WELL READ Magazine February 2025

SaNta Fe TRail: Chasing

Poems and songs by Karla K. Morton and Alan Murphey and art by Bob Boze Bell. This is a special, CD of songs recorded by Michael

Chasing the Big West

Alan Birkelbach with music by Michael Martin

special, limited edition hardback with music

Michael Martin Murphey.

Did you miss last month’s issue? No worries, click here to find it as well as all the past issues.

After the Spirits Come: AContinuation of Dickens'sAChristmas Carol by Beth Ford

One week after the events of A Christmas Carol, Ebenezer Scrooge is celebrating New Year's Eve at his nephew Fred's house, ready to embark on his new life as a gregarious, generous family man with a more charitable business model. However, it soon becomes clear that his transition will be more difficult than predicted on Christmas Day.At the New Year's Eve party, Scrooge meets a doctor who requests to interview him about his experience with the spirits, an interview that leads to others in positions of power doubting Scrooge's mental faculties.And when Scrooge returns home from the party, a threatening note awaits him from men whose lives he ruined in the past and who will not let him be forgiven so easily.

Can Scrooge learn to rejoin society?And will the forces converging around him allow him to succeed?

Death By Trauma:A Josiah Reynolds Mystery by

Abigail Keam

In the Bluegrass world of oakcured bourbon, antebellum mansions, and Thoroughbred horse farms are secrets—deadly secrets!

Josiah Reynolds knows this with good reason. She’s solved many a murder, but Josiah prays that she does not stumble across another body.

The stress is too much, and she is happy to be invited to a winter sledding party at Haze Corbyn’s home. Corbyn is a former syndicated critic for newspapers and magazines, who retired to the Bluegrass, dabbling in his love of horses. The party is a kickoff for the Victoria Weathers film retrospective at a local theater.

Miss Weathers is even coming for the showing of her first movie and Corbyn’s event. Josiah is excited to meet her movie idol, so it comes as a big surprise when Haze Corbyn turns up dead at his own party.

Kentucky is not called “the dark and bloody ground” for nothing!

The Santa Fe Trail began in 1821 when William Becknell headed west with a wagon full of goods. While this trail was used by voyageurs andAmerican Natives for years, Becknell’s trip opened theAmerican West. So many headed out with stories of their own that became inseparable poems and music.

This book/audiobook aims to preserve the 200-year history of the trail by culturally carrying it into the future with the words of Texas Poets Laureate karla k. morton and Alan Birkelbach, the music of Michael Martin Murphey, and the art of Bob Boze Bell. This is the essence ofAmerica moving into a new world.

Click here to help Madville reach their goal of 400 preorders before the March 18th launch date?

Amanda Chimera by Mary B. Moore explores ourhybridnatureasbodyandsomethingelse––mind,soul,spirit––throughpoemsspokenby and about the persona Amanda. Haunted by her vanished twin, Gloria, who died in utero and some of whose DNA she absorbed, Amanda views herself as hybrid and thus as a monster, a carrier of the dead. Grounded in nature’s grace and variety, domestic life, and family dynamics, poems on art and myth focus on hybrid creatures, parallelingAmanda and Gloria. The sisters’ relationship is as varied as the poems’ tones: as Amanda says, she “likes a mixed diction.” Sometimes loving or sorrowful, sometimes witty and wry, the work revels in image and word music.

Patricia Clark’s latest poetry collection O Lucky Day explores her concerns about family and mortality, silence and loneliness, widening to includelossesinthenaturalworld.Thesesorrows often emerge along with an exuberance found in the sensual pleasures of taste and touch. Clark trains herself “to disappear, into the shagbark / hickory, the scarred maple, / the viburnum just about to flower.” She knows that whatever upheaval we bring to the world, and ourselves, “something was broken, then healed, then / transformed.” She advises us to “loaf and ponder,” but also to rise with the rustling grasses in lament of environmental degradation, voicing our insistence for reverence of what remains. These lyric poems of intensity and acute detail render the physical world in its tattered glory.

“Whateverlifehandsme—love,land,orloss— a way to acceptance means embracing earthly cycles, authentic connections to others, and the comforting puzzle of words,” says Catherine Hamrick. Processing depression and the loss of her parents, she explores the therapeutic value of nature and poetry in The Tears of Things. This collection charts her movement through changing relationships, landscapes, and gardens in the Midwest and Deep South. Seamus Heaney’s interpretation of The Aeneid’s famous line sunt lacrimae rerum— “there are tears at the heart of things”— underpins Hamrick’s sensibility. Observing seasonal flourishes and decay reminds us that love, joy, longing, sorrow, and gratitude arise from life’s imperfection and brevity.

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

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

Contributors: Jeffrey Dale Lofton, Phyllis Gobbell,

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

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

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

The Green Mage is a tale in the finest of sword and sorcery tradition—a hero’s journey told through the eyes of the mage.

Norbert Oldfoot is a simple mage who makes his living traveling the Bekla River Road, selling trade goods, performing healing magic, and singing traditional songs of heroes. He becomes friends with Kerttu, a coppersmith who has developed a new alloy which is perfect for manufacturing swords. When Kerttu is kidnappedby theevilWizardLudek,Kerttu’s teenage daughterTessia, a skilled hunter, recruits three friends, including Norbert, and sets out on a quest to find a legendary dragon who lives in the mountains. With the help of the dragon, Tessia plans to save her father. Little do they know that in order to save Kerttu, they will first have to save the kingdom.

Long ago, Milon Redshield, the first warrior-king of Windkeep Castle, brought down a curse on the kingdom for his cruel treatment of dragons, the Goddess Nilene’s chosen guardians of nature. Thousands of years later, Windkeep is still burdened with the curse, and Queen Tessia is having to defend her kingdom from repeated assaults by the weather witches and their allies. She turns to her friends and advisors Norbert the Green Mage and Tyrmiss the Last Dragon, to accompany her and a band of heroes in a quest to travel to the far land of Sheonad in order to parley with the witches, and if they refuse to negotiate, thentodestroytheircity.TessiaurgesNorberttousehis powers to fight the witches and protect Windkeep, but Norbert is reluctant to do so because he understands that the world exists in delicate balance, and grave and unforeseen consequences result if the balance is disrupted. After fighting a number of battles and suffering bizarre magical transformations, Tessia and Norbert at last come to understand the kingdom of Windkeep can be saved only through the ancient wisdom of dragons.

When the dragon Tyrmiss returns to thekingdomtoaskTessiaandNorbert to help save the Western Dragons from extermination, the two heroes begin the greatest adventure of their lives, one that will take them into the underworld to plead with Mnuurluth, Lord Death himself, whom they have unknowingly been serving all along.

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

Volume 1 Contributors: Carolyn Haines, Doug Gray, Angela Patera, Kimberly Parish Davis, Michael Spake, Jennifer Smith, Ashley

Tunnell, Ken Gosse, Dr. Elizabeth V. Koshy, Ann Hite, Ellen

Notbohm, Micah Ward, Malcolm Glass, Katie Crow, Lorraine Cregar, Patricia Feinberg Stoner, John M. Williams, Michael Lee Johnson, J.D. Isip, Casie Bazay, Jacob Strunk, Ann Christine Tabaka, Joan McNerney, Fhen M., Steven Kent, Peter Magliocco, Mark Brought, Rita Welty Bourke, Loretta Fairley, Barbara Anna

Gaiardoni, S. Dodge, DeLane Phillips, Candice Marley Conner, Arvilla Fee, J. B. Hogan, Ramey Channell, Hope Kostedt, John Grey, Martha Ellen Johnson, Nancy Chadwick-Burke, Mike Coleman, Margaret Pearce, Nicole Irizawa, Donald Edwards, Janet Lynn Oakley, Mandy Jones, Phyllis Gobbell, and Suzanne Kamata

Volume 2 Contributors: Candice Marley Conner, Kaye Wilkinson Barley, Mike Ross, Will Maguire, AJ Concannon, Patricia Feinberg Stoner, Gregg Norman, Robin Prince Monroe, Ramey Channell, April Mae M. Berza, Anne Leigh Parrish, B. A. Brittingham, Mike Austin, Sara Evelyne, Jennifer Smith, Loretta Fairley, J.L. Oakley, Celia Miles, Kris Faatz, Ed Nichols, Linda Imbler, Annie McDonnell, Mike Turner, Micah Ward, James Wade, Ashley Tunnell, John M. Williams, Robb Grindstaff, Stevie Lyon, Laura McHale Holland, Saeed Ibrahim, Nancy Julien Kopp, Julie Green, DeLane Phillips, Shayla Dodge, Edilson Afonso Ferreira, Chris Wood, Jasna Gugić, Fhen M., Hubert Blair Bonds, Ellen Birkett Morris, Margaret Pearce, Ellen Notbohm, Kimberly Parish Davis, J. B. Hogan, and Royal Rhodes

The Best of the Shortest: ASouthern Writers Reading Reunion by

Suzanne Hudson (Author, Editor), Mandy Haynes (Editor), Joe Formichella (Author, Editor)

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

―Steve Yarbrough

“The Best of the Shortest takes the reader on a fast-paced adventure from familiar back roads to the jungles of Viet Nam; from muddy southern creek banks to the other side of the world, touching on themes as beautiful as love and as harsh as racism. However dark or uplifting, you are guaranteed to enjoy the ride.” --Bob Zellner

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

Encounters With Nature -Amelia Island Writers &Artists

edited by Mandy Haynes

“A vibrant collection that is as captivating and diverse as northern Florida’s precious wildlife. Showcasing the region’s finest writers, poets and artists, Encounters with Nature is a celebration of the wonder, inspiration and enduring bonds we enjoy when we pay attention to the flora and fauna around us. A stunning, memorable, and deeply needed anthology.” Deb Rogers, author of The Florida Woman

TheyAll Rest in the Boneyard Now by

Raymond L.Atkins (Author), Evelyn Mayton (Illustrator)

“Raymond Atkins writes with intuitive wisdom, as he channels those from beyond the grave. His poetry gives voice to those who once mattered, those who time wants us to forget. In They

All Rest in the Boneyard

Now, Atkins wrestles death from the dusty clay and breathes life into dry bones while reminding us that every soul who once had breath is worthy of being remembered. These saints, sinners, socialites, and the socially inept are all victims of time, or circumstance, as we too shall one day be. Atkins offers salvation to all who are tormented, and solace to those who seek eternal rest.”

– Renea Winchester,Award-winning author of Outbound Train

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 ofAnaleise 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.Awhisper and an act of violence perpetrated during this visit by Mrs. Mayfield all converge to kindleAnaleise’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.

Haints on Black Mountain: AHaunted Short Story Collection byAnn Hite

Ann Hite takes her readers back to Black Mountain with this haunted short story collection.

An array of new characters on the mountain experience ghostly encounters. The collection took inspiration from her beloved readers, who provided writing prompts. Wrinkle in theAir features

Black Mountain's Polly Murphy, a young Cherokee woman, who sees her future in the well's water. Readers encounter relatives of Polly Murphy as the stories move through time. The Root Cellar introduces Polly's great grandson, who tends to be a little too frugal with his money until a tornado and Polly's spirit pays the mountain a visit. In The Beginning, the Middle, and the End, readers meet Gifted Lark on an excessively frigid January day. This story moves back and forth between 1942 and 1986 telling Gifted and her grandmother Anna's story. This telling introduces spirits that intervene in the spookiest of ways.

Red Clay Suzie by

Jeffrey Dale Lofton

Anovel inspired by true events.

The coming-of-age story of Philbet, gay and living with a disability, battles bullying, ignorance, and disdain as he makes his way in life as an outsider in the Deep South— 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 from beyond the grave.

The Smuggler's Daughter

by Claire Matturro

Ray Slaverson, a world-weary Florida police detective, has his hands full with the murders of two attorneys and a third suspicious death, all within twenty-four hours. Ray doesn’t believe in coincidences, but he can’t find a single link between the dead men, and he and his partner soon smash into an investigative stonewall.

Kate Garcia, Ray’s fiancée, knows more than she should. She helped one of the dead attorneys, just hours before he took a bullet to the head, study an old newspaper in the library where she works. Kate might be the only person still alive who knows what he was digging up—except for his killer.

When Kate starts trying to discover what’s behind the murders, she turns up disturbing links between the three dead men that track back to her family’s troubled past. But she has plenty of reasons to keep her mouth shut. Her discovery unleashes a cat-and-mouse game that threatens to sink her and those she loves in a high tide of danger.

The Bystanders by Dawn Major

The quaint town of Lawrenceton, Missouri isn’t sending out the welcoming committee for its newest neighbors from Los Angeles—the Samples’family. Shannon Lamb’s “Like a Virgin” fashion choices, along with her fortune-telling mother, Wendy Samples, and her no-good, cheating, jobless, stepfather, Dale Samples, result in Shannon finding few fans in L-Town where proud family lines run deep. Only townie, Eddy Bauman, is smitten with Shannon and her Valley Girl ways. The Bystanders is a dark coming-of-age story set in the 1980s when big hair was big, and MTV ruled. In a quiet town of annual picnics and landscapes, the Samples’rundown trailer and odd behaviors aren’t charming the locals. Shannon and Wendy could really use some friends but must learn to rely upon themselves to claw their way out of poverty and abuse if they want to escape Dale.

The Bystanders pays homage toAmericana, its small-town eccentricities, and the rural people of the Northern Mississippi Delta region of Southeast Missouri, a unique area of the country where people still speak Paw Paw French and honor Old World traditions.

Walking The Wrong Way Home by

Mandy Haynes

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

Aplace to feel safe, a place to call home.

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

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

Oliver by Mandy Haynes

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

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

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INSIDE VOICES

“I hope some of the food that people enjoy around my table, and some of the stories that are told encourage them to tell and cook and write down their family recipes and stories…”

Robert Gwaltney and Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Mary Martha Greene

Mary Martha Greene is a South Carolina native and government relations consultant who perfected her entertaining skills for making friends and engaging clients during her forty-year career. She divides her time between Beaufort and Columbia, SC. She is the author of the bestselling book, The Cheese Biscuit Queen Tells All and the sequel, The Cheese Biscuit Queen, Kiss My Aspic!: Southern Recipes, Saucy Stories, and More Rambunctious Behavior.

Inside Voices/Jeffrey: In the dedication in The Cheese Biscuit Queen, Kiss MyAspic!, you write: “For my GranGran, who let me be underfootin the kitchen and first taught me to love stories.Thank you for the world of people you havebroughtinto my life through food.” Tell us more about your beloved Gran-Gran and other influences in your life that have brought you to the intersection of awardwinning cookbooks and storytelling.

My Grandmother was one of those fabulous, incredibly gracious Southern Women, she could charm you into doing something you really didn’t want to do, and by the time she got through with you, you’d have swornYOU begged HER to let you do it. She could also cut you off with just that one look, and whatever it was you’d done that displeased her you NEVER even THOUGHT about doing that again. She retired after 40 years of teaching the May before I was born

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Mary Martha Greene

in December, so my older brother George and I were sort of her retirement projects. I spent most of the summers with her in Greer, South Carolina, and then on my 6th birthday she and my Aunts moved into the house I own now in Beaufort right next door to us. When I would spend those summers with her, she’d tell me bedtime stories like the Three Little Bears and the Little Red Hen, intermixed with family history stories. She was always cooking something delicious in the kitchen – I’d give anything to have her creamed corn one more time. So I really think that’s where my love of foodAND storytelling comes from. When I was probably in elementary school and I’d spend Saturdays with her when my parents would come to Columbia for football games, she’d have me sit down and write poems or stories, so I also credit her with teaching me to love to write. She lived to be 100 years old, and was just bright and vibrant until the end. My Mother and both my Aunts were wonderful cooks, and each had their own specialties. So they also had a big influence on my cooking and entertaining abilities, but it was my Grandmother who tied them all together with stories and writing.

Inside Voices/Robert: In your latest book, you confess that you are not the true CheeseBiscuit Queen. Talk about that and the importance of cheese biscuits in your storytelling.

MyAunt Mimi – the Martha in Mary Martha – was the one true cheese biscuit queen. I’d love to know how many of

them she made over her lifetime, because if anyone was having a party or there was a church function in Beaufort, her cheese biscuits were usually there. She also bore a striking resemblance to that other Queen from across the pond, to the point when we were in Victoria, British Columbia, this street performer dressed in Elizabethan garb came running up to her, bowed before her like Sir Walter Raliegh and exalted “My Queen, My Queen”.And then the young lady at the Beaufort Post Office told her one time she kinda “favored” the Queen, so it was also a big joke in our family.

The cheese biscuits just have so many stories about them. They are alleged to have medicinal qualities, from fighting my friends morning sickness when they were pregnant to helping with nausea when my brother and other friends have been going through chemo. My oldest goddaughter even told her mother when she was little that her tummy hurt, but a cheese biscuit would make it feel better.

And they’ve traveled literally all over the United States and to several countries. Mimi liked to travel and when my mother developed lung problems and couldn’t travel anymore, I started going with Mimi on trips, and if we were on a tour, she’d pack a tin of cheese biscuits to pass around on the bus. A friend who was the food writer for The State Newspaper even interviewed Mimi about them once and wrote a column about her. Mimi was quoted in the article as saying “All obligations can be paid with Cheese Biscuits.”

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton

Inside Voices/Jeffrey: Word has it that your mother was none too happy about some of the stories you included in The Cheese Biscuit Queen. We’d love to hear the backstory there and, in general, how you approach infusing your family and friends into your stories.

My poor Mother is probably rolling over in her grave, and she was cremated, so I’m not sure how that works – does the urn spin or do the ashes just kind of whip around like a tornado inside the urn??? The original working title for this book was “The Cheese Biscuit Queen – I don’t believe I’d have told THAT!” and that ended up being the title of one of the chapters in the book, but my editor didn’t think if you could hear the emphasis in my voice that it wouldn’t make as much sense for the title. Apparently, I had a neverending ability to say the wrong thing and embarrass my mother as a child, and that’s what she’d say to me. My Mother so wanted a dainty, prissy little girl, and I so was not! But I also think that’s what made me close to my grandmother, because she thought I could do no wrong, and always ran a lot of interference between my mother and me.

I really didn’t set out to write a book to embarrass my Mother, I set out to write down recipes and stories for one of my godchildren who’d asked me to teach her to cook. Once I started, the stories about the people who those recipes belonged to just started wanting to be included also. But you know how things go in the South, some of the most

interesting stories are about some of our more, shall we say, colorful characters and the things they do. My grandmother did tell me one time when I was little about a divorce within the family “So and So was married before, and we do not discuss it!”And I think there were a lot of things my mother would have preferred I not discuss.

Inside Voices/Robert: Of all the wonderful stories you tell within your latest book. Do you have a favorite?

I have lots of favorites, several of the stories are about not just my family but other friends who are no longer with us, and writing them down brought back really sweet memories of them. But probably my favorite is the last one in the book, about the night my “perfect” older brother got my mother’s and his partner’s drinks mixed up, and got my Mother VERY intoxicated. It was a rule in my father’s house that you had to pour from a jigger or you were on the road to being an alcoholic. My Mother andAunt drank little one-ounce drinks, so the jigger was just filled half way. My brother and his partner drank doubles, so the jigger was filled to two ounces, emptied into the glass and refilled with two more ounces. We were having a big family dinner to celebrate myAunt Mary’s birthday, George handed Mother the wrong drink, and by the time we sat down to eat, Mother sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher – you know, “wah whoa wah, whoa wah wah.” I don’t think my brother ever fessed up to what he’d done, but my mother just

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Mary Martha Greene

wondered why she didn’t feel so good or make it to church the next morning.

Inside Voices/Jeffrey: The book is organized by course and features80 new recipes includingdelicious favorites like ShrimpRemoulade Deviled Eggs, Pride of the Pee Dee Chicken Bog, and Chatham Artillery Punch.For you, consummate cook that you are, this may be a nightmare scenario, but I must ask: If you could only make one dish for the rest of your life, what would it be?

I think if you asked the rest of the world, they would say the cheese biscuits, but for me, it would probably be red rice. The recipe is in my first book, The Cheese Biscuit Queen Tells All. It’s such a quintessentially Lowcountry dish that has it’s roots in the Gullah-Geechee culture, and a wonderful lady named Sara Seabrook taught me how to make it. It reminds me of her and of home. There’s a certain late night talk show host who just published a cookbook along with his wife, and he talked about how much he loved red rice, but in their book, they substituted the bacon for anchovies because his wife doesn’t eat meat. That’s a really sweet reason to do it, but if you’re not going to do it right and use the bacon, don’t call it red rice, call it rice with anchovies. Several friends asked me what I thought of their cookbook, and I told them I had to put the book down, I just couldn’t have any faith in the rest of the

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Mary Martha Greene

recipes. You just don’t mess around with red rice – it is sacred.

Inside Voices/Robert: You have confessed that throughout yourcareer, you have shared your love of cooking,baking, and entertaining to aid youinmaking friends and influencingpeople in the legislative, political, and fundraising arenas.Can you share a time you were able to win over an obstinate so-and-so through your cooking?

That would have to be my last year that I was lobbying for the South Carolina Education Association – the teacher’s association. I got into a knockdown, drag out fight with the chair of the employee benefits subcommittee – and we both let it get really personal. We had a lot of mutual friends who tried to be the peacemakers, but neither of us were having it. He ended up not seeking re-election that year, and after sitting out a year, he joined us in the lobby. I used to make cookies and take to the State House on Wednesday for my fellow lobbyists, and after a few years, he admitted he loved Oatmeal Raisin cookies, and that mine were his absolute favorite. He’s retired now but I still consider him a friend. (And I won the legislative fight we had that year by the way.)

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton

Inside Voices/Jeffrey:Whatdoes your writing horizon look like?Might there be a novel somewhere in your mental line-up of next books?

I’ve started a novel – very autobiographical – about a female lobbyist who inherits the family home. I am also a Master Naturalist, and particularly love wading birds like herons and egrets.They each have different characteristics, so there might be some things that my main character would learn from observing the birds that she can use in her lobbying career. Since it’s about the legislature and politics there might have to be some vultures or other birds of prey in there. I could also tell some stories in the novel that I could claim were “fiction”, that I couldn’t tell in a cookbook that’s supposed to be “non-fiction!” You know, when you claim it’s fiction, you stand a lot less chance of getting sued for liable! Part of the subplot is also about that divorce that my grandmother told me not to discuss – 10 years after she died I finally got my Aunt Mimi to spill the beans about it.

I’ll also probably write another cookbook or two. I’m outlining one right now about parties and entertaining, and some other ideas. The tag line on some of the stories is “there might have been alcohol involved!”

Inside Voices/Robert:You reference a quote by author Sue Monk Kidd: “Stories have to be told or they die, and when

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton

they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here.” What do you want your legacy to be?

I hope my legacy is that I always made people feel welcome in my home and at my table – I think that’s a legacy I got from my Grandmother, and that I’ve tried to live up to since I’m now the caretaker of her home. I hope some of the food that people enjoy around my table, and some of the stories that are told encourage them to tell and cook and write down their family recipes and stories so that they will be handed down and preserved. I think that would be a pretty great legacy to leave. And the cheese biscuit recipe, of course!

"Chef's kiss! Storytelling and meals are a celebratory tradition in the South, and The Cheese Biscuit Queen, Kiss My Aspic! is a most delightful tribute to Southern comfort food and culture. There's something to savor on every page!"

―Kim Michele Richardson, New York

Times bestselling author

The Cheese Biscuit Queen, Kiss My Aspic!: Southern Recipes, Saucy Stories, and More Rambunctious Behavior

Mary Martha Greene

The Spirit of Lucille Selig Frank

Why would a good fiction writer who writes about haints and sets the stories in Appalachia decide to write a nonfiction narrative about a somewhat unknown woman, who was born and raised in Atlanta? Why wouldn’t this writer just write a historical novel about her? In other words, why rock a smooth sailing boat?

I am that writer, and Lucille Selig Frank haunted me. No, not like a haint comes a visiting, though often researching her story, I felt like a haunting of sorts was taking place. Her story of how she lost her husband, Leo M. Frank, to a lynching in 1915 right here in the town where I live, Marietta, Georgia, was told to me by Granny when I was just a girl. (If you want to read this part of my journey, go to my July 2024 Mountain Magic Column The Wedding Ring.)

Granny always said some things were just meant to happen, and me writing Lucille’s story was one of them. The pull was so strong to write this book as nonfiction, I almost believed mountain magic had a say in the decision.

But jumping from fiction, where I research like a fool but ultimately can add the parts I am not sure of, to the facts of what happened and only the facts is a big leap for any writer. This could be the reason the book took ten years to finish.

Many people believe authors who have published books no longer struggle with the confidence it takes to write another book-length manuscript. Ha, let me have a good belly laugh here. With each of my now nine books, I approached the writing with the confidence level of my first book. You see I was one of those who believed once I got my first novel published, I would zoom through the writing of others. My dear readers and writers, this is such a hotmess of a lie. With each book, I looked around and understood whatever I knew while writing the previous story, didn’t apply to the new one. And this was felt the strongest when I began Lucille’s book. What had I gotten myself into? Someone would surely see what a fake I was this time around. But the more I researched Lucille, the more I examined photos of her, the more I delved into her past, present, and future, the more loyal and driven I became.

Leo M. Frank’s murder trial and lynching has been written about many times, and the accounts of what happened on April 26, 1913 at The National Pencil Company where Leo was superintendent are easy to locate.

Yet, I decided I would begin at the beginning in my research and dig in as if not a soul had every approached the material. This way I wouldn’t miss important, hidden or lost parts of the story. No one had written a book-length manuscript about Lucille Selig Frank. Her story in most cases had been pushed aside, and let me mention how Mary Phagan’s mother, Fannie Coleman, was placed on the back pages of Atlanta’s newspapers at the time. When Fannie agreed only a day after her daughter’s death to give an interview, she wanted to tell other mothers that their daughters were not safe working inAtlanta’s factories. The Atlanta businessmen had no use for this kind of talk. They made their fortunes on the backs of child laborers.

Lucille was painted as a hysterical woman in the news.A popular view of women in the South in the years 19131915. Women were seen as helpless and in need of rescuing. Often people said of Lucille that she was near her deathbed because of the trauma caused from Leo’s arrest, his conviction, and ultimately his death sentence. This is not the woman I found in the letters Lucille sent to the three major newspapers addressing Hugh Dorsey, the prosecutor, and his tactic of threatening witnesses until he got the statements he sought. She stood up against Mr. Dorsey with her mighty pen. Lucille was courageous and strong at twenty-five. How could I not tell this story?

When Lucille died in 1957—the year I was born—she was cremated. Her last request was for her ashes to be scattered in Grant Park in Atlanta, a place Leo and her enjoyed. After all that happened, she was afraid to have a traditional burial with a headstone. It would surely be desecrated. The events of 1913-1915 were still freshly debated in 1957 and equally so today.

Lucille never remarried and did not have children, so her sister’s sons were responsible for her last wishes. Lucille’s nephews were told they could not scatter her ashes in Grant Park. So the ashes were placed in the trunk of the car, where they remained until the men decided what to do. One morning just before the sun came up the nephews went to Oakland Cemetery in Atlanta. They buried Lucille’s ashes between her mother and father, Josephine and Emil Selig. This was done in secret with no one else in attendance. There was no marker because she had made it clear she didn’t want one.

Today I walked the graves in Oakland Cemetery. The frigid weather was bone-chilling. When I came to the plot where Lucille was buried, I stopped and placed two rocks on Josephine’s headstone, one for her and one for Lucille. A small bluish plaque had been placed in between the headstones. Someone was touched by Lucille’s story. On the plaque was an angel with the words “Forever with the angels.” I brushed away leaves and saw Lucille’s name with

her birth and death year. For a moment I stared off at the Atlanta skyline in the distance. On the day Mary Phagan was murdered at the pencil factory, the Confederate Memorial Day parade ended its march at this very cemetery in honor of the fallen soldiers.The outgoing governor made a speech in pouring down rain. No one was aware that life for Mary had ended and what would happen to many people in response to her death.

I have no idea if I did Lucille Selig Frank justice with the book I wrote. The Lord knows I put my whole self into the work. This caused a transformation in my writing. I found a part of me who is willing to fight and preserve a story that reveals a deeper truth. I must believe Lucille was in my office in spirit, cheering me on.

And this dear readers and writers is the results of a tender act of mountain magic. Always find the courage to speak out for what you believe should be known. I have had many good examples in my lifetime. Lucille Selig Frank is one of those. Let me close with Lucille’s last public statement on the matter of her husband’s lynching.

“I am a Georgia girl, born and reared in this state, and educated in her schools. I am a Jewess;I am also Georgian, and American, and I do not apologize for that, either. They perhaps are not entirely to blame, fed as they were on lies unspeakable. Their passion aroused by designing persons.

Some of them, I am sure did not realize the horror of their act. But those who inspired these men to do this unlawful act, what of them? Will not their consciences make for hell on Earth, and will not their associates, in their hearts despise them?”

Augusta Chronicle October 1, 1915

Photos by Ann’s husband, Jerry Hite

Montecito

Leslie Zemeckis

There are three basic laws that the Chumash live by: Limitation, Moderation and Compensation. Limitation meaning our time on earth. Moderation, take from the land and ocean just what is needed, leaving food for future generations. Compensation, doing something for others because your heart tells you to, not for any gains. They leave by Nature’s time, not man’s, believing living by man’s goes against the grain.

“We have to pay attention to the seasons, the changes of the land, the language of nature and the voices of its creatures. They give us insight about balance between us and our surroundings. They teach us respect for the plants that heal us and make our homes. The lessons teach us sustainability, and how to maintain our relationship with nature. It is a balance of survival.”

Unfortunately, too often Man is oblivious or in denial of the consequences of his actions that are harmful to nature's system of life.

The unincorporated town of Montecito works hard to preserve its charming semi-rural character. There are no sidewalks, nor streetlights to break the darkness at night, which means the sky above is a galaxy of glittery stars. Horses can be heard cantering on narrow streets. The occasional mountain lion or bobcat hunts, scrawny coyotes roam in packs howling, hawks circle above.Ablack bear or two is spotted climbing fences, foraging from abundant fruit trees, or tearing into chicken coops. Grizzly bears were once abundant, foraging across the, then, densely wooded slopes.

January 9, 2018. In the early morning hours, the steep mountains above Montecito crumble, sending masses of boulders the size of SUVs, 70-foot trees building into giant twenty-five-foot waves of mud and debris, swooping up whatever lay in its path as it rushes towards thousands of sleeping residents.

The ensuing avalanche (technically plural as five events occur nearly simultaneously) grows like a yeasty ball of dough, higher and wider. Doubling. Tripling in size. Those who saw it - and lived - compared it to the movie “The Blob” as it absorbs, mashes, and crushes septic tanks, hot water heaters, washing machines, stoves, all bubbling up into a dense tsunami. Boulders bob the crest like marshmallows on frothing hot chocolate, massive tree trunks churn beneath, riding on mud and water at speeds of

twenty-five miles per hour. The unsuspecting families sleeping below are exhausted after numerous evacuations from the Thomas Fire, which left the hills a slick surface unable to absorb the downpour of apocalyptic rain. They are sitting ducks.

In the days before, Christmas decorations had been packed away, trees discarded, tinsel and wrapping paper tossed. Sighs of relief echoed throughout the canyons; rain was on its way. The threat of fire was over. No more evacuations! Fire season came early this year. It is a lucky thing as there are no other conflagrations blazing anywhere in the country freeing eight thousand fire personnel to pour into Montecito and defend its roughly 8,600 residents. As flames licked dry hills, the sky blackened, but only seven structures would burn.

At 3:45 a.m. on January 9th, five major creeks (usually bone dry, because wasn’t California always in a drought?) thatcutthrough Montecito fromthemountains to theocean, filled and spilled when an unprecedented rain cell sat for five minutes directly over the new burn scar, dousing over half an inch of rain. Rain the mountain could not absorb.

Normally, rain would easily soak into the parched terrain. But the chaparral and scrub and plants holding the mountain together have a waxy coating, which has melted, leaving the mountain virtually waterproof. It is as if the mountain has donned a rain slicker.

Chaos ensues. A mother and daughter reach for each other, clasping hands as their house splits over their heads; a grandmother who has promised her son she would stay on the second floor, opens her front door and is yanked away. A father of six and one of his sons fight to keep their heads above the roaring water and debris that pulls them from their home that rips apart in seconds. One will die, the other will be found, naked, electrocuted from downed power lines, burnt, with multiple broken bones from boulders hitting him as he is swept a mile downhill, and dropped onto the 101 Freeway which fills with mud. A mother and her two young sons cling to a mattress as it lifts on a sea of mud and floats through a broken wall and out into the night. Apregnant woman crouches on a counter, watching as half her home washes away. Her husband and toddler in the side that disappears before her eyes. An elderly couple toss and turn as if they are a load of laundry in a giant washing machine, eyes filling with tiny rocks, certain they are going to die as they fight not to drown, calling each other’s name. A brother just returned from a Brazilian vacation holds his sister in his arms while she bleeds to death in the pouring rain.

A town will wake to mass destruction, power outages, hundreds stranded, homes gone, hedges and lush gardens and acres of trees, now barren, mine-fields of rocks and mud. The sheriff will say it looks like a “war zone.” Cars

are mashed and twisted, strewn everywhere. Hundreds of them. Portions of homes hang in trees, like mangled toys. Bodies are buried under piles of debris, search dogs sniff for survivors. It will take six hours to pull a fourteen-yearold from the wreckage of her house, a pocket of air the size of a soccer ball the only thing keeping her from suffocating. A movie star and his wife hang on a wire above their mudfilled “forever” home, airlifted to safety, the wife, gripping a tiny old dog she refuses to leave behind. A son searches up and down the mud-drenched creeks in the following days, calling his mother’s name. Her body will be found near the beach.

The debris flow as it would become known would dominate headlines, talk shows and the 5 o’clock news for a few days then, as the news does, it moves on. Montecito becomes a blip in a fast-paced cycle of politics and other tragedies.

Leslie Zemeckis is a best-selling author, actress, and awardwinning documentarian and TEDx speaker. Critically acclaimed films include Behind the Burly Q, the award-winning Bound by Flesh, Mabel, Mabel, Tiger Trainer and Grandes Horizontales. Books include Behind the Burly Q, (an Amazon Editor’s Pick), Goddess of Love Incarnate; the Life of Stripteuse Lili St. Cyr and Feuding Fan Dancers (a SCIBA finalist for best bio of the year). She was honored with the Ellis Island Medal of Honor for “sharing and preserving stories of women who were once marginalized and stigmatized .

The Time of Leaving

Micah Ward

The air conditioner is an old window unit and struggles against an August night in Savannah. The man lies on the bed under a light film of sweat. The woman sleeps facing away and is covered to her waist by a sheet. He looks at the clock, 4:00 am. He might as well get up.

He walks quietly into the kitchen pulling on the old gym shorts he keeps by the bed. He doesn’t want to wake the woman from her sleep. Earlier in the evening she had cooked a simple meal and afterwards they had enjoyed the comfortable loving of those who know they are past the exuberance of youth and are okay with it. He pours Tennessee whiskey silently. He knows that he shouldn’t drink this close to leaving. But he has left so many times over the years that it has become something of a tradition.

He walks through the living room past the duffle bag and clothes. Opening the French doors, he steps outside onto the balcony which belongs to one of the four apartments in

the 1940s era house. The sweat increases as he leans on the rail and looks at the sprawling live oak trees with their gray goatees of Spanish moss. It was hot in the Tennessee summers where he grew up. But this is wet blanket hot. A sticky hot that wraps around and weighs you down. He looks down at his truck parked in the dirt parking area.The woman will keep it while he is gone. She will also close out the apartment and put his few possessions into storage. She’s a better woman than most he has left and he wonders if he is a step up or a step down for her. She never talks about the other men. No complaining. No comparing. He is grateful for that.

He walks back into the apartment, cool now compared to outside on the balcony. He empties the last of the whiskey into his glass and crosses the living room. He sits in a chair, and looks at the duffle bag and the clothes on the sofa. He was twenty the first time he left and that was twenty-two years ago. There were more times of leaving between that first one and the one of this early morning. He might have avoided going this time if he spoke a quiet word to the right person. But something inside of him won’t allow it. There are so many more stripes on his uniform now than there had been the first time. And more first timers going now that he feels responsible for. He considers waking the woman and trying to explain but he feels a lack of the proper words. It is hard to understand unless a person has been there or

somewhere like it.

A soft light appears from the bedroom. He walks toward the kitchen and takes the last sip of his ceremonial whiskey. She walks from the bedroom wearing only a large gray tee shirt with ARMY written across the front. She makes coffee.

“You shouldn’t have gotten up,” he says.

“Is it time for you to leave?”

“Pretty close.”

“I’ll make you breakfast.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he says and starts to dress in the living room.

“From the looks of that bottle you need something on your stomach.”

He dresses amid the aroma of coffee and the sound of frying bacon. The same scene will repeat itself all over Savannah that morning and in most homes, it will be very ordinary, unlike the way it is here.

“I’ll take you out to the base,” she says, “I don’t mind.”

“I know you don’t but I’ve already scheduled the taxi.”

She brings two cups of coffee to the table. A plate with bacon, eggs, toast.

“It’s not much but maybe it will get you to the next meal.”

“Aren’t you eating?”

“I’ll have something later.”

They sit in comfortable silence while he eats. When he comes back, they will have more quiet meals like this.And he will come back. He always comes back.

“I don’t know when I’ll get to call,” he says. “It depends on the flight schedules and layovers.”

“I understand. Call when you get a chance.”

There is nothing else to say. They stand in the living room looking at each other. She places the green beret on his head.Ahug.Abrief kiss and he walks through the door with his duffle bag.

“I’ll call as soon as I can.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

He walks down the hall and she leans against the door frame and thinks of the last one. The one that did not come back.

Micah Ward is a retiree who writes, runs and enjoys craft beer in central Tennessee. His short stories have received three Honorable Mentions at the Lorian Hemingway Short Story competition. Another one of his stories was included in the short fiction collection Remnants and Resolutions published by the Colorado Springs Fiction Writers Group. Micah was named the 2012 Club Writer of the Year by the Road Runners Club of America for his non-fiction. His articles and short fiction can also be found on the Medium website.

Mulberry Street to DexterAvenue

Jennifer Susan Smith

Whitewash blood-soaked balcony, on the motel's second story. retrieve the misplaced necktie, its knot ripped apart, from walkway's concrete cold. refashion its shattered print. drape it around the collar of an unstained dress shirt, white as mourning florals edged in red.

Silence the sirens of Memphis. restride through Room 306's door. finish the ashtray's partial cigarette, as smoke puffs dissipate bloodshed, disguise hatred's horror. repack luggage

with first-year pastor's suits and sermons. depart Mulberry Street, past Lorraine's turquoise sign, skyward to Montgomery, southeast, toward DexterAvenue steeple.

How many miles must you fly to reach the church by sunrise? How many steps must you march to see spire reach sun? stand in the Baptist pulpit, posture erect, just after plane touches down, as arches of colored glass windows admit morning light, imbuing glory onto pews, engraining their wood with a dream.

author's note: a reversal poem in response to personal photographs. Dexter Avenue King Memorial Baptist Church Montgomery, Alabama July 2018, Lorraine Motel Memphis, Tennessee March 2019

Jennifer Susan Smith, a retired speech-language pathologist, resides in northwest Georgia. Jennifer's writing is published in The Mildred Haun Review, The Bluebird Word, WELL READ Magazine, and San Antonio Review, among others. She is chairman of Alpha Delta Kappa Pages and Pearls Book Club, and holds membership in Chattanooga Writers' Guild.

It’sAll For You DeLane Phillips

Daddy says that if we want to see the Glory of the Lord we can’t give You-Know-Who any room to dwell in our lives. He says that light can’t abide with darkness in our house. So, Daddy told the Devil to leave the house. We can’t even say his name, or the words “but,” or “darn.” We can’t say the “devil” in the house, in a sentence, or anything. Mama made deviled eggs for lunch and we couldn’t even say their names. Apparently they’re stuffed now.

Daddy says we shouldn’t even mention his name, the “you-know-who,” because we’d be giving “you- knowwho” the credit.

We gotta’give credit where credit’s due, and that’s to the Lort.

“What in the devil am I gonna do when my friends come over? How are we going to talk? They’re sure not gonna’ understand the difference between a devil and stuffed!” I demanded, stomping my foot, like Mama, with my hands on my hips.

Go to your room and don’t come out! Daddy ordered. So, I did as I was told. From inside my room I listened to my parent’s conversation. Daddy yelled at Mama, She’s gettin’too big fer ‘ur britches, that little lady is!

The word of God says his name, so why can’t I? For such a low-rotten, dirty fellow, this guy sure has a lot of names: devil, Satan, Lucifer, Evil One, and that’s just a start. Mama calls my Uncle Frank the Devil. Even the man of God yells his name every Sunday, while he preaches and sweats,

“Satan is like a roaring lion runnin’ to and fro, seeking whom he may devour!” I’ve never seen a lion or a roaring one at that, but apparently the man of God ain’t heard the ruckus my little brother makes. I heard Mama question Daddy.

What are you going to do when my brother visits?

My uncle smokes and Daddy won’t allow him in the house. I held my breath, Don’t you worry, I’ll take care of him!

From my room at the door, I heard her let out a big sigh, and stomp her foot. I had to defend her.

“Why don’t ‘cha just move my little brother out then Daddy?” I stood in the kitchen, glaring at Daddy.

That would save Daddy and the Lord a whole ‘lotta trouble. Then the Glory could move in and we’d all be happy I thought.

Go to 'ur room!

Again. I wanted to let out a big sigh and stomp my foot. I knew what would happen if I did. Being sent to a room is hard enough, but lying in the bed with a sore backside-notbut was worse.

I pouted all afternoon, mad as the You-Know-Who.

I know I’m not supposed to be mad. I’m saved and baptized. Getting’ saved and baptized' was not as fun as I thought it would. I can’t keep up with all the rules and I sure can’t keep the “D” words from coming out my mouth.

In my room, lying on the bed watching my yellow rosy curtains flutter that Mama had sewn for me, I caught the smell of something sweet on the breeze. I sat up in bed and recognized the scent. It was my favorite dessert.

Mama opened the bedroom door and walked in. She was holding a large plate.Yer Daddy’s gone down to the barn to feed the cows.

She smiled as if she knew a big secret. I peered out my bedroom window. Across the yard, through the garden and beyond, I could see Daddy walking along the path beside the pasture fence, with the cows following him towards the troughs for supper. I turned back and looked at Mama, smiling. She held a large plate in her hands. I inhaled the warm scent of chocolate.

The dark chocolate, sweet cake was still warm and fresh from the oven.

Smiling, Momna handed me the large plate. The slice of

cake was big enough for two grown men to share! I thought I was dreaming. Speechless, I looked up at Mama, Well go on, it’s all for you, she nodded.

The cake’s frosting made my mouth water. I had watched Mama mix up batch after batch at the kitchen stove. I knew the recipe now almost by heart: the cocoa, butter, sugar, and vanilla. And for some reason, she always tossed in a pinch of salt.

The melted frosting dripped down the huge slice of cake onto the pretty plate. The plate was from Mama’s special plates we only used for company! The fork was from her special box that contained all of the “family silver.” I wasn’t mad anymore. I was company! “What do I call it now Mama?”

Well, 'ur Uncle Frank calls it d’….

“Stop, Mama!” I yelled. Why?

“We can’t say that word either.”

DeLane Phillips is a southern writer, former teacher, empty nester, and dog mom of Mac the Dachshund and Lovey the Terrier. Much of her writing is inspired by rural life from her childhood on a farm in Monroe, Georgia and the various characters of the small southern towns she has traveled through and lived in. She continues to reside in Georgia.

What I Learned at the Opera

Julie Green

Richard’s aria from The Hours,Act 2, music by Kevin Puts, libretto by Greg Pierce

There is a story carried in music. The man is dying. Someone always dies in opera. In his hand he cradles a book, his sorrow bleeding through the music as a last testament… I wanted to make something true, it didn’t have to be great.

He clutches the book to his chest, weeping that it be simply, good. You don’t have to be dying of aids to be there.

You don’t have to be a writer to ride the music into the scene as author, lover, or the girl who might read it… someone who is feeling hopeless. someone you’ll never meet. You sit in the faceless gathering, and each one bears a poem, drawing, an impression, or unrealized thing.

It doesn’t have to be great, this work for someone you may never know to see and take it into the parched hollows of their heart.

The writer grips the book and moves to the open window…

Maybe, just maybe it will keep her alive long enough to write a poem for someone else.

The music stills, suspending us there.

We prowl through rooms, the dry cleaners, a school, an office park. The cost of survival is to make, and the need seeps into the air.

As he falls from the window, we are the man, our music simmering along a tender line that stutters, groping for contact with the hopeless girl. She is always here in the crowd, around, and within us.

Julie Green is a retired museum curator, wife, mom, lifelong choral singer, and radical arts advocate. She writes in her living room with her dog Tashi who rarely provides inspiration and sleeps a lot. She is currently finishing a novel and putting together a chapbook. Her work has appeared in several journals including Slant, The Reach of Song, Circle of Women (Emory University), and Naugatuck River Review. She is the 2023 and 2024 recipient of the Herbert Shippey Award for Excellence in Southern Poetry, and the Low Country Award for Short Story given by the Southeastern Writers Association.

John Drudge

Life runs thin

As a mountain stream

In late summer

Dwindling toward Its inevitable end

Each drop mattering

Yet we squander

Spilling and hoarding

Pretending there is more

Than there is Voices rising

Sharp and brittle

As frost on dry leaves

Each claiming the truth

Kudzu

While their roots

Rot in shallow soil

And the earth watches

Patient as we bicker

Over borders and doctrines

Drawing lines in the sand

That the tides will erase

Hypocrisy

Growing like kudzu

Choking wild spaces

While ideologies harden

Like old trails

Static and unyielding

Blind to the shifting path

In the wind

The endless sky

And the quiet rhythm

Of lone footsteps

On new dirt

Reminding us of what endures

And what does not

John is a social worker working in the field of disability management and holds degrees in social work, rehabilitation services, and psychology. He is the author of seven books of poetry: “March” (2019), “The Seasons of Us” (2019), New Days (2020), Fragments (2021), A Long Walk (2023), A Curious Art (2024) and Sojourns (2024) . His work has appeared widely in literary journals, magazines, and anthologies internationally. John is also a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee and lives in Caledon Ontario, Canada with his wife and two children.

Nobody

(For those battling)

Ann Hite

Nobodylikestotalkaboutyourfeelings. Pushthemdown,stepaway.

Noonewantstohearyourheartspilling Alloverthepage.Notreally.

Nobodylikestohearaboutyourchallenges.Notreally. Theysmile.Theynodwhentheyaresupposedto. Theystepawaytootherthoughts.Theirthoughts. Yourheartripsinhalfwhenyoucan’thelpthosestruggling.

Nobodylikestotalkaboutthehardedgesinsideyourlife,hidden Intheshadows.Notreally.Noonewantstoreachoutforlong.

Hurryandgetbetter.Speeditup.Oftentheydon’tthinkoutside themselves.

Notforlong.Theynodwhentheyaresupposedto.Untilthey don’thearanymore.

Nobodylikestohearaboutthecrumblingdream.Moveon. Don’tstaythere.

Won’tthatfeelbetter?Notreally. Theyrefusetoseeyourfeetsunkinhardeningcement.Noone cares

Tosee,tofeel,thedeep,deepstruggleandemotions.

Nobodylikestohearaboutyoursuccesses.Notreally. Unlessthewinningmomentreflectsthem.Nooneunderstands thedistance

Tocoverbetweenpainandhappiness.Nobodyseesthetears floodinga Brokenheart.Notreally.

Nobodylikestotalkabouttheinabilitytocopewithstressbuilt aroundyou

AwallhighandlongliketheGreatWallofChina. Noonehearsthewhispersinyourheart. Theemptyspace,therippleofbreakingglass.Notreally.

Nobodywantstohearyoutellthemno,tellingthemitistoo much, Toohard,toolong.Theyhatethewordtoo.Shadowsfallaround you.

Workingaroundyourshoulders,aheavycloakontheshoulders

Ofeachnobodywhoturnsawaytoseetheirreflectionsinthe glassofwater. Notreally.

Nobodywantstotalkaboutyoucryingoutinpain.Theprocess istoohard.

Allyouknowiswhatlivesaroundyou.Theheartofthestory andlife

Worthliving,worthchasing,worthfightingfor. Theprocessistoohard.Notreally.

In September of 2011 Gallery, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, published Ann Hite’s first novel, Ghost on Black Mountain. In 2012 this novel was shortlisted for the Townsend Prize, Georgia’s oldest literary award. In the same year, Ghost on Black Mountain won Hite Georgia Author of the Year. She went on to publish four more novels, a novella, memoir, and most recently Haints On Black Mountain: A Haunted Short Story Collection from Mercer University Press. In December 2022, Haints On Black Mountain was one of ten finalist for the Townsend Prize. The collection was a Bronze Winner in Foreword Indie Award 2023 and Georgia Author of the Year Second Place Winner for Short Stories 2023. Ann received a scholarship to the Appalachian Witers Workshop Hindman Settlement in the summer of 2020 and was invited back in 2021. Her passion for history influences all her work.

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CLAIRE CONSIDERS

Naming the Silence and The Pearl

Diver’s Daughter poetry by Michael Blanchard

Naming the Silence and The Pearl Diver’s Daughter poetry by Michael Blanchard reviewed by Claire Hamner Matturro

When by his own admission Michael David Blanchard was an introspective teenager, he began writing poetry as a student at Baton Rouge High in Louisiana. He continued composing in college and twice won the University (of Virginia) Union Fine Arts Award for Poetry. In his professional days after earning his Masters, his poems were published in various literary journals while he worked as a college professor, editor, writer, and advocate for the dying with hospice organizations.

Yet, a definitive published collection of his own works eluded him until in his sixties Blanchard reexamined some of his best works for inclusion in an impressive book, Naming the Silence: New & Selected Poems. Spanning five decades of Blanchard’s writings, the volume is both a compilation of finely crafted poems and a thoughtful extended meditation on the creative process. It is, simply put, a book worth waiting for and a splendid collection. Then more recently, Blanchard’s The Pearl Diver’s Daughter was published, a collection of his newer

works. These pieces are gently intellectual and lyrical poems which often question the place for both poetry and for a poet. Filled with evocative sensory details, radiant natural images, and a frequent sense of curiosity and wonder, the poems are a delight—and sometimes a mystery.

In The Pearl Diver’s Daughter, Blanchard uses the pearl of the title poem as a metaphor for poetry. With that as a unifying image, he creates other multi-layered, nuanced pieces that cross delicately between assessable and allusive, inviting his readers –like the pearl diver—to push “beneath the surface where two lives diverge.” Within his poetry, sometimes a gemstone is a diamond, and then, again, sometimes it is a universe of “myriad points / of distant lights.”

In some contrast to the poems in The Pearl Diver’s Daughter, Blanchard wrote many of the works in Naming the Silence during his years as a creative writing professor atTroy State University inAlabama (nowTroy University). Blanchard’s Troy years were marked by turmoil and rapidfire changes. During that time, in what he described as a particularly long, hot summer, Blanchard confronted the unexpected death of two friends, one in the crash of an Air Force jet he was piloting and the other a former girlfriend in childbirth. Blanchard—still in his twenties—captured the experiences with counterbalancing themes of loss and hope in “Autumn Comes to the Deep South,” the longest

piece in Naming the Silence. This poem begins as a contemplation on death and loss and on the lives of those who have occupied the old house where the poet then resided: “One day they will tear down this house / and all the houses where I’ve passed time / and all the roads leading to them / will lead nowhere and all that’s left / will be the space I’ve kept / open and silent…”

Sometimes Blanchard stands behind his classical education with intellectual allusions in crafting his poems, yet all of Blanchard’s fine poems in both collections are lushly imagined and filled with vibrant images. He excels at blending the natural with the spiritual and the practical with the creative process, and his splendid poems can carry the reader through a sensory-laden world of wonder and beauty. All in all, both books are fine collections of tender, thoughtful poetry reflecting a poet with an scholarly bent, as well as observant eyes, a profound memory, and ears sensitive to the music in both our world and in words.

Copies of Naming the Silence and The Pearl Diver’s Daughter can be obtained from the poet via mdblanchard719@gmail.com and Naming the Silence is also available at online stores.

Michael David Blanchard is a native of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He now lives in the Cadron Valley of Arkansas, where he teaches at the University of CentralArkansas and editsSLANT, the university’s international journal of contemporary poetry.

“Be true to yourself, and you will never fall.”

Annie McDonnell asks Tonya Todd

On what occasion do you lie?

I don’t. As a teen, I made a vow not to lie, which has been a challenge, but I have found creative ways to speak the truth without being harmful. Sometimes, I just avoid speaking, which has been empowering.

What is the quality you most like in a man?

Loyalty.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?

Same. Loyalty is important, regardless of gender.

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

Who says I haven’t? ;)

Where would you most like to live?

England. Close enough to London to enjoy the city but with acres of land and privacy from neighbours. I love the

weather there, it would be gloriously close to the best theatre, and I already have many nearby friends I adore.

What is your favorite occupation?

I am blessed with multiple occupations, which all fall under the umbrella of storytelling. Whether acting, directing, producing, or writing, I am sharing in the telling of a story. Yet, if I had to give up all the rest, and choose only one, it would be writing.

What is your most marked characteristic?

My ability to manifest. Sometimes that means writing something that comes true, but often, it means possessing the drive to keep going when others might quit, to not accept the roadblock as the end of the journey and power through it.

What do you most value in your friends?

Their acceptance of me with all my idiosyncrasies. I can be particular about things, and my true friends don’t try to shame me or mock me for caring about things that don’t matter as much to them.

Who are your favorite writers?

This is so tough to answer because I am acquainted with so many. It can be a challenge to separate the friend from the author. Face to the flame, I’ll narrow my list to those I don’t directly benefit from promoting.

Dead: Jane Austen, Toni Morrison, William Shakespeare, Edith Wharton

Alive Long form: Jesmyn Ward, Vanessa Riley, Amanda Skenandore, Oksana Marifioti, Devora Gray, Lisa Rayne, Maggie O’Farrell, Elizabeth Acevedo, Victoria Schwab, S.T. Gibson, Claire Kohda

Alive Short form: Wendy Wimmer, Veronica Klash, Brandon Mead

What are your favorite names?

This is a strange question, and I have way too many answers for it: Diamond, Michael, James, Aphrodite, Angelo, August, Sasha, Alexandra, Lucian, Dominic, Aurora, Lexi,Alexander, Lorenzo,Ashton

What is your greatest regret?

Not starting my artistic journey sooner. I wasted years

thinking I wasn’t enough. The only way to get there is to start and keep going. I’d be much more talented with those extra years of honing my skills.

What is your motto?

I have two, both which stem from song lyrics: Harder, better, faster, stronger

Be true to yourself, and you will never fall

Tonya Todd is an author, actress, and Sin City cinephile, whose sundry background ranges from content writer to software programmer to convention model. With a cast of characters as diverse as her careers, her fiction explores the infinite hues of what drives us all: relationships and desires.

Lack of diversity in literature inspired Tonya’s stories. Her involvement in the literary, theatre, and filmmaking communities provides a platform to champion marginalized artists and contribute toward an environment that embraces a variety of voices.

Tonya served on the board as Henderson Writers Group’s Education Chair for four years and still coordinates Dime Grinds, their program that exposes authors to the public via monthly meet-and-greets. An active literary citizen, she also belongs to Las Vegas Screenwriters and Writers of Southern Nevada.

She has short stories in Vegas Writes: Love in the Dunes, Tales from the Silver State IV, and Authors Portraits LV. Her non-fiction is featured in NPR's Desert Companion.

Such a good read - and wonderfully written! Worth a look if you're into comics, or the way literature intersects with pop culture.

Five Star Reader Review Comics Lit Vol. 1

Tonya Todd (Author), A R Farina (Author)

TripLit

with D. Major Finding Narnia, Again

Finding Narnia,Again

C.S. Lewis (Clive Staples Lewis) dedicated The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe to his goddaughter, Lucy, who was the inspiration for the youngest female character, Lucy Pensevie. In the dedication, Lewis laments that by the time the book is published more than likely Lucy will be too old for fairy tales, but he hopes a day will come when she is much older and that she will once again return to them:

My Dear Lucy,

I wrote this story for you, but when I began it I had not realized that girls grow quicker than books. As a result you are already too old for fairy tales, and by the time it is printed and bound you will be older still. But some day, you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. You can take it down from the upper shelf, dust it, and tell me what you think of it…

I felt like Lewis was speaking directly to me here. Before I began penning this piece I had to hunt down my copy of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe which was tucked away on an “upper shelf”—I had to get a footstool—and when I took it down I also had to “dust it” off. I don’t believe that you are ever too old for fairy tales, though. But I do understand Lewis’s words here. There comes a time when your childhood is irretrievably lost, and even though you’ve kept your childhood memories, those memories do not capture the childlike wonder for life you once possessed.Yet, there will also come a time when you return to those memories and they become more real than the present, and it is then that you may recapture that wonder and return to fairy tales.

This idea is fully articulated at the beginning and the end of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. When Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy are children and still have ripe imaginations they’re able to access Narnia. It’s no accident that the youngest Pensevie child, Lucy, is the first to discover a magical wardrobe that leads to Narnia. And it is no surprise that when Lucy tells her siblings what she has discovered that they do not believe her. At the end of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, when the Pensevies have “aged out” or in other words, because they’ve become adults, they must leave Narnia. Lewis is not only setting up rules for his fantasy world, but is also making a statement about the child’s imagination verses the adult’s imagination, or lack thereof.

When I first read (and reread and reread) the Chronicles of Narnia I lived in the countryside in Missouri; the forty aces we owned bordered acres and acres of farmland and virgin forest. It was absolutely beautiful country. The child version of myself used to pretend to be Lucy having grand adventures in Narnia. And like Lewis, I also “mapped” out my fantasy world which included places I named. “Hollow Tree” comes to mind. Like its namesake, it was a hollowedout tree I used to crawl inside and travel to my personal Narnia. Looking back, Lewis’s treatment of nature as magic and magic as nature coincided with my hyperbolic response to the landscape of my youth. We would ultimately move to Atlanta, but I’ve always felt that I left my childhood there and I’ve been trying to get back to Narnia for years.

I’ve gotten real close to returning. I attempted to enter Narnia by turning an antique wardrobe I found at a flea market into a magical wardrobe. My sister painted the interior doors with scenes from Narnia—the White Witch on her sleigh and Aslan in the Witch’s Stone Garden freeing her victims. Sadly, our spells didn’t work. One, my wardrobe wasn’t hewn from wood grown from a Narnian apple tree, and two, was no longer a child at the time.

Dawn’s Narnia Wardrobe: Aslan frees the statutes in the White Witch’s stone garden.: “WHAT AN EXTRAORDINARY PLACE!” cried Lucy. “All those stone animals—people too! It’s—like a museum.” Aslan’s breath brings the statutes back to life: “He [Aslan] had bounded up to the stone lion and breathed on him. Then without waiting a moment he whisked round—almost as if he had been a cat chasing its tail—and breathed also on the stone dwarf…” (pg. 167)

“On the sledge, driving the reindeer, sat a fat dwarf…behind him, on a much higher seat in the middle of the sledge sat a very different person—a great lady, taller than any woman Edmund had ever seen. She was also covered in white fur up to her throat and held a long straight golden wand in her right hand and wore a golden crown on her head. Her face was white—not merely pale, but white like snow or paper or icing-sugar, except for her very red mouth.” (pg. 31)

Ten years ago, I made another attempt at Narnia. As a grad student I taught “world-building” and “map-making” in a C.S. Lewis course. Of course, Lewis’s map of Narnia was part of the discussion, but the real pleasure was when the students shared maps of their own fictional worlds.That aforementioned childlike wonder was written across their faces.And to my surprise and complete and utter joy, at the end of the class a student pulled out a flute and played the Narnian lullaby that Mr. Tumnus played in the 2005 The Narnia Chronicles: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe movie. I never wanted that class to end.

My next try at cheating my way into Narnia was inApril of 2024, when my husband, Nick, and I travelled to England. Nick is a Brummie (or maybe a hobbit – they are very similar); he has to get his football fix so we visit England quite often. It works well for me; I’m a total Anglophile…if you haven’t made that correlation yet. While there, we took a literary tour of Oxford, where C.S. Lewis attended and later taught at the university. It is also one of the cities that inspired J.R.R. Tolkien’s trilogy, The Lord of the Rings, and apparently where Harry Potter lives, but don’t get me started on Harry Potter.

So, how did the Oxford city landscape influence Lewis when I just told you that Narnia was nature-bound? Lewis did what most writers do when world-building. That is, he

used an amalgamation of settings to create Narnia. We know that the natural world of Narnia was inspired by Northern Ireland because Lewis was quoted as saying so. According to The Newry Times News, a local newspaper in County Down, Ireland, Lewis stated, “That part of Rostrevor which overlooks Carlingford Lough is my idea of Narnia.” I haven’t been able to locate such a straightforward statement from Lewis regarding settings in Oxford that may have inspired Narnia, but how couldn’t have Oxford inspire his writing when he spent such a significant portion of his life there? According to timeline of Lewis’s life obtained form the C.S. Lewis Foundation, after serving in WWI,“he received a First in Honour Moderations (Greek and Latin Literature) in 1920, a First in Greats (Philosophy and Ancient History) in 1922, and a First in English in 1923. Later in 1925, Lewis was elected a Fellow of Magdalen College, Oxford, where he served as tutor in English Language and Literature for 29 years” Walking the same footpaths Lewis travelled on a daily basis, it would be unrealistic to not see how Oxford helped sculpt Narnia.

So, it is my hope that with the photos and accompanying passages I’ve provided here, you are able to find a way to cheat your way into Narnia again or just pretend a little.

Image of me standing on top of Martyrs’ Cross: During Queen Mary’s (or “Bloody Mary” as she is sometimes known) reign, protestants were burned at the stake at this site. It’s doubtful that there’s any connection between the stone bricks at Martyrs’ cross and the stone table where Aslan was sacrificed, but as I had already been transported to Narnia, I felt I had the right to entertain a new theory. The White Witch demanded a blood sacrifice just like Queen Mary.

Image of Narnia Door Oxford, England:

As a fellow at Magdalen College, Lewis often walked down St. Mary’s Passage and would pass by this wooden door with a lion carving embellished on it. The carving is thought to have inspired the lion character, Aslan, in The Narnia Chronicles. The door also resembles a wardrobe door and has been nicknamed the “Narnia Door.”

Image of the lamppost: The lamppost may also be found on St. Mary’s Passage just a few steps across from the Narnia Door. After Lucy first enters Narnia she walks through the woods and follows a source in the distance where she discovers a lamppost. Moments later, she meets Mr. Tumnus: “As she stood looking at it, wondering why there was a lamp-post in the middle of a wood and wondering what to do next, she heard the pitter patter of feet coming toward her.” (pg. 9)

A side view and a front view image of fauns in St. Mary’s Passage: Above the Narnia Door and on either side of it are two ornately carved golden fauns. Lucy first meets the Pan-like creature, Mr. Tumnus, Lucy at the lamppost: “From the waist upward he was like a man, but his legs were shaped like a goat’s (the hair on them was glossy black) and instead of feet he had goat’s hoofs. He also had a tail…He had a strange, but pleasant little face, with a short pointed beard and out of his curly hair stuck two horns, one on each side of his forehead.” (pg. 10)

Images of the entryway and the door to the School of Metaphysics with bordering stone keystones and grotesques: “Lewis served as philosophy tutor at University College” and would enter through this door. He was greatly influenced by his surroundings and may have drawn inspiration for his stone garden setting from the stone bosses and monuments found on the buildings at Magdalen College. Rather than killing her enemies the White Witch turns them into stone It makes you wonder if the mythical creatures and keystones around Oxford are actually trapped in.

Images of front of The Eagle and the Child Pub and the pub sign: Lewis was a member of The Inklings, a friend circle who included J.R.R. Tolkien and Lewis’s brother, Warren Lewis. They met for 16 years in Jack’s (Lewis’s friends called him Jack) rooms at Magdalen College on Thursday evenings and, just before lunch on Mondays or Fridays, in a back room at “The Eagle and Child,” a pub known to locals as “The Bird and Baby.” Unfortunately, Nick and I weren’t able to get a pint and soak up the spirits of these great writers because the pub was under renovation. Nor could I convince the workers to let me have private tour.

*Quotes were obtained from the 1994 The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, Book Two edition published by Harper Collins Publishers, The Newry Times (Nov. 20, 2003), and “The Life of C.S. Lewis Timeline” found on the C.S Lewis Foundation online site.

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

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

Authors’

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

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

From a Villa in Tuscany

When I told Mandy that I would be traveling to Italy in January and that I might not be able to contribute a column, her first reaction was, “Oh my God. The magazine might not survive your absence!” Okay, she didn’t really say that, and I can neither confirm nor deny that she thought it. What she did say was that I should write about my travels and send those musings to Well Read. I kind of liked that idea, but I want everyone to be really clear that this was her idea, not mine. So even though I am all up in Dawn Major’s lane for the next couple of months, please rest assured that it is only temporary. I do not want to get on Dawn’s bad side, because that girl is formidable.

So anyway, I am writing this month’s column from a villa inTuscany. I am sitting here in front of my wood stove with my laptop on my knees. My petite cup of strong, black, well-sugared coffee sits upon the table to my right, and if this image does not enhance my writerly credentials, then I don’t know what you guys are looking for. I was considering naming this column Innocents Abroad, but my ItalianAIAssistant, Guiseppe, advised me that the title had already been used by someone named Twain, so I guess I’ll

just go with Notes from the Road. Guiseppe is here with me now, looking over my shoulder while smoking with impunity, as is the Italian way, with virtual biscotti crumbs dribbling from his scraggly beard onto my keyboard. Apparently, he came with the place.

I am here with my lovely wife, and this is our 50th wedding anniversary trip. From my point of view, they have been the 50 best years of my life, each one better than the last, and from hers the best 37. I think she is kidding about that, but I am not entirely sure, and I’m afraid to ask. In the grand scheme of things, 37 is pretty good, and you’re welcome.

Our trip began, as many trips do, with a long flight. We traveled with American Airlines, or as I like to refer to them, the flying cattle car company. Actually, the flying part of the journey wasn’t too bad, because after buying our tickets I also purchased the ass upgrade, which gave us three more inches of seat room and four more inches of leg room. These additional inches cost about $100 per inch and were worth every penny, which sort of gives you an idea of the extent to which we all have been conditioned to be grateful for not much and to be willing to pay out the nose for the favor. We flew out ofAtlanta with a tight connection in Philadelphia, a plane change made even tighter by a lastminute gate change. Airlines do this regularly before international flights to be sure that travelers of a certain age

are physically able to withstand the rigors of a transoceanic journey, and what better way to do this than by making them run down the concourse while dragging heavy suitcases behind them? We made the flight, but I lost my fancy European hat in the process, and I am willing to bet euros to donuts that it won’t be in the Philadelphia airport lost-and-found when I get back. I really liked that hat.

We flew into Rome, and it was there while seeing some of the sights before moving on that I discovered that apparently I look like an American. I discovered this at St. Peter’s Square where, among a crowd of no fewer than 5000 people, I was like a scammer magnet. Random strangers walked past everyone else to get to me with the intent of selling me phones, scarves, rosaries, pictures of the Pope, and bracelets. At one point the actual original Nigerian Prince approached me with a plea for 1000 euro that would then somehow unlock billions, all of which we would split. I have no idea why he was in Rome, and I hope he was able to resolve his financial embarrassment and get back home. He seemed like a nice fellow just down on his luck.

This was early in our journey, and in an attempt to circumvent similar experiences throughout Italy, I decided to get proactive and take steps to change my appearance to something more European. I bought a pair of tight black pants which were no fun to put on because my feet are

bigger than my ankles. I purchased a turtleneck sweater, and I augmented it with a stylish wool scarf. I secured a jaunty hat, which sort of ticked me off because, as you will recall, I had a perfectly good one back in Philadelphia. I shaved parts of my beard until all that was left was a van Dyke. Sadly, after all of this effort, all I had really accomplished was to look like an American trying to look like a European, and after turning down perhaps the only opportunity I will ever have to purchase a sliver of the True Cross, I decided that it might be time to go back to the hotel for some Italian television.

Another type of individual approached me on a few occasions as I was minding my own business while trying to not look like an American. This group was comprised of various people from different parts of Europe who asked me via gesture, mime, and one-syllable words what exactly was going on back home in my country.To all of these folks my reply, via gesture, mime, and one-syllable words was the same: I could not explain it, it was not my fault, but it was damn sure my problem, and before all was said and done it was likely to be their problem as well. My unofficial ambassadorship ended shortly thereafter upon the arrival of four big boys from the Netherlands who looked like an international hit team and who seemed to have a big old chunk of America stuck in their Dutch craws. My attempt to defuse the situation by telling them the only Dutch joke

I knew—you know the one—fell flat, so I hitched up my tight pants, adjusted my replacement hat, and got the hell out of there.

We did the touristy thing in Rome for a few days and saw many of the famous attractions, but the one I want to mention here is The Vatican Museum.You will have to turn to the Bard of Travel, Rick Steves, for information about the rest of them. The Vatican Museum is nothing short of amazing, and on top of that, it is one of the very few attractions in the city that is free.There are literally miles of galleries showcasing art and antiquities from as far back as 10,000 BCE up through modern times. I have an image in my head of the Pope after hours being wheeled through the various galleries by a Cardinal, perhaps, or at the very least a Bishop, just looking at all of his cool stuff and saying, “Buono…buono.” There is so much to see, in fact, that you would do well to break up your visit over two or even three days. Otherwise, like me, you will be searching for the uscita after five or six hours with much of the museum still unseen, because there is only so much culture anAmerican can absorb at one sitting without experiencing heart palpitations, anxiety, and sharp pains behind the left eye.

Our next stop after Rome was Florence, but before I take you there I want to devote a paragraph or two to some general travel information, beginning with taxis. We chose not to drive in Rome because we don’t have a death wish

and elected instead to rely on transport via taxi. Some of these excursions were fine, but some were not. There seem to be two types of taxi drivers in Italy, and you never know which you have gotten until you are strapped into the back seat. The first category includes friendly, helpful, honest professionals. The second group is manned largely by people you would normally go out of your way to avoid rather than seek out and pay. These drivers seem to hate taxis, traffic, driving, me, you, and their mamas. Okay, I may have gone too far with the last one.They probably love their mamas, but I bet they don’t call as often as they should.

In no particular order, here are some other facts that might come in handy during your Italian journey. Italian Coke tastes like flatAmerican Pepsi and should be avoided. Travel with two credit cards, but only use one. When (not if) it becomes compromised, usually at an Italian gas station, cancel it, switch to the other, and continue your travels. Regardless of what you may have read to the contrary, Italian folks like tips just fine. When you order a cheese platter and it comes out warm, soft, and moldy, do not be a foolish American and ask to speak to the manager. This was intentional, and believe it or not, you are supposed to eat it. Expect to pay for water. Bathrooms are called toilets and are not always free. Gelato can give you brain freeze. And finally, even though euros look and feel like

play money, they are the real deal, so don’t be handing them out like candy.

That’s about it for this month. Mandy gets fussy if I go too much over my word limit, and she’s been in a mood anyway since having to fire her Amish contractor. Next month we will visit Florence, Venice, Tuscany, and the ever-popular Pisa, which was, ironically, the last place that Mandy’sAmish contractor did a job. Ciao from Italy!

Mandy Haynes, Editor-in-Chief, Designer, Publisher, & Founder

Mandy Haynes is the 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. Her stories have appeared in several anthologies and literary journals. She is the editor and designer of Encounters with Nature, a collaboration ofAmelia Island Writers and Artists, The WELL READ's Best of 2023 anthologies, and also the co-editor of The Best of the Shortest: A Southern Writers Reading Reunion.

Raymond L.Atkins, Contributing Editor for OFF THE PAGE

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

Meet the staff

Robert Gwaltney, Contributing Editor for INSIDE VOICES

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

Ann Hite, Contributing Editor for MOUNTAIN MAGIC

In September of 2011 Gallery, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, publishedAnn Hite’s first novel, Ghost on Black Mountain. In 2012 this novel was shortlisted for the Townsend Prize, Georgia’s oldest literary award. In the same year, Ghost on Black Mountain won Hite GeorgiaAuthor of the Year. She went on to publish four more novels, a novella, memoir, and most recently Haints On Black Mountain: A Haunted Short Story Collection from Mercer University Press. In December 2022, Haints On Black Mountain was one of ten finalist for the Townsend Prize. The collection was a Bronze Winner in Foreword IndieAward 2023 and GeorgiaAuthor of the Year Second Place Winner for Short Stories 2023.Ann received a scholarship to theAppalachian Witers Workshop Hindman Settlement in the summer of 2020 and was invited back in 2021. Her passion for history influences all her work.

Jeffrey Dale Lofton, Contributing Editor for INSIDE VOICES

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

Claire Hamner Matturro , Contributing Editor for CLAIRE CONSIDERS

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

Dawn Major, Contributing Editor for TRIPLIT with D Major

Dawn Major’s debut novel, The Bystanders, was named finalist for 2024 GeorgiaAuthor of the Year for Best First Novel. Major is an associate editor at Southern Literary Review and advocates for southern authors via her blog, Southernread. Her literary awards include the following: the Dr. Robert Driscoll Award, Reinhardt University’s Faculty ChoiceAward, and the James Dickey Review Literary Fellowship. Major is a member of the William Gay Archive and has edited and helped publish the works of the late author. She serves on the board for Broadleaf Writers Association and is also a member of M’ville, anAtlanta-based artist salon. Major lives in the Old Fourth Ward inAtlanta, GA and is working on her next novel, The Dandy Chronicles.

Annie McDonnell, Contributing Editor forANNIEASKS

Founder of The Write Review Literary Community, Podcaster, Book Reviewer, Author Consultant and Matchmaker. She also teaches workshops on top of all of this! Annie has been introducing us to books and authors since 2006, when she began reviewing books for Elle Magazine. Proud Stiff Person Syndrome Warrior, and several other illnesses.

Fucking Hipsters by Mandy Haynes

Dedicated to my fellow East Nashvillians who mourn the loss of a great city...

Frank ignores the young doctor and wonders if he might be having a heart attack and welcomes the idea. He has no control over the flood of tears that pours from his eyes, or the way the muscles contort and pinch in his face. The pain comes from deep in his stomach, forcing its way into his chest. It feels as if his ribs might break before the pressure rises up his neck and pushes its way out of his mouth.

“Fucking hipsters …” he says before another wail chokes off the rest of the sentence.

The young therapist’s eyebrows are the only things that move. She quickly brings them back down and adjusts her glasses. This is not what she expected, but she’s glad to hear his voice. She sits behind her poker face and waits for him to continue. Several minutes pass before she attempts to hand him the box of tissues. If he notices the tissues she offers, he ignores them. She pauses before deciding to put the box back on the table and starts to wonder if she heard him correctly. Hadn’t she just said the same thing this morning as she jogged past the new and socalled improved Dino’s? Fucking hipsters, she’d cursed under her breath as she ran past the litter of red plastic cups and cigarette butts left out on the sidewalk from last night’s crowd.

"It may be fiction but it's all true. Mandy writes razor-sharp, down-to-the bone southern tales about total strangers that you've known your whole life. She knows us better than we know ourselves. This is the good stuff." Mike Henderson, singer/ songwriter, musician

"A great read for all us humans." Caleb Mannan, author of Bust It Like A Mule

"From her mind come people who inspire and infuriate and inform. They'll make you ache and smile and sigh, all at the same time." Peter Cooper, journalist, author, singer-songwriter

"Mandy Haynes is a no-nonsense writer who cuts straight through to the core of what life is about with all of the characters she creates. Every story is filled with an honest, raw, and beautiful dance. Such a treat to read." Chuck Beard, freelance writer, editor, and author, owner of East Side Story

"Mandy Haynes has an amazing voice that reaches right in to your gut. A talent like this is rare, and I look forward to seeing more from her soon." Nadia Bruce-Rawlings,Author of Scars

"Her stories give voice to the humor, sorrow, and sometimes even horror in the lives of people in the small towns and down the dirt roads of the South." Wayne Wood, journalist, author of Watching the Wheels: Cheap irony, righteous indignation and semi-enlightened opinion