big screen. But I think it’s a beautiful script and I’m very happy with the casting, although I can’t talk about that publicly so far. It means a lot to me that a gay man from the South has written it and is going to direct the film. He gets so many nuances and we have a sort of telepathy about that stuff. I have just been so happy that someone has interest in it that I’ve tried to be the least intrusive that I can but they’ve included me in the whole process, from getting my opinion on the DECEMBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 17

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Silas House and Jason Kyle

script to doing location scouting and casting. The writers and actors strikes made us lose a tremendous amount of time but they’re starting to get back on track. Fingers crossed. Inside Voices (Jeffrey): I have the last question of our time together today, and it’s for both of you gentlemen. What’s next on the horizon? Can you give us a sneak peek? An Inside Voices exclusive? Jason: I’m about to start a book project that is just beginning to take shape. I’m a bit superstitious when it comes to talking about projects in development, so all I’ll say now is that it is set in DC and I’m looking forward to doing a lot of research there. I’ve been doing a lot of political analysis and commentary lately, and with the presidential election coming up I hope I’ll be doing more. I’ve also got nearly enough personal essays for a collection, so at some point I’ll start working on putting that together. Silas: I’ve just turned in a short story collection—all about rural LGBTQ people--to my editor. I’m also working on a new novel that’s set in the early 1900s and I’m trying to put together a collection of poetry. I recently finished a play about Mary Todd Lincoln that I’m hopeful about. And I’m always working on a lot of different things at the same time: short stories, essays, journalism, poems.

WELL READ MAGAZINE

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Silas House and Jason Kyle

Robert Gwaltney, award winning author of southern fiction, is a graduate of Florida State University. He resides in Atlanta Georgia with his partner, where he is an active member of the Atlanta 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 Somerset Award for literary fiction.

Jeffrey Dale Lofton, hails from Warm Springs, Ga. His years telling the stories of playwrights and scriptwriters taught him the pull of a powerful story arc. Today, he is a senior advisor at the Library of Congress, surrounded by books and people who love books. Red Clay Suzie is his first work of fiction, written through his personal lens growing up an outsider figuring out life and love in a conservative family and community in the Deep South.

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"A fiercely visceral reading experience." --Publishers Weekly

Lark Ascending Silas House

“This book’s combination of interviews and history makes for an entertaining study of the heart of American roots music.” — Library Journal

A Few Honest Words: The Kentucky Roots of Popular Music Jason Howard

WELL DONE! Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

WELL READ MAGAZINE

A FEW HOURS IN THE LIFE OF A FIVE-YEAR-OLD POOL PLAYER by Francine Rodriguez

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

The parking lot in front of King Drew Place of Family on Central Avenue, was nearly full that morning in 1994. I didn’t recognize any of the cars filling the lot, stacked one behind the other. Gangster cars, black Suburbans, Escalades, and lowriders, like the ones in my neighborhood, like the 61 Impala my Dad left when he died. The one I drove for two years and didn’t know it was stolen until I tried to sell it. They all sported the same metallic blue or red paint jobs that gleamed in the sun, and the same prized twenty-inch rims. All chrome trim. But none of the homeboys from my neighborhood came up here. The great relocation of the Latino community to South Central was still in its infancy. To the west the population was almost all African American, all the way up to the Jordon Downs Project. Things hadn’t changed yet. Place of Family was an outpatient clinic where

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WELL DONE! Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

substance abusers were sent by the courts for treatment between stays in jail, or a place where they ended up after being released from the hospital, dead broke without any resources. It was also a place where counseling was provided to pregnant teens, most of them HIV positive, a lot of them homeless. I worked there part time as a counselor to supplement my full-time job. It was Monday, so I was on my way to start Monday Morning Group, an exercise in absorbing the flood of anger, fear, and confusion that the women released when they shared the horrors of their daily lives. That day I had my youngest with me because he had a doctor’s appointment in a few hours, and I didn’t want to drive back home to pick him up. He was about five years old, and we were armed with his picture books, a coloring book, crayons, and a paper bag filled with an apple, an orange, a granola bar, and a bottle of water. Enough entertainment and food to last an hour during the group session. Usually by the time I got there the lobby was empty because most of the participants had moved on to the group rooms. But it was different that day. A large sign on the wall said, “Gang Summit, Grape Street, Rolling Eighties.” Young men stood around the lobby eyeing each other carefully or sat in the recreation room on opposite sides surrounding the pool table. The air hummed with

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A FEW HOURS IN THE LIFE OF A FIVE-YEAR-OLD POOL PLAYER by Francine Rodriguez

tension. The music that generally played over the PA system was missing, so was the sound of laughter and muted voices. “What’s going on?” I asked the receptionist who sat behind a glass screen. She pointed to the sign. “Gang Summit. Some new thing they’re trying. They’re coming from all over the county, all the way down to Long Beach. Some bigwig called it, so the words out on the street. They aren’t allowed to come strapped, they check what they’re carrying with the security next door and get patted down.” “Are we still having group today?” “Yep, as far as I know. The women are all in there.” I looked around. I hadn’t planned on bringing my son into the group room. He didn’t need to hear the kind of things we talked about. I’d planned to leave him in the recreation room since it was always empty at this time of morning. Now I didn’t think it was such a good idea. Suddenly my son spotted the pool table and ran over to it, ignoring the guys standing around the table. The Rolling Eighties on one side and Grape Street on the other, arms folded across their chests, wearing dark glasses, sagging pants, do-rags, and huge tee shirts that hung to their knees. “Look, Mom, a real pool table, like on television!” He touched the green felt in reverence.I ran after him and

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WELL DONE! Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

snatched his hand back. “Don’t touch the table, you might scratch it. It’s very expensive.” I remembered that some politician had donated it to the Center. He stepped back, looking sad, and then hopeful, as he saw a pool cue lying across the side. “Could I play, just for a minute. Please!” “No. No. You don’t know how to play, and you’ll scratch the table. You come with me, and we’ll find a place for you to wait.” With his head down, my son backed away from the table defeated, his shoulders slumped. “Hey, just a minute there. If the little homie wants to play. He can play! I’ll teach him. We got time before the meeting.” I heard a few murmurs of agreement from both sides of the table. Bent down next to the table tying the laces on his Timberlands, was one of the largest guys I’d ever seen. He had to be over six foot six and must have weighed in the high two hundreds, easily the size of two offensive linemen. He had a black handkerchief tied across his forehead, a large diamond in his ear, and wore the requisite black shades that seemed to be part of a dress code. “That’s okay,” I said. “He’s too little, and he’ll probably scratch the table.” I was speaking from experience since I’d scratched the table the first time I tried, and several

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A FEW HOURS IN THE LIFE OF A FIVE-YEAR-OLD POOL PLAYER by Francine Rodriguez

times after that too. “I’ll take him with me. I’m running the women’s group today.” The guy with the black handkerchief stood up to his full height. “You wanna play Little Homie?” My son nodded eagerly. Looks were exchanged between the guys around the table. They all turned to my son, a red-haired, blue-eyed, multi-racial Mexican child, about forty-three inches tall. Most of them smiled. My son looked around at all of them and smiled back. “You hungry Little Homie?” “Oh, he had breakfast, and I brought him food.” I assured the guy with the shades. “I think it’s time for a morning donut? You think so, Little Homie?” Of course, my son nodded in agreement, not quite believing his good luck. Apparently the guy offering was the leader of Grape Street. He asked one of the members of the Rolling Eighties if he would go and buy donuts, and graciously handed him a folded bill. “We’ll take care of him, and feed him too,” he reassured me. I watched for a few minutes while the members of Grape Street and the Rolling Eighties took turns lifting my son up to the table and helping him line up his cue to make a shot. They all applauded when he managed to touch the ball.

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WELL DONE! Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

“You can go to work, Mommy, I have a lot of babysitters,” he told me. And so, I did. When I finished my group and came back to the lobby, chairs, two deep, had been arranged around the table. Their meeting had started and a gang worker was moderating. At the corner of the table, my son sat in one of the nicer chairs that somebody had brought in from the director’s office. He sat in between the leader of the Rolling Eighties and the leader of Grape Street, like a smaller version of the reigning monarchs. He’d obviously had a donut because his mouth was smeared with powdered sugar, and apparently whatever they were talking about had lulled him to sleep. One of the guys carried my son to my car and told me to bring him back again any time I wanted. Before their meeting someone had snapped a polaroid and pinned it to the bulletin board. In the photo, a smiling little boy stands on top of a pool table surrounded by two gang factions. He has his arms outstretched hugging the guys on either side of him. Everyone in the photo was smiling. I fully intended to take that photo the next time I was there. As a memento for my son, so that one day he could recall that he was accidently part of one of the first gang summits in Los Angeles, and without knowing or understanding it, he became a small part in what happened

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A FEW HOURS IN THE LIFE OF A FIVE-YEAR-OLD POOL PLAYER by Francine Rodriguez

that day. Sadly, like a lot of things that pass through our lives, the photo that froze that day in time and place wasn’t there the next week I came to work. Sadder still, sometime later King Drew Place of Family was torn down because they weren’t able to get the grants they needed. A lot of the people that were helped there returned to the streets. But every time I handled mediations in the government facility located on Central Avenue, I always looked to the empty lot where the building once stood and remembered my son standing on that pool table with some of the roughest looking dudes I’d ever seen with some of the worst reputations preceding them. For that moment at least, they were all smiling.

Francine Rodriguez has written three other novels, The Fortunate Accident, A Woman Like Me, and A Woman’s Story. Her short stories have been published in several literary journals. A Woman’s story was the silver winner in the International Latino Book Prize for 2021.

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WELL DONE! Fiction

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NEUTRAL GROUND by Tania Nyman

Neutral Ground Tania Nyman

Elaine was sitting at a stoplight on Claiborne Avenue, a street that lacked the charm for which New Orleans was known, when she noticed a trio of kids crossing the threelanes of stopped traffic. “Jesus,” she muttered. She glanced at the clock on the dash—it was a little after nine o’clock, too late for them to be out alone. The oldest couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen, and he was escorting two younger children, one, a girl, so little he’d hoisted her to his hip so they could walk more quickly. The third child reminded Elaine of the second-grade boy she’d tutored on Saturdays. He lived in this area and was about the same age and build—so slight his clothes hung on him as they would a hanger. “They’re too young,” she declared to the empty car. The oldest was trying to hurry across before the light changed. With his free hand, he’d grabbed the younger boy by the wrist and half-pulled, half-carried him tripping behind. They were probably heading to one of the fast food

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WELL DONE! Fiction

restaurants, or to the neighborhood beyond: the Magnolia Housing Project, a warren of two-story brown brick structures, many of which were boarded up. She watched the children step to the curb of the neutral ground, as the broad, grassy medians were called in New Orleans, and then scanned the area for a parent. Maybe one was trailing behind. The children had come from her right where there was a dated strip of stores set back some distance from the street. The parking lot in front of it was almost empty. A man and woman stood near the corner. The woman leaned against a bus stop. The man rocked on his heels beside her. A short distance from them, a large oak grew in the small space between the sidewalk and the cross street, Toledano. The tree’s canopy didn’t quite reach Claiborne, but it stretched across a small section of the parking lot and one lane of the quieter and darker thoroughfare. Something moved near the tree and her eyes fell on a wooden bench at its base. A yellow dog paced before it. A cat was perched on the top rail of the bench. Good lord, Elaine thought. The dog would leave, right? But the dog put its front paws on the seat of the bench and stretched its muzzle towards the cat. Elaine braced herself for the worst. The dog dropped back to the sidewalk, the cat unharmed, but her chest remained tightened with fear. She had to get over there. She flipped on her turn signal,

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NEUTRAL GROUND by Tania Nyman

looked to the streetlight, and thought again of the children. They had safely crossed the three lanes of the northbound traffic on the other side of the neutral ground to her left. The oldest was ushering the younger ones into the fast food restaurant. The double-glass doors closed behind them. The irony of the situation was not lost on Elaine—that she was turning her back on children, who, at the very least, appeared in need of help, to help a cat, but she was not naïve. There was nothing she could do for the children. The light changed and she blew her horn at the car in front of her. She turned at the corner, pulling to the shoulder near the tree. A few cars sped past her down the wide avenue, leaving the street before her empty and dim in spite of the lights that lined the neutral ground, which was bleak and unkempt. There were no crepe myrtles, azalea bushes or live oaks growing down its center as there were in Elaine’s neighborhood, and the grass was overgrown and tangled with litter. She scanned the area carefully. Though she hadn’t attracted any attention sitting in her car at the stop light, she would once she stepped out of it. White people typically didn’t stop in this neighborhood, especially at night. They only drove through it, and some wouldn’t even do that. Granted, there was the troubled housing project and

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dilapidation and people hanging on corners at all hours. And there were shootings, regularly, but she didn’t believe every Black person in the area was out to get her. Her Saturday tutoring was at a church a few blocks down, and she’d given the busman from work a ride to his home on Louisiana Avenue often enough to know that the folks in the neighborhood might look at her askance, assume she was a social worker—or a prostitute—but leave her alone. There was a need for caution, sure, but as long as she remained aware it would be safe and easy enough to hop out of the car, chase the dog away, and allow the cat to escape. She had to try. She couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t. Behind her, the man and woman still stood on the brightly lit corner of the busy intersection. Before her, the darkness loomed in stark contrast. The streetlights running down Toledano were high and dim. The darkened houses sat back in the shadows. As she reached for the keys, the yellow dog trotted in front of her car and into the headlights’ glow. It was a haggard mongrel, thin and dirty, its hips and ribs jutting against its skin. It crossed the street and passed another dog—a bedraggled brown one, headed towards the tree. She unlocked her door and stepped out. On the other side of the street, the yellow dog watched, its legs sunk into the tall grass. In the shadows, two other dogs lay nearby. All of them panted heavily, their tongues

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NEUTRAL GROUND by Tania Nyman

lolling happily from their mouths. She thought of dingoes she’d seen once on a nature show. The pack would corner an animal in a tree and then take turns keeping it trapped until it tried to escape or passed out and fell to the ground. She stared at the dogs, but they seemed unperturbed. Their disinterest seemed to border on arrogance, an attitude one might expect in insolent teenagers. It annoyed her, their lack of fear. She was in a city, after all, not the outback. In spite of the pack’s confidence, she still expected the lone dog guarding the cat to take off when she approached. But it didn’t. It sat in the dim glow of the streetlight before the bench, a haphazard construction of old wood. The sign that served as a seatback was so faded, no slogan or business name was discernible. The cat was lucky the sign was tall, out of the dogs’ reach. The dog paid no attention to Elaine, its eyes on the cat. She stamped her foot. “Get,” she ordered. It started, but didn’t move away. Its resolve took her aback, but she would be damned if she let it intimidate her. She ignored her fear and focused on the anger instead. “You heard me,” she raised her voice. “Get!” She stamped again. The dog retreated a few steps. “Go on!” She clapped her hands and moved towards the dog, stamping again. It wheeled about and ran a few feet and turned and

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stared at her. She stared back until it trotted off to the neutral ground and the other dogs. She turned her attention to the beleaguered cat. It was still balanced precariously on the seatback, which was not more than an inch wide, so it could not rest its paws side by side on the plank. It was standing as a tightrope walker would, one foot in front of the other. To keep itself upright, it leaned against the trunk of the tree. She approached slowly. “Hey there, pretty,” she whispered. “You all right?” She gingerly ran her fingers across its dusty head. It didn’t move. “It’s okay now,” she said quietly. “The dog is gone.” The man and woman still stood near the bus stop talking. Their banter was jovial. Every few moments they erupted in laughter. “May I pick you up?” She slipped her hands underneath the cat. She could feel his ribs and his heart pounding. As she lifted him, his back legs extended. The fur was wet. “Poor baby,” she said. “You peed on yourself.” She set him on the seat of the bench. He sat, sphinx-like, where she put him, eyes fixed before him. There was no telling how long he’d been there or how many people walked by while the dogs hunted him. She turned towards the couple at the bus stop. Their laughter didn’t seem so warm anymore. She sighed. This was supposed to be a simple task—hop

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NEUTRAL GROUND by Tania Nyman

out of the car, chase the dog away, let the cat run to safety. But now what? She couldn’t put him in the car without a carrier. And even if she could, she couldn’t take him home. She had her own cat to think about. The absurdity of the situation was irritating. It was just a cat, not three unsupervised children. Was it really too much to expect to do this one little thing? She squatted next to the cat, feeling defeated. “I don’t want to leave you here like this,” she whispered. She ran her fingers along its back, but it didn’t move, not even to turn its head to look at her. “Especially while those dogs are still here.” Beneath the dirt, the cat’s coat was oily, the fur stood up in jagged clumps. She could feel the ridge of each vertebra. Still it didn’t move. It didn’t flinch at the sharpest traffic sounds. She ran a finger down its nose. It didn’t blink. She’d never seen a cat so unresponsive. Once again she was reminded of Derek, the boy she’d tutored at the church down the street. At least she’d tried to tutor him, but the sessions had become torture, not only for Derek, but for her. Initially he’d shown up willing to work, though easily distracted. This she could deal with. But he went from uninterested to reticent to surly. The last few times he’d shown up, his father had had to drag the boy into the church’s schoolroom and shove him into a chair. Though she found her own patience taxed by the

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boy’s petulance, she was taken aback by the father. His tone was so cold, his grip so stern, it broke her heart. On these days, no cajoling would work on Derek, who sat slumped in his seat or with his head on the table, ignoring her. None of the other children behaved in such a manner, and Elaine felt she was in way over her head. All the other tutors were African American women, somewhat older and most with children of their own. She couldn’t help but think Derek would be far better served by one of them than by herself, young and white with no significant experience with children. She wished someone would offer to step in, but no one did, clearly enjoying the sessions with their own energetic students, who arrived each Saturday morning thrilled to see them and reluctant to leave. She stroked one of the cat’s ragged ears. “Maybe I can chase the dogs away.” As she rose to her feet, headlights shone upon her from the parking lot. She raised her hand to shield her eyes. The car moved slowly towards her and stopped. She could see the red and blue lights on the roof of the vehicle. She looked towards the bus stop. The couple was gone. There was no one else around. She folded her arms. NOPD wasn’t necessarily a welcome sight. It was the most endangered she’d felt all

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NEUTRAL GROUND by Tania Nyman

night. You never knew what kind of officer would appear. A sympathizer? Lech? Blowhard? She couldn’t stop herself from expecting the worst, even though she knew her wariness was a liability. The door opened and the uniformed officer stepped out. “You all right?” he asked. He was a young guy, white, and he acted, not as if they were friends, but as if they were members of the same club—knew all the same people, believed all the same things, and he was not only pleased to be able to do this favor for a fellow member, he was confident she’d be eternally grateful. Say the wrong thing, or fail to say the right thing, not laugh heartily at a remark, and his friendliness would turn hateful in an instant. “I’m fine,” she answered, taking care to sound agreeable. “Car trouble?” She took a breath and tried to smile. “Just trying to save a cat.” “A cat?” He cocked his head. “It was being stalked by that pack of dogs.” She gestured. “Dogs,” the officer repeated. “A pack.” She scanned the neutral ground. There were no dogs, just the empty swath of grass. “You from around here?” The contempt slid through the officer’s words.

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Elaine stiffened. “Yes,” she said curtly. She turned to look to the houses on the far side of the street. The road and yards were empty and still. “You know that’s Magnolia Housing Project right there?” His voice rose with irritation. She knew the officer was pointing to her left, but she looked down the dark street to her right. Nothing. “You know someone was stabbed in that restaurant?” He pointed to the restaurant the children had gone into earlier. They were nowhere in sight now. They more than likely disappeared into the neighborhood behind it. Just like Derek. “Last night.” That morning Elaine had arrived at the church for the tutoring session though Derek had missed the last couple of weeks. As she watched the children tumble in and take their tutors’ hands, Ms. Charlotte, the director, explained she couldn’t get in touch with Derek. His family hadn’t had a phone. They’d used a neighbor’s number. When Ms. Charlotte called, the neighbor told her the family had moved. She didn’t know where. “People killing each other over there and I’ve got to check on some girl who’s risking her life over a cat.” The officer’s hands were on his hips and his head was jutted so far out in front of him it was almost level with his shoulders.

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She stared at the restaurant. Behind it, the buildings of the Magnolia Projects squatted. No doubt someone over there was being maimed or killed while they stood here. Elaine went rigid with frustration. “Then get back over there,” she wanted to hiss at him, but she clenched her teeth to stop herself. Others had been hauled off to central lockup for less. “You think those men would give a damn about you or some cat?” She looked about her at the litter-strewn gutter, the unkempt neutral ground, at the parade of cars streaming by on Claiborne Avenue, the drivers unmindful of it all. She shut her eyes, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it: the cat, the way its feet hung over the edge of the narrow rail as painfully as the dog’s skin hung on its hips and ribs; the children crossing the street, the older boy grabbing the younger one about the wrist rather than by the hand. And Derek, how his smiling face would harden as soon as she pulled out one of the reading worksheets. And now this, the officer berating her, as if she were a greater problem. She looked at him, when he paused and stared. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said sternly. The exasperation in his voice reminded her of her own when she beseeched Derek to just look at the words on the pages. Her anger withered with the shame of it and she felt paralyzed where she stood.

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She had wanted to help him, but she’d failed, and worse. He hadn’t learned to read. Had she thought about how this must feel to a seven-year-old boy? His mother gone to god knows what, his father perpetually angry? She should have pulled him into her lap, colored with him, read stories to him, silly ones with no educational purpose, offered him a respite. Instead, she’d persisted with those worksheets that he could not read, but that spelled out to him how bleak his future was. “What the hell were you thinking?” she heard the officer ask. That I could do some good, she thought, her eyes filling with tears, but the idea, even unspoken, now sounded absurd. She had always believed if one tried to do a little good, a little good could get done, that one could, if not alleviate some suffering, at least not contribute to it. She had thought this a modest, even cynical hope. But in the years ahead, she would puzzle over this moment, the cat, the dogs and Derek, until one day, long after she’d abandoned the city, she would turn on the television and see those streets again after the deluge, people standing on rooftops waving the shirts from their backs, the oily water seeped to the eaves of the battered shotguns, the detritus on its surface and people wading through it, carrying diaperless babies, pushing children in makeshift boats, masses gathered on roadways, their

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NEUTRAL GROUND by Tania Nyman

mouths agape as they screamed into the cameras for help. And then the stores besieged by looters—packs of them running with arms loaded. One, a boy, not quite a man, his white t-shirt wilted on his body, waded through the waistdeep water, a television still in its box balanced on his head. Derek would be his age. He smiled broadly at the camera. He knew what to expect. They both did. The last time Elaine saw Derek, his father had once again dragged him into the church, shoved him into the chair, and marched from the room without a word. Derek slumped over the table and planted his forehead onto his crossed arms. She waited several minutes and then pulled her chair closer to the motionless boy to try to cajole him to do some work, but even as she talked to him in a lilting voice, she had the sense that it was pointless. Life was going to be hard, and there was nothing she could do to spare him that. She should have stopped, but she continued to press the boy to sit up, to look, to listen, until finally irritated with the futility of it all and his stubborn refusal to do anything, she hissed at him that she was sorry she’d wasted her Saturday mornings since he clearly didn’t appreciate it and wasn’t going to try. He didn’t even flinch. He already knew she couldn’t help, and he was undismayed when her compassion ran out.

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The boy on the television turned from the camera and a man sitting behind a news desk appeared. “What a shame,” he said, shaking his head, “a shame hardworking Americans are expected to help people like that.” She winced. She realized it wasn’t a question of whether one contributed to the suffering, but the degree to which one did. Standing paralyzed before the officer, she’d had some sense of this, but she didn’t try to explain. He never gave her a chance. His tirade had seemed as endless as the misery about them. It poured from him like water through a levee’s breach. When she finally turned to walk away, his voice rising above the sounds of the traffic, the litter, the neutral ground, she didn’t look to him for permission to leave. She looked towards the bench. It was empty. The cat, too, had disappeared.

Originally from New Orleans, Tania Nyman has lived in Baton Rouge, Louisiana for more than 20 years. She earned an MFA in Creative Writing from George Mason University. Her work has previously appeared in America Now and The Southern Poetry Anthology, Vol. IV. For the past ten years, she has devoted much of her time to community advocacy work in Baton Rouge. She periodically publishes her work about local political issues on substack at tanianyman.substack.com.

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NEUTRAL GROUND by Tania Nyman

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THE STORM by Jacob Parker

The Storm Jacob Parker

It was Wednesday morning and I was getting a haircut. This was in France. A small town in France by the sea. I didn’t live there or anything - I was just passing through. I’m not French either and I don’t speak French. But I needed a haircut. Needed something to steady me. A haircut is always good for that. I found a small barbershop on the road heading out of this little town. It had one of those traditional red and white twirling signs outside. Inside the place was all done out in a retro style—that exposed brickwork on the walls, two vintage leather chairs, and a yellow and white vesper in the window all restored and polished. There were no customers, just the two barbers sitting there, waiting. One of these guys was older. He had a large, full beard—all glossy and waxed and trimmed with the mustache ends curled up. His hair was done in the fifties style—very short on the sides then with a long swept over side parting, slicked down. He wore round,

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black-rimmed glasses and a denim shirt, carried that kind of intellectual look. The other guy looked much younger. He was one of those guys that will never have much facial hair. He had a very soft mustache. He was wearing a baseball cap, but I could see he had really soft, thin hair beneath the cap as well. Like a baby’s hair. I thought that was odd for a barber—not to have your own facial hair to style, and wearing a baseball cap to hide your hair. He was a lean guy though. He wore a tight black t-shirt and had all these beautiful tattoos coming down his arms. “I need a haircut,” I said. “I don’t speak French.” I said all this in French. I’d translated that on my phone beforehand. Thought I wouldn’t need to say any more. The young guy, the one with no facial hair and the tattoos, stood up and showed me a chair. The guy with the beard and denim shirt watched on quietly, didn't say anything. I sat down and the young barber lay the cape over my body, tied it gently around my neck. I started to try and explain what I wanted, but he put his hand up to stop me, as if to say, no—there’s no need. He started to run his fingers through my hair, moving around me, thinking, getting the sense of the cut before. Of what it had been, where it had come from. I felt my shoulders begin to soften, my body deepen into the chair. And I closed my eyes. I closed my eyes and felt the fingers moving through

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my hair. I thought of Tanya then. I thought about how we’d started going for walks along the canal on our lunchbreaks. How for quite a while it was all normal with her. Nothing odd about it—just two colleagues on a lunch break. Then suddenly it wasn’t normal. These things, you know, I hadn't intended—the thought just happened in an instant. And that was it really, after the thought of it. There probably wasn’t ever any going back after that. I started going back to her place after work. Telling Jane I had to work late. She wore big silver hooped earrings, Tanya, and would tuck her hair behind her ears with her fingers when she talked. I thought that was just magnificent. The water in the canal on these walks—it was really clear in the summer. Looking up along the canal you’d only get light and reflection off of the surface. But if you stopped and looked directly down into the water, the surface just disappeared. You could see everything then, crystal clear. Everything in the water and on the bottom of the canal. All the shit down there. Shopping trolleys, old bikes, the odd moped. Traffic cones, glass bottles, cans, bricks. And dark green weeds swaying heavily in some current. Of course through the water it all looked sort of beautiful. All calm and silent, held in that green-blue. Kind of safe. Or maybe that was just Tanya and how I was

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feeling at the time and everything. I don’t know. But I also knew that if I were to put my hand in—my arm—and pull something back out from down there, it was going to be rank—covered in canal slime, cold, slippery as an eel. This young barber though—he really was good. Really gentle. He knew how to handle someone. And I’ve been to plenty of different barber's in my time, and plenty of them can be a little rough. A bit brusque with you. But this guy—for example, when he tilted my head to get a better angle it was the gentlest touch. Firm enough so I knew how he wanted me to move my head, but not one bit too forceful. He got it just right. Just let me know in the touch what to do. I don’t know if I've ever had a barber get it right. Been touched like that. The barbershop was nice and quiet too. Only the sound of an occasional car going by, and the other barber, the guy with the beard and glasses, turning pages of a magazine now and then. I felt alright then, I did. I felt okay. I listened to the steady clicking of the scissors and this young guy working away. I suppose that was the thing about Tanya. It was tender. There was nothing forced in it. Jane though. We were pretty cruel to each other, Jane and I. Plenty of times in those years that followed. There was one time though with Jane. On our honeymoon. We’d gone to some of those islands off the coast of Scotland. And we were driving

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THE STORM by Jacob Parker

around a lot, driving all round these islands. And one day we’d gone way down this small lane, miles down this single track, to find a beach that we’d been told about. The beach was nice and everything. Enormous and empty. But on the way back in the car, going back along this single track, suddenly there were these rabbits everywhere. Little rabbits. Probably young ones. And absolutely all over the place—in the grass and sitting all over the road. It was like in the time we’d been at the beach they’d all just hatched or something. And now they were sitting everywhere, all dozy and oblivious—and just all over the place. I’m sure these rabbits had never seen a car before, because they had no idea what to do. They wouldn’t hop out of the way. Not even when I pressed the horn. I drove really slow, edging along. They’d move out of the way of the wheels, reluctantly. But the others in the middle of the road would stay sitting there and let the car pass right over them. There must have been thousands. But then after a while I had to just drive. We were miles from the hotel and we were never going to make it back otherwise. There was no way we could have walked. What else could I do? So I just drove. And we could hear all these little rabbits kind of popping under the wheels. And as the car passed over the ones in the middle, they’d jump now and we could hear their little heads hitting the underside of the car. I must

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have killed hundreds. Hundreds. That’s a disgusting story, I know. And this barber, this young guy working away with such concentration—so careful, so attentive to me—I was relieved he’d never know that about me. What I’d done with the rabbits. I’d felt awful at the time, just awful. And Jane—she’d been so good with me about that really. She’d put her hand on my shoulder as I drove and looked at me and told me that it was okay, it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault. So different to how we drove together later on. Years later that is—driving to view our new house for example. With the kids in the back now, and Jane and I arguing about something. About nothing. Just arguing all the time. I think that was it then, the moment I knew—or the moment I’d decided in some way—that I was going to leave them, Jane and the kids, and make a new life for myself somewhere. This new house we were going to see was still being built, way out in the suburbs. And when we got there and we were looking around, all the rooms felt enormous to me. The half-built kitchen seemed vast, with all these shining surfaces—a kind of dark marble—and then white walls everywhere. It felt more like an ice-rink somehow. And I couldn’t see how we were going to fill all these cupboards. Couldn’t figure out what we were going to put in all of them.

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THE STORM by Jacob Parker

Tanya was the way out of all that with Jane. For a bit. Until then of course she wasn’t and that all ended. That was when the transfer to the Singapore office seemed…Well, there was no reason not to by then. There’s a sort of warm numbness you get from all that wealth and business luxury, like I got in Singapore. And it keeps you going for a while. Maids cooking and cleaning for you. Fresh pressed shirts. Silk sheets on the bed. And the money pouring into your account each month, more than you could ever spend. A lot of time there was spent living behind big thick, clear windows—where the temperature inside was different to outside. Like a fish tank. Like, perhaps, what I imagined a place of knowledge to be. I used to go to the night zoo there in Singapore. For something to do. They had crocodiles, some small wild cats, a few apes, and a couple of elephants. But then one time I was there I realized why it was a night zoo. It was because the enclosures were tiny. They were using the lighting and the dark to make it appear like the animals had these huge, unenclosed, free areas to be in. But looking really close I could see the walls or bars of their cages just a few feet back in the dark, hidden by plants or bushes. After that, the whole thing just made me sick. One of the elephants stood there, its head nodding up and down. Up and down. Completely lost its mind. No way

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out of there—and with their long memories and everything. I couldn’t stand it after that. It put something awful into me, the whole thing, and I couldn’t shake it. And then I was glad to leave Singapore not too long after. It seemed to me that this young barber should be finishing up soon, felt like I’d been there a while. But he wasn’t. He was still snipping. Going over and over my hair. Getting different scissors, checking the length with his fingers, adjusting. He was so careful, so attentive to every detail. Completely absorbed in his work. His eyes almost vacant in concentration. You know what, I remember selling that car—the one Jane and I drove to our new house in. I sold it before I went off to Singapore. The guy that came to buy it from me was really thorough about everything as well. He checked the whole car over, in lots of detail. Drove it round and round with me sitting there in the passenger seat with him. He checked the electric windows, the lights, all the service history. He was there for a couple of hours, testing and checking. He was so careful, so precise. Then a few days after he’d bought it, I remembered I’d left a CD in the player. I’d forgotten to take it out. And it really got into me that did—I was so annoyed with myself. I’d checked everything getting it ready to sell as well. I'd been careful with this. And the guy had been really thorough too. And then I’d gone and forgotten the music. It was

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THE STORM by Jacob Parker

Springsteen’s Born To Run album that I’d left in the car. I remember that. I loved that album. I listened to it a lot at that time, through all of that stuff with Jane. It was all going forwards that album, all momentum—wonderful music to drive to. That feeling of going someplace—really going someplace—putting all those miles behind you. Going out there to find something. Like that time in Singapore—I'd been sure I was going to find something there. Then the young barber did stop his cutting. Suddenly stopped cutting, just like that. And he did something. He laid his hands on my shoulders—evenly, gently—and he leant down, he bent down low so his head was level with mine, our ears almost touching, and in the mirror, finally, he looked straight at me. And in that instant there, I felt completely transparent. Like he’d seen right through me. Or down into me. And it put that terrible feeling into me again—the thought of the world still out there, waiting for me. My life waiting for me. And how there’s no going back. No starting again. That’s almost unbearable to me sometimes you know. And then it was done. The final, familiar motions. The small mirror to show me the back. The soft brush around my neck. He didn’t look at me once again, this young guy. Not once. I raised myself out of the chair and he got to tidying up straight away. It was the other guy, the guy with

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the beard and the glasses, who'd been sitting there like a sentry the whole time—he took my payment. He looked at me, looked at me like he knew. Seemed strange too, somehow, that I’d never see this young barber again. Never know him better than I knew him right then. That we’d never sit down together and go over all this stuff properly, talk it all through carefully. Outside on the street I felt a chill around my ears. It would be Autumn soon. Autumn in France. I looked up the street, the way out of the town. The road in the distance curved around a bend, disappeared. And I thought about how I’d get out of there, how I’d get on the road again, and of all the things still up ahead of me out there. And I thought too, about those two guys, back there in the barber's, already forgetting me.

Jacob Parker lives in Gloucestershire. His short fiction has also featured in The London Magazine, Structo, Open Pen, MIR Online, Litro, The Interpreter’s House, and others.

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DECEMBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 17

WELL DONE! Poetry

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THERE WERE RED FLAGS by Mike Turner

There Were Red Flags Mike Turner

There were red flags That cold December morning A nor’easter blowing in off the Atlantic Stirring the bare sands Bending the dune grasses “Let’s stroll down the beach and see what there is to see” Said Gram In short gasps Across the breakfast table We bundled up and set out Gram walking slowly

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Steadying herself with an old staff Me mimicking her gait With an unstrung bamboo fishing pole Down to the high water line Dark grey-green breakers cresting Crashing ashore, dragging the sand back out Wisps of foam laying atop clumps of seaweed Marking the advance of tide and time “Look! Portuguese Men of War!” Called Gram Pointing to the pink/blue balloons Reddish tentacles strewn across broken shells Gram’s face flushed from cold and exertion We walked what seemed like miles Using our sticks to poke the jellyfish Popping them, watching them deflate At first we counted our take, but lost track In our relentless trek

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Turning seaward, we looked out across the waves Nothing between us and the coast of England Portugal, Gibraltar, all the Old World Blown across to us here in the New Flotsam and jetsam, hope and memory At length Gram stopped and turned Audibly rasping now “Time to head back,” she said And we retraced our steps Trudging wearily along the hard-packed beach Next morning, Gram stayed in bed While Mom made toast and tea And Dad strapped our bags on top the DeSoto Gram’s hug warm as we said our goodbyes Snuggled and sweet under her scratchy crocheted afghan A few days later We got the call that Gram had left us I sat, mourning her departure

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Not expected, yet not surprising As the turning of Autumn to Winter I was glad of our adventure Two knights of Neptune, wielding our swords against the sea’s dragons Living an interlude of companionship and love Not knowing it would be our last time together But there were red flags

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THERE WERE RED FLAGS by Mike Turner

Mike Turner retired to the Alabama Gulf Coast after more than 25 years as a Federal law enforcement executive. An adult ed ukulele class opened the world of music and songwriting to Mike; with more than 200 original songs to his credit, he was featured on the “15 Minutes of Fame” stage at the 2020 Monroeville Literary Festival. Mike has had more than 280 poems published in more than 30 literary journals and anthologies. His poetry book, Visions and Memories, is available on Amazon. His poem, “A Sense of Peace,” was awarded the 2023 Roger Williams Peace Award for Writing by the Alabama Writers’ Cooperative. When not writing and recording, Mike explores the backwaters of the Northern Gulf with his wife, Pamela Caudill, on their recreational trawler.

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AUTUMN’S LAST LAMENT by Ashley Tunnell

Autumn’s Last Lament Ashley Tunnell

How frightening it must be To be a window staring down winter Morning brings a forest Intricately laced across a frozen pane Until the afternoon sun comes And steals it all away I’m stuck inside wondering why Autumn comes with a sigh and leaves crying Winter can be anything A welcome mat A hook to hang my keys Or my heart But it chooses to be cold

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Ashley Tunnell is a writer from Blairsville, GA. She is completing a bachelor’s degree with a teaching pathway in English from the University of North Georgia, and she intends to pursue her master’s degree in the same field with a concentration in creative writing. Her work has been published in UNG’s literary magazine as well as the Southern Literary Festival’s anthology of poetry and short stories. When she is not reading, writing, or studying, Ashley enjoys spending time with her family and singing in her local community choir.

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ANOTHER VIEW: JUDAS SEASON by B.A. Brittingham

Another View: Judas Season B.A. Brittingham

In Florida, autumn’s arrival is marked by the burning of the cane fields. As dark clouds of pungent smoke rise from the inland sugar-producing areas — places bearing names like Pahokee and Belle Glade and Okeechobee — they are tugged toward the densely populated coastal communities by winds that will dissipate them over the ocean. Bits of pale ash settle upon patio furniture and the hoods of cars, and I wonder as I gaze across this land of perennial verdancy, if there are other displaced Yankees like me who pretend that what they are really smelling is the smoke from next door where the neighbor’s reluctant teenager is burning a pile of beech, poplar, and maple leaves. There exists a shared quirk between the harvests of the north and those of the distant south, a kind of oxymoron which dictates that, in order to have, we must destroy. We pluck the corn and cut the stalks, dig the potatoes and turn under the plants, burn off the underbrush and crop the

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cane. It is a curious, phoenix-like juxtapositioning of productivity and ruination. In spite of this, I have always loved the fall. It was one of the many things I hated leaving behind many years ago when my husband’s company transferred him from New York. There is I suppose, something to be said for being able to glance out the window on Thanksgiving Day and view the profusion of color thrown up by a hedge of endlessly blooming hibiscus bushes. But I also recall aster, bayberry, and the scarlet hues of dwarf sumac, their colors made more precious by the very fact of their transience. I miss the sounds as well: the relentless scratch of a leaf rake against a cracked concrete sidewalk, the puffing of my father as he forces a difficult storm window into place, the tenacity of long dead oak leaves in the face a persistent wind…memory sounds now swallowed up in the dull hum of the central air-conditioner. If I am very lucky, I may be able to turn it off by Christmas and open the house to the sea air. I have had to tour three supermarkets in search of chestnuts for the dressing, but my determination has finally paid off. The seventeen-year-old at the checkout regards them quizzically before asking me to identify them so she can consult her price per pound list. I cannot but feel sympathy for someone whose holiday turkey will, no doubt, be filled with something that was mixed with water

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ANOTHER VIEW: JUDAS SEASON by B.A. Brittingham

after its removal from a cardboard box or cellophane package. Child of the subtropics, she probably has no concept of things autumnal and of their unbreakable ties to the idea of mortality; if ever the very young do. Perhaps it is only the fact that I have just passed forty that incites me to remember the harvest time—I feel a kinship with it of what lies ahead. Still, while I am the owner of a fine imagination, I have not yet learned how to pretend that there is snow about me as I cut December's grass. I possess no illusions. I remember well that ice must, inevitably, follow. It is the downside of fall: that even the ending must have its own conclusion. For all its bitter beauty, its abundance, its copiousness, autumn remains the Judas season, selling out its rich promise for winter’s silver shekels.

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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 with its ample opportunities for creative contemplation. She has published essays in the Hartford Courant; short stories in Florida Literary Foundation’s hardcover anthology, Paradise; in the 1996 Florida First Coast Writers’ Festival and in Britain’s World Wide Writers. Recently published in Anthology of Short Stories-Autumn 2021 was “Loose Ends.” Her essay “Feed the Beast” was published in WELL READ Magazine in August.

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SUMMER OF HAM by Mickey Dubrow

Summer of Ham Mickey Dubrow

In the summer of 1979, I was fired from my job at Selecto Meats. It was my first job after graduating from college and the only time I was ever outright fired from a job. They offered to give me another chance, but I turned it down. I told them they were doing the right thing by firing me. I hated my job and couldn’t stomach the thought of being there one more day. Before I went to work there, my only knowledge of Selecto Meats was seeing their logo on the bologna and hot dogs I bought at the grocery store. I found out about employment opportunities at the meat packing company from my roommate, Evan. He had scored a position in the hot dog room. He loved working there and suggested I apply. I did, hoping to get into the hot dog room with him. Instead, I was assigned the smoked ham room. The first thing I noticed when I began the job was the crying. Trucks loaded with cows and pigs were parked in the courtyard. The animals’ moos and oinks were filled

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with fear. Somebody commented that they were crying because they could smell burning hair. Selecto Meats was proud that they didn’t waste a single part of the animal, but since there was no use for hair it was burned off. The incoming cows and pigs knew they were next. This creeped me out for a while, but I got over it. After a few weeks, I was so inured to their fate that when I arrived in the morning, I would shout, “See you at lunch time” to the unfortunate livestock. Selecto Meats’ main building was a long red brick rectangle with the cows and pigs going in one end and the trucks carrying the packaged meat to the grocery stores out the other. Inside, the temperature was always 45 degrees to keep the meat from spoiling. Workers wore safety helmets, long coats, and thigh high black rubber boots. The air had that stale stink you get from old freezers that are never defrosted. Most of my co-workers looked like they had ridden in from the country with the livestock. I remember one guy in particular whom everyone called “Dolly”. He made the mistake of mentioning that he was related to Dolly Parton, thus the nickname. He was short and stocky with blue eyes and curly light blonde hair. I never did find out his real name. Dolly worked with me in the smoked ham room. There were twelve of us in all, working in a room covered wall

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to ceiling with stainless steel. The floor was black and white checkered tile. We were men and women ranging in age from early twenties to late fifties. Everybody had a different task along a conveyor belt that snaked through the room. When the belt started up (it was not started by any of us) smoked hams would roll into the room. We did our assigned tasks, standing, for two hours at a time, followed by a fifteen-minute bathroom break. My job was to yank off a mesh girdle on the plump hams. I never found out how the girdle got on the hams before they were put on the conveyor belt and never thought to ask. At first, I thought our supervisor was Otis, a large man with red hair and Elvis style mutton chop sideburns. Then our real supervisor, Dan, arrived. It seemed Otis only acted like he was supervisor when in reality he was just another stop on the conveyor belt. Dan took a liking to me because I worked fast and steady. Even though I grew up in the bosom of suburbia, my parents instilled in me a solid work ethic. The only time during the day I saw Evan was at lunchtime. Evan’s hot dog room buddies ate lunch with us. I didn’t have any smoked ham room friends. Not even Otis or Dolly. While we ate, Evan and his hot dog room buddies would tell me about the great time they were having in the hot dog room. Everybody there was in their early twenties.

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They made it sound as if the hot dog room was a non-stop party. The smoked ham room was an endless conveyor belt of hams wearing girdles. Every day, four men ate by themselves at a table in the middle of the lunchroom. There was plenty of room at the table for more people, but nobody ever joined them. The men sat in stony silence and never smiled. The bottoms of their coats and their black rubber boots were covered with brown stains. I asked one of Evan’s hot dog room buddies what was the deal with these four men. He said nobody socialized with them because they worked in the “kill room”. The description of the kill room’s operation was passed on from worker to worker like a ghost story, but I never witnessed it for myself. I don’t think anyone other than the kill room men went inside the kill room. I suspect what ruined my potential career at Selecto Meats was jealousy. Otis was smitten by a fellow smoked ham room employee. Her name was Crystal, a sweet-faced girl with long blonde hair. Crystal was short, plump, and had enormous breasts. Otis kept asking her when she was going to invite him over to her place for dinner. He wanted her to make him his favorite dish, macaroni and cheese with tomatoes. Both the dish and Otis made Crystal wrinkle her nose in disgust. Crystal didn’t want anything to do with Otis. She was

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aiming for something higher. I can only guess it was my college degree that made her decide that I was a better catch. She apparently didn’t know how useless a Bachelor of Fine Arts (BFA) degree was in the real world. You’d think the fact that I was working in a meat packing company would have been her first clue. While Otis flirted with Crystal, she flirted with me. Who knows how long this love triangle could have lasted. One day a manager came into the smoked ham room looking for a warm body to fill in a temporary vacancy in another department. Our supervisor was out doing who knows what, so the manager asked Otis who the smoked room could spare. Otis pointed at me. The manager took me to the bacon room. For the rest of the day, I pulled slabs of pig meat off metal hooks and laid them on a conveyor belt. From there, the slabs were sliced into thin strips. Portions of the strips were put in plastic pouches, then shrink-wrapped and labeled. From then on, I would start my day in the smoked ham room, but at any moment, the manager would show up to take me to another room. I was never taken to the same room twice. One day I pulled slabs of pig meat out of an ice water trough and hung them on metal hooks. The slabs were then taken by conveyor belt into a room to be cured and smoked. The sleeves of my shirt were soaked by the end of the day from the water dripping off the slabs.

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On another day, I stood by a scale in a room the size of a concert hall, surrounded by dumpster-size plastic bins. Smoked hams rolled down a metal chute to where I was standing. I weighed the ham and then tossed it like a football into the bin with hams of similar weight. I only missed the bin a few times. I was alone, so I just scooped those hams off the floor and flung them into the appropriate bin. I can’t explain why, but doing these different jobs began to bother me. Maybe it was the uncertainty. I knew what to expect from the smoked ham room. When the manager came for me, I never knew what kind of labor I was in, only that it was consistently harder work than yanking mesh girdles off smoked hams. Since I never knew when the manager would show up, or if he would show up at all, a sense of dread filled my days. Meanwhile, the party continued for Evan and his hot dog room buddies. In fact, Evan’s good times extended beyond Selecto Meats. He started having sex with a woman who also worked in the hot dog room. They met after work, which was a ballsy thing to do considering Evan was using his girlfriend’s car to get to and from work and his co-worker was married. Selecto had a company store where employees could buy packaged meat for half price. Evan and I took full advantage of the cheap meat and soon our freezer was

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overstocked with frozen steaks. The refrigerator always had a steady supply of baloney and hot dogs. The only thing I never bought was pork. I’m Jewish and my mother kept a kosher home. Pig was not part of our diet. Yet, I worked with some kind of pig meat all day. I became curious about how a ham sandwich might taste, so I went to the company store and bought a package of sliced ham. Then I got a loaf of white bread and a jar of mayonnaise. That night, for the first time in my life, I ate a ham sandwich. The texture of the meat and bread wasn’t much different from a bologna sandwich but compared to a corned beef sandwich on rye bread, the difference as night and day. I liked the ham sandwich okay, but not enough to keep eating them on a regular basis. If you ever run into my mother, please don’t tell her that I ate ham. She still doesn’t know about it. The dread I felt working at Selecto Meats grew as the weeks dragged by. The cold, the stink, the uncertainty of what my job would be from day to day, and handling hunks of meat was wearing me down. I didn’t have another job lined up and I really needed the money. Selecto paid well and if you made it past a three-month grace period, you were paid even better. I only had a couple of weeks to go before I’d start seeing that good money.

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I never had an excuse to skip work. I was never sick enough and there were only so many times I could get away with faking illness. I knew the strain was getting bad when I had this weird dream. In the dream, I was in my bedroom getting ready for work and I heard a loud noise outside. Looking out the window, I saw a hurricane, a tidal wave, and an earthquake rumbling together toward my house. I laughed with joy. Finally, the weather was so bad I couldn’t make it to work. My resolve to stick it out finally broke when my supervisor asked the smoked ham room employees to work a half day on a Saturday. He promised us that we’d be out by noon. He asked us nicely though it was clear the request was an order. Working on Saturday meant overtime pay, so I didn’t feel too bad about it. However, around ten, the manager came by and took me to another room. I was assigned to help this surly guy hoist long sides of beef onto the metal hooks of a conveyor belt. Once we were alone, I asked surly guy how late he was going to be working today. He replied that we were going to be there until 6:00 p.m. During lunch break, I waved goodbye to my supervisor and smoked ham room co-workers drove away. I felt like they deserted me. It wasn’t fair that they got to go home, and I had to stay. I was only supposed to work a half day. I decided to leave anyway. I knew the manager expected

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me to spend the afternoon lugging beef with surly guy, but I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t have a car and my ride had already left, so I walked the four miles home. Along the way, I berated myself for leaving. I was a quitter. I was a loser from Loserville. I was a spoiled college boy who couldn’t handle a real job in the real world. No matter how much I kicked myself, I didn’t turn back. The following Monday, I showed up for work like nothing happened. The manager asked me why I left work early on Saturday. I explained that I was told that I would only be working a half day, so I assumed that I could leave after lunch. I pretended that I truly didn’t realize that Selecto Meats expected me to stay any longer. The manager looked at me like I was the stupidest man who ever walked the earth, but he didn’t fire me. Later that day, I ran into the surly guy. He couldn’t believe the manager didn’t fire me for deserting him. I was equally baffled. Word got around about my leaving early. My smoked ham co-workers avoided me. Crystal wouldn’t look at me and made sure I was watching when she told Otis that she would make him macaroni and cheese with tomatoes. I got it. I had shown contempt for my job at Selecto Meats. For my co-workers, this was the best job they ever had. It might be the best job they’ll ever have, and I treated it like dirt. I found out during lunch that Evan was also having a

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bad Monday. His affair with the woman in the hot dog room ended. She no longer felt right about going to a hotel room with him after work knowing her husband was waiting for her at home wondering why she was late. After lunch, I was yanking mesh girdles off smoked hams when a manager I’d never seen before took me to his office and fired me. I just stared at the floor. I couldn’t decide if I was ashamed, thrilled, or disappointed I didn’t make it to the end of the three-month grace period. He must have felt bad for me because he offered to keep me in the smoked ham room and not let the other manager move me around. As much as I needed a job, I knew at that moment that I couldn’t go back there. The smoked ham room was no party for me. I told him he’d made the right decision to fire me. I walked the four miles home and within a week I had another job. Despite my experience with Selecto Meats, my work ethic didn’t die in a meat freezer. When I agreed to do a job, I worked as hard as I could. The difference was, I didn’t accept jobs I didn't want to do. I also stopped eating ham. Like Selecto Meats, it wasn’t for me.

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Mickey Dubrow is the author of Always Agnes and American Judas. For over thirty years, he wrote television promos, marketing presentations, and scripts for various clients including Cartoon Network, TNT Latin America, and HGTV. His short stories and essays have appeared in Prime Number Magazine, The Good Men Project, The Signal Mountain Review, Full Grown People, and McSweeney’s Internet Tendency. His first novel, American Judas, was a Finalist for the 2020 Georgia Author of the Year Award in the category of First Novel. He lives in Atlanta with his wife, author Jessica Handler.

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BAD KITTY by George Pallas

Bad Kitty George Pallas

Amy Trent was a cat person, no doubt about it. For as long as she could remember, she shared her life with at least one feline, often more than one. She even had a plaque with the Victor Hugo quote, “God has made the cat to give man the pleasure of caressing the tiger.” But now she found herself catless. When her daughter, Brittany, decided to move into an apartment of her own, she begged to take the family cat, Princess, with her. Amy relented, and now she had no feline in residence. Nor was this the only upheaval in Amy’s life. She was in her mid forties, an empty nester, and had weathered a recent contentious divorce. Alone for the first time in more than twenty years, she thought it prudent to downsize. Using some of the settlement money and proceeds from selling her former home, Amy put a substantial down payment on a smaller house in an upscale suburb. After almost three weeks, she unpacked the last box the movers had left. A cat, she decided, would be the perfect addition

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to her new house. With so many animals in shelters, Amy knew she shouldn’t—no, couldn’t—buy a cat from a breeder or a pet store. Pounds and rescues everywhere were overflowing with cats available for adoption. A bit of quick research on the Internet found several animal rescues in her area. One of them happened to be having a “re-homing” event over the upcoming weekend. She resolved to go. As she expected, when she got to the shelter, there were cats and kittens galore. There were grey cats, white cats, black cats, and orange cats. There were long-haired cats and short-haired cats, striped cats and spotted cats, solidcolored cats and cats with patterned coats. None of them were fancy breeds but were plain domestic house cats. The hard part for Amy was choosing. From the outset, she planned to adopt a kitten rather than an adult cat. The cuteness factor with kittens was too much to resist, although many of the grown cats had plenty of appeal, too. With a little effort, she resisted the impractical urge to take them all and studied the cages one by one. At last, she came to a large cage that held a mother tabby and six kittens old enough to go out on their own. “Oh, how cute,” she gushed to the older woman— Gladys, according to her nametag—who was one of several working the event. “They certainly are,” the woman said. “Would you like

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to take one home?” “That’s why I’m here. How much are they?” “The adoption fee is $225.” When Amy frowned, she hastily added, “Our fees do run a little high, but that’s how we cover the cost of running the shelter. And it’s only $175 per animal if you take more than one.” It’s just me in that house, she thought. I can handle more than one cat, can’t I? Eventually, though, common sense prevailed. “It’s tempting, but I don’t think I’ll take on more than one right now. Do you have any females in this litter?” Gladys peered into the cage. She reached in and patted the mother cat before picking up one of the kittens and taking it out for a closer look. “I think I have a little girl here,” she said, inspecting the kitten’s undercarriage. Satisfied, she placed the kitten in a cardboard cat carrier. “That’ll be $225. We can take plastic, but we prefer cash or checks. Saves us the credit card processing fees.” “That’s no problem, I understand,” said Amy as she whipped her checkbook out of her purse. She wrote out a check for $275 and handed it to the woman. After exchanging goodbyes, she took the makeshift crate out to her car and left. Once she got home, Amy took her pet out of the carrier—no more than a fancy box—and let it acquaint itself with its new surroundings. She watched, enthralled,

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while it poked around, tentatively, at first but soon with all the confidence of youth. Its coat was shades of brown adorned with mackerel tabby markings. Its only distinguishing feature was a black spot on the tip of its pink nose. First, the animal gave everything in the room a good sniff. In no time, it displayed stereotypical feline curiosity, exploring without fear every nook and cranny it could reach and casting a pensive gaze at the ones it couldn’t. It ran, it sat, and it pounced on dust bunnies. Amy laughed as the little kitten tired itself out with its antics. Thinking up a name was more of a challenge than she expected. She tried out several different names in her head, but none seemed to fit. She didn’t like girly-girly names, so she did not consider any of those. She sensed they wouldn’t wear well on such an energetic little furball. The following morning, Amy put her new baby into an actual cat carrier, not the cardboard one she used to bring her home. Their destination was the veterinarian for a getacquainted visit. The woman at the animal shelter had assured her that all their adoptive animals had received the appropriate vaccinations. But her as-yet-unnamed pet would need to be spayed when she reached the proper age. The vet was a very young-looking man who could have passed for a high school student. But the collection of diplomas and residency certificates arrayed on the wall of

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the examining room convinced Amy he had the qualifications to practice veterinary medicine. After giving Amy’s kitten a thorough examination, he turned to her and said, “Well, you have a healthy little boy here.” Amy was bewildered. “Boy!” she said. “I asked for a girl cat.” “Well, this is a boy, no question about it. He should grow up to be bigger than a female, but other than that, there won’t be much difference after you have him neutered.” Back from the vet, Amy reconsidered her naming options. Feminine names were out for obvious reasons. So, at least in her mind, were cutesy names like “Fluffy,” “Muffin,” or “Mittens.” Nor did this kitten have any distinguishing characteristics like the cat she had when she was in elementary school. That one she had named “Socks” because it had black fur with white paws, but this one only had typical tabby markings. Thinking about Socks did give her an idea, though. Oscar Spangler, a neighbor who lived one street over from her parents, had given her the cat. The more she considered it, the more she liked the thought of naming this cat Oscar. “You,” she said to the kitten, “are going to be Oscar. How do you like your new name?” Oscar blinked his eyes a couple of times and resumed chasing dust bunnies. Months later, Oscar was almost a full-sized cat, but he

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was still a youngster at heart, getting into feline mischief at every turn. In no time, he figured out which closet Amy used to store the cat food and how to open its door. He had no qualms leaping from between the kitchen counters and table, indifferent to Amy’s efforts to train him not to. But his most annoying stunt was batting at rolls of toilet paper until a ribbon of bathroom tissue festooned half the house. Oscar, like almost all cats, also despised the cat carrier. No manner of pleading or coaxing would induce him to go inside on his own. Bribing him with treats didn’t work, either. Amy found that the best technique was to put the crate on its end, pick up the animal unawares, and drop him in from the top. He still objected, but dropping him in was easier than trying to push him in from the side. Getting fewer scratches was a pleasant side benefit. # On a day when dreary winter surrendered to a warm and sunny spring Saturday, Amy decided it was an opportune time to air out the house. She went from room to room, drawing curtains and opening windows, first downstairs, then repeating the process on the second floor. With the house open and airing, she went about her daily routine. As the sun began to sink and the temperature fell late in the afternoon, it was time to close the house up for the night. Entering an upstairs bedroom, she stopped short when she saw a gaping hole torn through the window

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screen. She stopped and realized she hadn’t seen Oscar in the past few hours, and now she could guess why. He’d clawed an impromptu gateway to the outdoors and gone out the window. She leaned out to look. The missing feline was nowhere in sight, but his pitiful meows carried all over the neighborhood. Thinking it might be easier to spot him from the outside, she went downstairs and out onto the front lawn. There, on the peak of the roof, huddled against the chimney and quite frightened, was her contrite pet. “Oh, Oscar!” she said, shaking her head. “How did you get yourself up there? Bad kitty!” The first thing she tried was coaxing him down. She went back upstairs with a bowl of tuna, his favorite treat. Leaning out the window, she called to him. Call as she might, he refused to move. Bribery had signally failed. No, she was going to have to go up after him. Amy recalled that the previous homeowners had left a ladder in the garage. She fetched it and stood it up against the side of the house. Anyone watching might have found it amusing to see a middle-aged woman scaling a ladder onto her roof. She kept herself in shape with frequent visits to the gym, so this middle-aged woman, at least, made the ascent without much difficulty. What was difficult, though, was convincing Oscar to come down. He dug his claws so firmly into the shingles

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that Amy was afraid she’d lose her balance and fall if she pulled him loose. She wished she’d brought some tuna with her but doubted that even the promise of a favorite treat would pry him away from his perch. Another idea took hold. Amy climbed down the ladder, went back into the house, and fished Oscar’s cat carrier out of the closet where she kept the pet supplies. Then she gingerly climbed back up on the roof, toting the crate. Positioned at the roof’s apex, she made sure the flap was open and set it right in front of the frightened feline. Gone was his refusal to voluntarily enter the carrier. Instead, he all but flew into it, squeezing himself in the back as far from the opening as possible. He cowered without making a sound while she zipped it shut. Now, with Oscar safely confined, she took the crate with the cat inside it off the roof and into the house. Once in the house, Amy released Oscar and sat with him in her lap. She petted him and offered him bites of tuna now and then. Despite her vexation over the ruined screen and her rooftop acrobatics, she felt sorry for Oscar. He’d gotten into a situation that genuinely scared him, and he couldn’t find a way out. The cat, in the past so reluctant to have her hold him or pay attention to him, was now quite content to sit still and let her pet him. “Bad kitty!” she said while she stroked Oscar’s soft fur.

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BAD KITTY by George Pallas

George Pallas is a native of Tennessee, born in Chattanooga and raised in the Nashville area. He studied computer science at Vanderbilt University and moved to Ohio after graduating to begin a career in information technology. Now retired, he focuses on writing and works part-time for the Chicago Cubs. As a writer, George has short stories in three anthologies produced by the Ohio Writers’Association. “Number 845712” appeared in Outcasts: An Anthology (2021), “The Sheriff” in Metamorphosis: An Anthology (2022), and “The Evil Twin” in House of Secrets: Every RoomHolds a Story (2023). His first book, Stalking Horse, is a mystery novel. He also writes about historical true crime In his blog, “Old Crime is New Again,” at georgepallas.com, andcontributes to Review Tales magazine. George lives in Chicago with his wife, Sharon, and their dog, Sheldon Cooper.

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AN AMAZONIAN PHOTO SAFARI by Orlando DeVito

An Amazonian Photo Safari Orlando DeVito

“Stop!” Francisco called out. “You’re about to step right under a poisonous snake. See him on that branch?” “Yeah, they blend in really well, don’t they?” Richard replied to their local guide, still holding his right foot in mid-air. “Thanks.” “You really need to keep your eyes open in this jungle. There’s danger at every turn.” Francisco pushed on into the brush, slashing left and right with his machete. Alice raised her camera and captured the reptile in midflick of its tongue. “Francisco, do you really think we will get to see any large fauna today?” she asked as she stepped gingerly out of range of the Pit viper. “Sure, we’ll be coming up on a watering hole in about a hundred yards or so. Let me get ahead about 20 feet so I can scope it out before you approach.” Alice snapped the troop of spider monkeys leaping through the verdant canopy fifty meters above them. Though she couldn’t see them, the serenade of the Howler

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Monkeys was reminiscent of Johnny Weissmuller’s Tarzan movies. Of course, that was supposed to be Africa, but audiences were not that sophisticated in those days. “Oh! There’s a Toucan.” Snap, snap. The bird took to wing startled by the flash. The path was narrow, and if Francisco hadn’t cut back the underbrush the young adventurers would have lost it hours ago. Getting lost in this jungle would not be fun. The pair had planned this trip months ago. Their friends and relatives all thought them mad to choose this over a Hawaiian honeymoon, but they wouldn’t be happy in the average tourist trap. No, their special vacation had to be not only exotic but also to include a modicum of danger. Just then, Francisco signaled from the trail ahead to hold in place. He disappeared into the scrub where he observed a dozen Capybara, some as large as 4 feet long approach a small stream to drink. Feeling a need to relieve herself, Alice begged pardon from her partner and retreated behind a large tree. Shortly thereafter, their guide reappeared with a broad smile that disappeared as he realized his two charges were only one. “Where is su esposa?” he inquired, controlling his agitation. “Over that way,” Richard nonchalantly indicated with his thumb. “She’ll be right back. Nature calls, you know.” Francisco turned and immediately moved in the

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direction indicated. Behind the aforementioned tree, he found his wayward trustee. “Eek! Privacy!” Alice protested. “What are you doing?” Francisco inquired indignantly. “I think a big boy like you can probably figure out what I’m doing!” Alice returned with even more indignation as she rose from her squatted position and rearranged her attire. Smiling a bit though still somewhat angry, he replied, “Don’t you realize how dangerous this area is? When you move away from your husband, you become the target for any predators in the area. There are Caymans and large cats in this vicinity. The next time you need to pee, get someone to stand guard with a gun.” he lectured in a subdued tone. “And keep your voice down; you don’t want to spook the wildlife.” “All right! All right, don’t get your panties in a bunch,” she replied as she turned and practically walked into her husband, who had been listening to the exchange. Her look silently inquired why he hadn’t defended her. “He’s right, you know. If anything eats you, it should be me.” He gave her a hug that drove the air from her lungs. “I will accompany you next time.” Smiling, she replied, “Okay, my big strong macho.” The three returned to the trail. “I have found the stream and a family of Capybara. Stay quiet and we can observe

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them.” The guide stealthily advanced through the undergrowth, gently pulling the nearest branches aside until the stream was revealed. “Wow!” Alice breathed. “How marvelous.” The large male raised his head and aimed his ears in their direction. He made a high pitched squeak, then the entire group turned and disappeared into the jungle. “Let’s move further downstream. Hopefully we will encounter others. Watch out for snakes,” the leader recommended. “Ahh, there’s the watering hole. And look, there’s another thirsty resident approaching.” A six foot long Tapir entered the clearing and warily made its way to the pool for a drink. He put his head down and began to consume the clear, refreshing water. Alice raised her camera but hesitated as she sensed something was about to happen. Just then a spotted Jaguar leaped out of the foliage and grappled with the hapless Tapir that squealed loudly. Alice snapped the extraordinary picture and once again the flash startled her subjects. This time the Jaguar leaped from his prey and disappeared in the opposite direction. “I hope you got a good picture. We’re not likely to see either of those two again today,” Richard remarked under his breath. “Undoubtedly, you are correct,” Francisco agreed. “Perhaps we should be heading back to camp.” The three

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AN AMAZONIAN PHOTO SAFARI by Orlando DeVito

backtracked, unaware that the Jaguar had circled around, and stopped to examine the strange scent of urine near a large tree. As they walked down the path, Richard and Alice remarked about the exciting day they had just experienced, and how wonderful the trip had been so far. Their escort smiled, imagining the significant bonus he should receive — when he stopped short and drew his pistol. He stared intensely in the direction of the tree behind which Alice had relieved herself. A silent and momentary flash of yellow and black… “Run!”

Thomas S. Orlando, writing as Orlando DeVito, has had several short stories published. He is now revising a psychological thriller. As a veteran of both the Navy and Air Force, he has traveled the world and actually lived in Japan, Spain, and the Philippines. During these sojourns, he has climbed a 12,00 foot mountain, shot the rapids at Pagsanghan Falls, and faced the bull in the ring, twice in Spain. Tom has obtained an MS in Management and almost a second in Public Administration, as well as a Project Management Certification. Now 76 years old, he has moved into his dream home on a lake in Arkansas, where he can write in peace.

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WELL DONE! Poetry

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WHO’S BLACK AND WHITE AND RED ALL OVER? by Ken Gosse

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

Somehow, a great white beard he’ll keep as bright as snow, both clean and deep while just one night a year he’ll creep down flues to hearth—a chimney sweep. Mistaken sometimes for Falstaff whose ample belly gets a laugh, or even for a musketeer in red and black, devoid of fear, bravado comes in joyful sound on landing from his famous bound; for once both feet have hit the ground his “Ho, Ho, Umph!” starts to rebound.

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The children, desperate for a view, stay up too late, like children do. Now fast asleep, they’ll hear no noise while dreaming of their Christmas toys. Though covered now with sooty coal, that won’t deter him from his goal. There’s magic under his control— no smudge is left by his boot’s sole. And though his job’s a dirty one, it’s critical and must be done. Fur linings changed to black from white— a messy but delightful sight. Behold! On opening his sack, the white’s restored from sooty black. He’ll leave once he’s enjoyed the snack “For Santa. Next year, please come back!”

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*Who’s Black and White and Red All Over? is about a visit from Santa and the mess you’d expect it might cause. It’s an ekphrastic poem originally written in one hour (but modified since then) in December 2018 for Visual Verse Volume 06, Chapter 02. The image is a painting of a Beĳing Opera character by Dong Chensheng. It reminded me of Falstaff, then of Santa (perhaps since it was December), so that’s where I took the poem.

Ken Gosse usually writes metric, rhymed verse with whimsy and humor. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, since then in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Pure Slush, Parody, Home Planet News Online, Academy of the Heart and Mind, and others. Raised in the Chicago, Illinois, suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twentyfive years with rescue cats and dogs underfoot.

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CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

HELLO WRITERS, POETS, & ARTISTS! CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS IS OPEN! *no themes, no prompts - no boundaries*

Click here for more information

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BETWEEN THE PAGES PODCAST

BETWEEN THE PAGES is a podcast that's an extension of WELL READ Magazine. Each month I edit the fantastic video interviews with the featured authors and contributing writers you'll find inside each issue so readers can see the faces, hear the voices, and experience the full interviews. There's always more to the interviews than what makes it to the page, so these videos are too good not to share. You'll find INSIDE VOICES with Robert Gwaltney and Jeffrey Dale Lofton, ANNE ASKS with Annie McDonnell, and me, Mandy Haynes, in conversation with some incredibly talented and interesting authors. Please take a minute to like, subscribe, and share to help spread the word about the online journal created by an author for authors and readers of all genres and backgrounds. I appreciate your support more than you know - because when you support WELL READ, your supporting every author who advertises their books and shares their stories with WELL READ Magazine.

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BETWEEN THE PAGES PODCAST

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“We loved meeting one another”

Annie McDonnell asks Her Favorites Through The Years

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ANNIE ASKS Her Favorites Through The Years

These are the authors that I adore, and have adored from the moment I read their first book. From Six to almost 120 written by each author my library and kindle shelves are leaning over. I’m excited to share them with you! “Annie Asks” is to ask Proust Questions. I happened upon these questions in Vanity Magazine. They were developed by Proust in the late 1800’s. The entire point of this question is to learn about the person's character that you're interviewing. They were especially intriguing to me, because authors can use the same questions to develop their characters in their books. There are actually a total of 35 questions. I've chosen to ask each of these authors four questions, and we had a lot of interesting answers! Join us, as we learn more about some of Annie’s favorite authors. You can also watch the podcast on Well Read Magazine’s YouTube channel “Between the Pages”. Here is information on each author: Judith Keim, A USA Today Best Selling Author, is a hybrid author who both has a publisher and self-publishes. Ms. Keim writes heart-warming novels about women who face unexpected challenges, meet them with strength, and find love and happiness along the way, stories with heart. DECEMBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 17

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Her best-selling books are based, in part, on many of the places she's lived or visited and on the interesting people that she's met, creating believable characters and realistic settings her many loyal readers love. She enjoyed her childhood and young-adult years in Elmira, New York, and now makes her home in Boise, Idaho, with her husband and their two dachshunds, Winston and Wally, and other members of her family. While growing up, she was drawn to the idea of writing stories from a young age. Books were always present, being read, ready to go back to the library, or about to be discovered. All in her family shared information from the books in general conversation, giving them a wealth of knowledge and vivid imaginations.

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Bestselling author Patricia Sands lives two hours north of Toronto, Canada, in The Blue Mountains, when she isn't somewhere else, and calls the south of France her second home. An admitted travel fanatic, she can pack a bag in a flash and be ready to go anywhere … particularly the south of France. With a focus on travel, women’s issues

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and aging, her stories celebrate the feminine spirit and the power of friendship. Her award-winning 2010 debut novel, The Bridge Club, is a book-group favorite, and The Promise of Provence, which launched her three-part Love in Provence series (followed by Promises to Keep and I Promise You This), was a finalist for a 2013 USA Best Book Award and a 2014 National Indie Excellence Award, an Amazon Hot New Release in April 2013, and a 2015 nominee for a #RBRT Golden Rose award in the category of romance. Her fifth novel, Drawing Lessons, was released by Lake Union Publishing on October 1, 2017. Lavender, Loss & Love, ~A Season of Surprises ~and The First Noel make up the the Villa de Violettes series, based on the Love in Provence characters. The Bridge Club ~ Tenth Anniversary edition ~ was released in September 2021 and is now in Kindle Unlimited. On August 25, 2022, her novel THE SECRETS WE HIDE was released. Most recently, she released LOST AT SEA as part of a series with several authors. Sands also contributes to such Francophile websites as The Good Life France and Perfectly Provence and loves to visit Book Clubs either live or on ZOOM! Info on her website.

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Patricia has led several 10-day tours of the French Riviera and the countryside of Provence.

Barbara Josselsohn is an award-winning novelist and journalist who loves crafting stories about strong protagonists facing a fork in the road. Her novels include The Cranberry Inn, The Lily Garden, The Bluebell Girls, The Lilac House, and The Last Dreamer, Her articles and essays appear in a range of publications including New York Magazine, Parents Magazine, Consumers Digest, The New York Times, American Baby, Writer’s Digest, and Westchester Magazine. She teaches novel writing at the Writing Institute at Sarah Lawrence College and is also a DECEMBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 17

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private book coach. Other than writing, her biggest passion is her family: her husband and their three kids. In 2023 she released her new historical series, “Sisters of War”

Michelle Cox is the author of the multiple awardwinning Henrietta and Inspector Howard series as well as “Novel Notes of Local Lore,” a weekly blog dedicated to Chicago’s forgotten residents. She suspects she may have once lived in the 1930s and, having yet to discover a handy time machine lying around, has resorted to writing about the era as a way of getting herself back there. Coincidentally, her books have been praised by Kirkus, Library Journal, Publishers Weekly, Booklist and many

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others, so she might be on to something. Unbeknownst to most, Michelle hoards board games she doesn’t have time to play and is, not surprisingly, addicted to period dramas and big band music. Also marmalade.

I also asked a few Rapid Fire Questions for fun just for the holidays! Thank you, Mandy Haynes, for this opportunity to interview for Well Read Magazine.

Annie McDonnell, award winning Author of Annie’s Song: Dandelions, Dreams & Dogs, Book Reviewer, Author Interviewer, Teacher, Speaker, Writer, Author Consultant, Co-Admin. At World of the Write Review Book Club, Blogger, Author online event planner.

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LAGNIAPPE

A Labor of Love Renea Winchester

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A LABOR OF LOVE by Renea Winchester

Creating the Apothecary Writing Cottage A Labor of Love Renea Winchester

In December, 2019, my father and I purchased my Granny’s farm. This acquisition included a 60s mobile home. From the beginning, I envisioned converting the structure into something Granny would have loved. Surely it wouldn’t take more than a year, fifteen months, tops. I hear y’all laughing. The Dream Begins: As a writer, I often feel overwhelmed to the point of triggering the flight response. I want to run away to a quiet place, a place where I can abandon my duties as a wife and mother, and focus on words. At times, I feel my creativity dying beneath the weight of job duties, as if I am expending my best years doing remedial tasks, while abandoning the stories waiting to be told. Haven’t we all cleared our calendar and carved out a moment to create only to hear the whispers from a pile of dirty laundry? Simply put, I believe every creative needs a place to hide, a place to sit still, breathe, and -dare I say it- rest.

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Am I the only one who feels blocked by emotional exhaustion? Yes, I would turn this 600 foot mobile home into a secret place where stories would trickle down the creek, a place where I would collect these stories as I sat beneath a massive maple tree. My writing friends would love to be here, for a week, maybe more. They too needed a secret place to escape, of that I was certain. As I looked at the original turquoise appliances and the brass hardware I said, “Just a good cleaning, a couple coats of paint, and new flooring, I’ll be done. Obviously, I was clueless. The Journey Begins: Inside, portions of the floor were missing, but she had good bones and if I know anything about renovations it’s the importance of good bones. I hired a man on the spot after he took one look at the faded aluminum exterior and said, “Oh yes, I can make her beautiful again.” One day I arrived bearing lunch to discover he had removed most of the exterior siding to replace the support beams. I tried to contain my shock, but could literally see through the structure. “There goes my life savings,” I thought and promised not to return until Friday when it was time to pay the man, in cash of course. On Friday, the exterior was back in place, the walls reframed, the holes in the floor repaired. I paid this miracle 160

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worker and made a list of other projects. Just my luck, he was arrested for driving without a license and threatening law enforcement; he would later admit he’d driven for twenty years without a license. Painting Problems: I found a new worker, this one, an experienced painter. I insisted on restoring the exterior to the exact color I remembered, a delightfully cheery teal and white. After a trip to Sherwin Williams, he returned with primer, a few samples, and an estimate that made me consider selling my body to science to fund this project. Thousands of dollars later, the exterior was complete. I loved it. Until this year, 2023, when I discovered he only primed half the building. Like with any creative project, doubt took hold. Should I even be trying to save this structure? I wondered while buying more paint. This wouldn’t be the first time I doubted my decision. Wicked Wiring: After one look at the antiquated electrical box with round glass fuses, new wiring was next. There was only one significant problem, if I wanted overhead lights, all of the ceiling must come down. The price to rehang sheetrock during the home-improvement boom made this impossible. The utilities ran along the floor inside a wooden box. I abandoned the idea of overhead lights and DECEMBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 17

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installed floor plugs. Lamps come cheap. The wiring did not. Everything was moving along swimmingly until the electrician left a message, “The inspector issued a stop-work order. You need to prove you have a septic tank.” He confessed he had botched the permitting when he applied for a “new service” instead of an “reconnect.” It is to find original paperwork from 1960 in a town that didn’t keep the best records in the first place. My uncles owners of Styles Brothers Septic System- installed the tank, but who in the Sam Hill had the paperwork? All the brothers were long-dead, as were my Granny and mother. Weeks passed while I tore through every file mother ever kept, my anxiety grew daily. Why is this so hard? Do I need to stop pursuing this dream? Do I need to stop writing completely? Creatives have a flair for the dramatic. Then I Really Hit a Snag: Just as the wiring was completed, spring rains set in. The roof leaked. I was devastated. All the money I invested would be wasted if I couldn’t keep rain out of the building. The roof was only 600 square ft; how much could a new one possibly cost? The lowest bid came in at 30K. I was absolutely heartbroken. “This is a sign,” I said to my BFF. “It’s time to walk 162

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away.” “Or you can keep pushing,” she said. “You’ve come too far to quit now.” I called every handyman I knew; each said the same thing, “Absolutely not.” My nephew helped me wrestle a blue tarp across the building. I drove home, defeated. A month passed as I slipped into a depression. I’d let Granny down. Land and home prices were skyrocketing. I would lose this farm if I couldn’t make it profitable. Finally, I remembered someone I worked with in the 80s. “Sure. I can getcha a roof,” Mitchell said. “Be there next week.” This time, I wept tears of joy. The roof is beautiful. Simply beautiful. This fall, Mitchell will use similar tin to underpin the building. New Seeds Planted: This year, I began teaching classes to those who are interested in learning the ways of medicinal plants. In the spring, Poppa climbed aboard the tractor and tilled up a new ground. For several years, I’ve grown heritage seeds for Sow True Seed, a woman-owned company. Without this farm, the Foxfire tomato (as an example) would be extinct, as would other crops vital to Appalachian and Cherokee Culture. As tender seedlings emerged a new idea took root. I would plant beautiful flowers. I would welcome DECEMBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 17

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creatives to the land, artists, photographers also. Authors aren’t the only ones who desperately need to unplug and run away. The land that comforted my mother during her cancer battle, the land that raised my Granny’s six children, the land where beauty grows would inspire others. It is quiet here. Except for a couple vehicles traveling up the gravel road to the adjacent farm, I sit on the deck and listen to the creek. I close my eyes and breathe. I find my center as hummingbirds fight over jewel weed nectar. Why wouldn’t someone want to stay here, alone, on the land that helped raise me? This October, I welcomed my first artist in residence. Creatives of all genres are welcome to my little apothecary cottage farm in the way back woods. Less than 5 minutes from downtown Bryson City, North Carolina and the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, I know you’ll love listening to the stories the land whispers. When Can I Visit The Farm? The cottage is listed on Air B & B with a limited booking calendar. Welcome to Butterfly Cove Apothecary Cottage. I have poured every ounce of love I have into her. She’s devoid of television or internet, and bursting with peace and tranquility. Mention this article for special pricing.

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Learn more about the land here: Book your stay Visit Renea’s blog Become her FB friend

Renea Winchester is the author of several nonfiction books and short stories. Her debut novel, Outbound Train was also released in France. She owns her grandmother’s farm and offers a residence on the property as a solace for writers who wish to unplug and write.

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BETWEEN THE PAGES - INTERVIEWS, READINGS, AND MORE

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NETWORKING

Pat Conroy Literary Center 601 Bladen Street Beaufort, SC 29902 Thursday through Sunday noon-4:00 p.m. Other times available by appointment

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NETWORKING

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Authors’ Networking Group

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NETWORKING

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If you have a story you’d like to share in the WELL READ Magazine, I’d love to hear it. Readers - that includes you!

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

Raymond Atkins “Nativity Scenes”

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OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

Nativity Scenes My family is rough on Christmas paraphernalia. I suppose this is due to the gaiety of the season, the fragility of Yuletide ornamentation, and the destructive tendencies of four children and a double handful of dogs. My wife thinks that the house we live in is the culprit. We live in a very old and very large dwelling, and her theory is that something about the twelve-foot ceilings makes children run and holler, slash and burn. And she may be right. Over the years, I have seen many youngsters lose all control upon crossing the threshold. But whatever the reason, we have in our time purchased miles of Christmas lights, boxes of ornaments, several tree-toppers, uncounted Santas, five tree stands, four door wreaths, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree. And we are the major Southeastern consumer of nativity scenes. Our first one was a modest affair, purchased at Walmart for $9.95. It contained a combination Mary and Joseph, a baby Jesus, a cow, a shepherd, an angel, and just one wise man (we never did learn where Gaspar and Balthasar had wandered to). All of these figurines—manufactured from a priceless Hong Kong glass-like shiny substance—were

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nestled in a plywood stable, looking with adoration at the miracle of the birth of Christ. It was a nice little set, and it lasted two years. On the fateful Christmas Eve when our first nativity scene took early retirement, it was sitting on the hall table minding its own business when in rushed our oldest child with some rowdy cousins and wiped it out. Sacred figures flew everywhere, the stable became kindling as it struck the wall, and when the damage was tallied, what we had left was a cow with one horn, an angel with no wings, and baby Jesus, miraculously unscathed. We carefully wrapped these remnants of the catastrophe and placed them out of harm’s way. Early in the subsequent Christmas season, we purchased a replacement nativity scene. This one was a bit nicer than the first, with the members of the ensemble formed in porcelain. The stable was made from small planks and looked like a miniature farm building rather than a threesided plywood box. Mary and Joseph were separate figures—a vast improvement over the Siamese holy parents of the previous year’s model—and baby Jesus had a little halo over his head. Additionally, there were three wise men, two angels, one shepherd with a lamb on his shoulders and another with a staff, a camel, and the ubiquitous cow. We set them up on the table in the front hall, warned the

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children that they were just as breakable as the previous occupants of that table had been, and went on about our decorating business. Later in the evening as I was bound for the front door with the wreath, I noticed that some additional figures had somehow made the pilgrimage to the manger. There, amongst the porcelain majesty of our new nativity members, were a shiny cow with one horn, an injured but still game angel, and the unharmed baby Jesus, tucked in next to his brother. I called my wife out to the hall. “Mary has had twins,” I told her. “And that angel needs a doctor,” she replied. The angel did look like she had seen better millennia. It turned out that our youngest son, then five, had placed the additional visitors at the stable. It was also apparent that he was resistant to the general idea of ringing out the old and ringing in the new. “Honey, we have the new Mary and Jesus set,” his mama told him. “We’ll just keep these other pieces wrapped up as keepsakes.” She began to reach for the crippled cow. “Jesus told me that he wanted out of the box,” the boy stubbornly replied. “He said that the cow and the angel wanted to come, too.” My wife and I exchanged glances. She raised her eyebrow and I shrugged. Who were we to say? Standing

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before us could have been the Joan of Arc of Northwest Georgia. So the additions became permanent, and they were joined the following year by a small Santa Claus candle, which was slid in two days before Christmas by our three-year-old. “Santa has come to Bethlehem,” I noted to my wife. He did not look out of place up in the loft of the stable, exactly, but that little wick sticking out of his head was driving me crazy. “The baby put him there,” she replied. “She said that Santa came to all the good children’s houses.” “If this keeps up, we’re going to need a bigger table,” I pointed out, but St. Nick stayed—minus the wick, which I snipped off with the wire cutters—and we kept that nativity set for another three years. During that time, the assemblage at the manger grew by five. We gained Frosty the Snowman (because the baby thought Santa was lonesome for someone from home), the Star Wars action figure known as Lando Calrissian (because there were no Black people), and three small owls. (I had quit asking by the time they landed on the stable roof. Maybe they belonged to the wise men.) So, it was an eclectic group sitting unsuspectingly on the Hall Table of Doom on that cold night in December of 1995 when I backed in the front door with a large cardboard box full of unassembled bicycle. Before I

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realized it, I had tripped over the table and had fallen upon the nativity scene. The response from my family was immediate and heartwarming. “This is a mess,” said my wife. “Daddy fell on Jesus!” said the baby, now six. “I hope you didn’t kill Frosty,” said one son, now nine. “Dad’s in trouble,” said the oldest daughter, now twelve. “Whoa, who’s the bike for?” said the oldest son, now thirteen. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay,” I said from the rubble. Once we cleaned up the mess and lined up the survivors, the incident officially qualified as a disaster of Biblical proportions. From the porcelain set, Mary and Joseph were broken beyond repair, as were two of the wise men, the shepherd with the lamb, and one of the angels. The list of the wounded included the camel minus his hump, the other shepherd with a broken staff, a wise man missing his gift (and his hands), the cow—short both horns now—and the other angel, short one halo but still angelic. And the babies Jesus? We found them unscathed among the carnage. The following year, right after Thanksgiving, my wife and I went out to buy another replacement nativity scene. “We ought to get one with the figures made of wood,” I suggested.

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“Do you want the house to burn down?” was her reply. “Stone?” I asked. “Earthquake,” she responded. We settled on a set made of the new wonder material, resin. This was our most ambitious collection yet, and its official members included Mary, Joseph, Jesus, the donkey they rode in on, the three wise men, four angels, three lambs, another cow, two shepherds, and the little drummer boy. They all reside in and around a well-made stable complete with a loft, faux straw on the floor, and a roof that looks like it would actually keep the rain out. But what makes this group really special is its unofficial members, and the roots that spread from that hall table down through the history of my family. Without these, this nativity scene would be just another decoration, a pile of resin waiting for the next sandal to drop. So there they all stand for a month each year, immobile, silent reminders of the important components of life— love, family, kindness, acceptance, forgiveness, grace. They are Mary, Joseph, three babes wrapped in swaddling clothes, four wise men, six angels, three shepherds, a little drummer boy, Lando Calrissian, Santa, three cows, three lambs, Frosty the Snowman, the humpless camel, the donkey, and three little owls. Have we finished having nativity incidents? I seriously doubt it. The children are grown now but still prone to

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running down that hall, I am still clumsy, and now there are grandchildren to contend with. Will the resin baby Jesus emerge unharmed to join his brothers? I refuse to think otherwise. Will the group in attendance to the Virgin birth continue to grow? I am certain that it will. And my wife and I are proud to have raised a family that welcomes all visitors to the manger.

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Raymond L. Atkins lives and works in the mountains of Northwest Georgia. You can reach him at raymondlatkins@aol.com or on Facebook at https:// www.facebook.com/raymondlatkins.

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A Woman's Story tells the stories of Latina women's lives. Depicting conflict in gender bias, experiences of exploitation, violence, and powerlessness, sometimes resulting in pain and despair in their turbulent world. But these stories also tell of these women's celebration of life itself that empowers them and gives them the will to sustain. These stories resonate on a deeply emotional level. FIVE STAR READER REVIEWS: “The women in these razor-sharp, real-life stories are tough yet tender, vulnerable yet resilient. They are teachers and nurses, students and soldiers, maids and mothers—in short, ordinary women—who, in the words of one character, are “looking for a stable family and a place where [they] fit in . . . trying to find orderliness in their world where there is none.” In the hands of author Francine Rodriguez, each woman’s story is conveyed with bare-bones honesty and genuine compassion. An outstanding collection.” “This compelling, award-winning collection of short stories details the lives of Latina women in the Los Angeles area with heartbreaking precision and not a hint of sentimentality. The singular title suggests that the various actions and choices of the very real characters are largely a result of circumstance, and yet each character is memorable in her own way, and each makes choices that impact her own life. In that sense, I would say this book, which has been described as a female gritty realism, actually falls into the best tradition of the naturalists. I highly recommend it.”

“Strong stories that are heartbreakingly honest and well written. A book I highly recommend!” “Rodriguez drew upon her experience in law and psychology to compose these gritty, meaty stories about Latina women in Los Angeles. For the most part, the protagonists are working class and underprivileged, confronting a variety of obstacles. In the harrowing opener, "Ten Days in May," a nurse at an underfunded, understaffed hospital deals with a racist, abusive patient dying of COVID. In "Crossing," a dark-skinned college student is charmed into committing a crime by a gorgeous male student who turns out to be gay. Although the stories are sometimes bleak, Rodriguez's clear and direct style makes them easy to read, and she offers glimmers of hope in each one. There's not a lot of levity or humor here, so I recommend not reading them all at once. Each story, however, is novelistic in scope and raises issues worth pondering.” “Any person who closely work with immigrants, this book will help you understand the challenges minority women face in their lives...I don't think there's anyone who wouldn't benefit from reading this book.” Francine Rodriguez grew up in and around downtown Los Angeles and later worked as a Civil Rights and Equal Employment Opportunity Investigator in the Federal sector. All told, she has worked in the fields of law and psychology for over thirty years, and her experiences in these fields inform her writing.

WELL READ Magazine December 2023

Articles inside