WELL READ Magazine January 2023

RedClaySuzie by JeffreyDaleLofton

Anovelinspiredbytrueevents

Thecoming-of-agestoryofPhilbet,agay,physically-misshapen boyinruralGeorgia,whobattlesbullying,ignorance,anddisdainas hemakeshiswayinlifeasanoutsider—beforefindingacceptance inunlikelyplaces.

Fueledbytomatosandwichesandgreenmilkshakes,andobsessed withcars,Philbetstruggleswithlifeandloveasagayboyinrural Georgia.He’shappiestwhenhelpingGrandaddydigpotatoesfrom thevegetablegardenthatconnectstheirhouses.ButPhilbet’sworld isshatteredandhisresilienceshakenbyeventsthatcrushhis innocenceandsenseofsecurity;exposehismisshapenchest skillfullyhiddenbehindshirtsMamamakesathome;andconvince himthathe’snotfittobelovedbyKnox,theolderboyheidolizes todistraction.Overtime,Philbetfindsrefugeinunexpectedplaces andinnerstrengthinunexpectedways,leadingtoaresolutioninthe formofaletterfrombeyondthegrave.

“Thisfantasticnovelisstriking,andthestorytellingisstrong.You won’tbeabletoputitdown.AtleastIcouldn’t.” MorganTalty, authorof NightoftheLivingRez

"Youcan'thelpbutrootforPhilbet,theunforgettableheroofJeffrey DaleLofton'sarrestingdebutRedClaySuzie.Iwasmovedbythe insightsandsettingsofthisbookandbythevividdepictionofa uniquechildhoodthatfeelsuniversalinitslonging." Christopher Castellani,authorof LeadingMen

"Ifeleven-year-oldmehadhadabooklikethistoread,whatajoy thatwouldhavebeen.It’sbeautiful.It’simportant.It’sF@#%ing magic.”

PeteCross,AudieandEarphonesAward-Winning AudiobookNarratorandProducer

Thereareopen-mindedliberalthinkingpeopleinsmall southerntownsandGeorgegivesthemavoicewithout changing whotheyare or wherethey’refrom.He celebratesthegoodanddoesadamnfinejobofpointing outthebadwithoutbeingcondescendingorwatering downthestorieswithfamiliarandsadly––y’allknowit’s true––expected stereotypestomakethemeasierto swallow.No,Georgeservesthemstraightfromthebottle.

He'sthemasteratmakingyoulaughwhenyou’renot sureyoushould,andcausingalumptoforminyourthroat andtearstowellinyoureyeswhenyou’rereadinga phraseordescriptionthat’slaughoutloudfunnybuthurts atthesametime.Let’sfaceit,we’veallhadtimesinour ownliveswhenasenseofhumorwastheonlysensewe couldfind.

Georgesays,“It’slikeSamuelBecketttheIrish playwrightsaid,there’snothingfunnierthanhuman misery.Thatsoundsreallymeanbutthatgoesbackallthe waytoAristotlewiththenotionofcatharsisyouknow whenyougotOedipusstabbinghiseyeballout.Youmay goman,mylifesucks,butatleastIhaven’tkilledmy daddy,hadsexwithmymama,orstabbedmyeyeballout. AndthatgoesbacktowhatBeckettwassaying.Youknow wedon’tmeanto,butwhenweseesomeonesliponthe iceandfalldown,”hechuckles,“welaugh.”

GeorgelivesinSpartanburg,SouthCarolinawithhis

wife GlendaGuion (anincrediblytalentedartist)andtheir dogCleowhosatatGeorge’sfeetaswetalked.Atone timeGeorgehadelevendogs,allstraysthathadbeen droppedoffandlefttofendforthemselvesbeforefinding theirwaytoGeorge’shouse.Hecannamethemall––Dooley,Hershey,Ann,Mabel,Maggie,Nick,River,Cleo, Lily,Charlie,andMary.

IwasintroducedtoGeorge’swritingthankstoDooley yearsagoatTheSouthernFestivalofBooks.Isawa posterforapanelofauthorstalkingabouttheirstoriesin theanthology LiteraryDogsandTheirSouthCarolina Authors outsideaconferenceroomandslippedintograb oneofthelastavailableseatsrightasGeorgestarted talking.Injustafewminuteseveryonewaslaughingashe describedhowhetriedtoconvincehisneighbor’smotherin-lawthattheskinny,mange-covered,straywasherdog–nothis––towipingawaytearsandhangingoneveryword ashetalkedaboutthetriptothevetwhenDooleyhadto haveemergencysurgery.Ikeptleaningforwardtolook leftandrightdowntheaisleatthefacesintheaudienceto seeiftheyfeltthewayIdid,iftheyknewhowdamnlucky weweretobesittingthere.Thelookstheygavemetold metheyabsolutelydidandthatIwaslatetothegame.The manatmylefttookpityonmeandaskedtoborrowapen. HethendugawrinkledHarrisTeeterreceiptfromhis pocketandwrotealistofSingleton’sbookshethoughtI

shouldstartwith.

AfterthatIreadeverythingIcouldgetmyhandson about,andby,Singleton.ItoldGeorgeaboutmyfirst experienceofhearinghimreadliveatTheSouthern FestivalofBooks.

Georgesaid,“SomeofmybestmemoriesarewhenI’m readingashortstoryandpeoplearelaughingandyoucan seetheminutethestoryturnsandthelookontheirfaces arelike,Uh-oh,shouldIhavebeenlaughingthiswhole time?IfIcanpullthatoff,whichIdoabout1/100thsofa timethenI’mhappy.”

“You’rethemasteratit,”Isaidandmeantit.

Georgeanswered,“No,therealmasterisafellanamed LewisNordanwhogrewupinIttaBenaMississippi.He wrote MusicoftheSwamp, WolfWhistle,andlotsofgood stuff.Youshouldlookhimup.”

OfcourseIwroteNordan’snamedownandyoushould too.ThenIaskedGeorgewhathewasupto.Afterwe talkedaboutchasingferalcats,missingpossums,and growingpoppies,hetoldmeabouttwonewbookshe’s workingon.

“ThisonecomingoutinSeptemberiscalled The CuriousLivesofNon-ProfitMartyrs,”helaughed,“nonprofitlikeworkingforUnitedWaynotaprophetlikesome guyinthebible.ThenI’vegotabookofessayscalled Asides comingoutaroundthesametime.It’saboutdogs,

bars,growingupquestionably,andhangovercures. There’ssomefoodwritinginthere,oneofthoseessays showedupin BestAmericanFoodWriting.”

Hesayshegottheideatopublishabookofessays duringCovidafterhereadareallygoodcollectionby someoneelse.

Georgelaughed,“Isaid,Ineedtogettogetherallthe essaysI’veeverwritten––Iwasdrinkingbourbonatthe time––andputthemtogether.TheproblemisIdon’tsave anything.Zero.Ifoundthreeoftheseessaysonmy computerbutIhadtogoonlineandsearchfortherest.IfI wasluckytheywerepublishedonline,ifnotIhadtoorder themagazine,journal,orbooktheywereinsoIcouldsit therelikeanidiotandretypethem…”Anothergreat Georgelaugh,“Ibettermakesomemoneyoffthisbook becauseIspentsixmilliondollarsgatheringallthe material.”

IaskedGeorgeoutofalltheliteraryjournalshe’sbeen publishedin,whatwastheonehegotthebiggestkickout oftellinghisfriends.

“Iwasreallyhappywitheachofthem.It’sliketreasure hunting,youknow,somedaysyoufindadiamond,some daysarejustrubiesoremeraldsbutitmightbeareally goodrubythatgetsreprinted.Iwasinthismagazine called TheQuarterly editedbyGordanLish.He’sareal famousandsomewhatcontroversialeditor.Heedited

RaymondCarverandBarryHannahandhe’swellknown forcuttingalotofwork.Iwasreallyhappyaboutthatone ––eventhoughhecutmytenpagestorydowntothree. ButImadetwenty-fivedollarsapagewhichin1988 probablypaidmyrent.Then GeorgiaReview Iwasreally proudofthat.Thenin’92or’93Isoldastoryto Playboy Magazine.Itwasnotadirtystorywhatsoever,didn’teven haveanycusswordsinit––maybeonedamn.Matterof factitwasafamilyvaluestoryaboutacouplewhowere soexcitedaboutthebirthoftheirfirstchild.Theyhada sonogramandthenthemantapedoveritwitharecording of Bonanza.Iwasproudofthat,understandIwasinmy earlythirtieswhatIstillconsideredawhippersnappersoI gotakickoutoftellingmybuddiesfromcollege,Guess who’sgoingtobein PlayboyMagazine––mywordswith allthosenekkidwomen.NowI’malittlebitembarrassed byit.Thenin’99Iwentonatearandhadastoryin AtlanticMonthly,in Harper’s,Zoetrope,and Georgia Review––Ihadsomethinglikeeighteenstoriespublished inacalendaryear.”

Georgelaughed,leanedin,andsaid,“TheoneI’mmost embarrassedabout,that’smaybemoreinteresting.Ihad thisstoryaboutastandupcomedianright,soIwas lookingthroughthismagazineandfoundamagazine called InsideJoke.Ithought,Hey,I’llsendthemmystory aboutthecomedian.Ididandtheytookitalmost

immediately.Ithought,Damnthatwasfast.Good.And thenwhenitwastimetogetmycontributor’scopyitwas likefortypagesoftypewriterpaperxeroxedwithstaples intheend. InsideJoke wasamagazineputoutfor prisonersintheNewYorkStatepenitentiarysystem.Inthe nextissueIgotfanlettersfromprisonersintheletterto theeditorsectionsaying,ThatstorybythatSingletonboy downinSouthCarolinaisprettyfunny. AnotherembarrassingonewasbackwhenIwashaving allthatgoodluckwith Atlantic,Harper’s andwhatever,I actuallygotaletterfromtheeditorof RedbookMagazine. Amagazinethat’sprimarilyawomen’smagazine.The editorwasDawnRaphaelandshewroteandsaid,Hey, don’tforgetaboutus.Ithought,Man,that'snice.Glenda got Redbook soIlookedthroughitandsawthatthestories werewrittenmainlybywomenwithwomenprotagonists soIwent,OkayIbetterwriteaboutawomanprotagonist. ButtherewerecertainthingsIjustdidn’tknow.ImeanI listentopeople,that’smywholegig––listeningand stealingfrompeople.Anyway,itwasahoneymoonstory aboutthiscouplewhojustgotmarriedandtheguy’s derangedunclewassortofstalkingthem.Therewasaline toldbythewomanthatsaid“ThatnightIwentintothe bathroomandchangedinto––andthenIputin parenthesis––aTeddy,pajamas,bucknaked,chooseoneof these,”Georgelaughed,“becauseIdidn’tknowwhat

she’dsay.TherewasawholelotofthatandIgotrejected prettyquickly.Dawnsentarejectionletterthatsaid, Pleasedon’teverdothisagain.SoIdidn’t.”

Iaskedifhehadanyadviceforwriters. “Myadviceisreadwhat’sbeingpublishednowand readawholebunchofit.Idon’tknowhowmanyexEnglishmajorstrytowriteanovelthinkingitshould soundlikeCharlesDickensorJonathanSwiftor Shakespeare.It’simportanttoknowFaulkner,Flannery O’Connor,andEudoraWeltybutifyouwrotelike Faulknertodayyou’dhaveahardtimegettingpublished.”

IaskedGeorgeiftherewasoneendorsementoutofall thegreatoneshe’sreceivedhewasespeciallyproudof. George’sanswerwasifanyonetakesthetimetowritea blurbhe’sthankful.

Hepickedupacopyofhislatestbookandread, “Singleton’sstoriesarelikeepicspitballsfromthebackof theclassroom,”hestoppedtolaugh,“Ithinkthat’skindof funny.

ThefullblurbbyJonathanMilesfrom Garden&Gun goes"Agreatest-hitsalbumfromawriterwhosestories arelikeepicspitballsfromthebackoftheclass:higharcingandunbearablyfunnyprotestsagainstthe absurditiesofeverydaylife."

Georgeendswith,“Idon’tpaytoomuchattentionto thembecauseIthinkthey’reusuallyalittlebithyperbolic.

HowtoPublishaSelectedCollectionofStoriesbyGeorgeSingleton

ofHubCityPress,anon-profitpublisher.(They’vemoved intotheirowndigssince,ablockaway.)They’dbeen churningoutgreatbooksforsometime—poetry,essay collections,anthologies,novels,shortstorycollections— andgettingallkindsofpublicityandawards.Ikindof enviedthewritersgettingbookspublishedoutofHCP,but Ilivedinthissmalltown,andthesewerepeopleIknew, andIneverthoughttosendthemanykindofmanuscript, Selected ornot,foritwouldputallofusinan uncomfortablesituation.Iftheydeclinedamanuscript, theymightthinkI’dbeoneofthosewriterswhosoon thereafterperformedvoodooritualsagainsttheeditor/ publisher/publicist,etcetera.Iftheytookamanuscript,I mightthinktheydidsooutofpity.

what?Together,incollections,theyallsoldmaybe18,000 copies.Maybe12,000.Afterreturns?Maybeninety-seven copies.Whywouldanyonewanttodoa SelectedStories, thingsthatnooneinAmericareadsanymore?

Idigress,perusual.Maybethat’swhyeightcollections soldninety-sevencopiesonly.

SoIwalkedin,andIsawMegReid,thehotshotspark plugDirectorofHubCityPress.Shesaid,“Iwanttoset upameetingnextweek.Ihavetogooutoftown,but whenIgetbackIwanttosetupameeting.”

Ithought,ofcourse,“Oh,crap,shewantsmetojudge somekindofcontest.”

Idon’tknowwhyIdidn’tsay,“Oh,god,thankyou,” rightoff.Maybeit’sbecauseIneededtogetoutofthere. Didtheyevenhaveabathroomaround?IthoughtImight peemyself.

ThateveningIcalledacouplewriterfriendsand explainedthesituation.Bothofthem—Ishouldmention thatmywriterfriendsandInevertalkaboutwriting,or business.Wedon’twhineaboutwho’sgettingpublished, whoshoweduponOprah’sBookClub,whowonabigtimeaward.Mywriterfriendsallbelieveinthatsayingby HenryJamesabouttheHouseofFictionhavingamillion windows.Wetalkaboutpolitics,gardening,fishing,our familymembers’well-being,dogantics,theBraves,and electriciansand/ormechanicswhodidgoodjobsforus. “Yes.Doit,now,”bothfriendssaid.Oneguy,who’d beenonthe NewYorkTimes BestsellerListandhadabook ofpoemswithHCP,said,“IfIhadabookofstoriesready, I’dgowithHubCityPress,Iswear.” So.Donedeal.Easy-peasy,astheysay.Icalledthenext dayandtoldMeg,“Let’sdothisthing,”orsomethinglike that.

HowtoPublishaSelectedCollectionofStoriesbyGeorgeSingleton

GumptalkingaboutJenny—Isaid,“Iknowwhatan attachmentis,Meg,butIdon’thaveallthesestoriesinmy computer.”

Ididn’tsay,“It’snotevenclose!”becausethatwould’ve requiredanexclamationpoint.

Lookit:OutofthethirtystoriesIwanted,maybesixor sohadbeenoriginallywrittenonatypewriter,thensent outtomagazineswithanSASE.Anditdidn’tevenmatter: When those storiescameoutincollections,theyendedup beingdifferent,incertainways,thantheoriginals.Throw inthemixhowmyparticularHouseStylesometimes differedfromamagazine’sHouseStyle,andhowa publisher’sHouseStyledifferedfromamagazine’s.Then, becauseofSatan’sinventionof“TrackChanges,”whatI hadinmycomputer,orfloppydrive,ordisk,orthumb drive—ifIhadthem—wasn’tthesameaswhatappeared inthefinalcollectionofstories.

Iunderstandfullyhowitmight’vesounded braggadociouswhenIlistedoffthoseaforementioned publishers,magazines,andjournals—andthatnoone’s readinguptothispoint—butitwastoshowhowstories thinorthickenfrom ChicagoManualofStyle stirring. Iblame,really,the ChicagoManualofStyle. I’lljumpaheadandsayhowMegsaid,“Okay.Well. Huh.Iguesswecangetyourbooks,ripoutthepages,and scanthem.”

endedup.So,this“scanning”panaceasoundedlikeagreat ideatome. Shew—thatwouldkeepmefromhavingtodo morework.

You’dthinkthatwithallthetechnologicaladvances we’vemadeoverthelastthirtyyears—notonlywith computers,butwithinventionslikethatAlexathing,and carsthatknowhowtostopwhenanobstacleapproaches, andsecuritydoorbells,anddog-chips—“scanning” would’vebeenconquered.Notso.

Megsentmethefirstofabout,oh,whatendedupbeing forty,draftsof YouWantMore:SelectedStories.

Sometimeswholepassageswentmissing,oratleastlines. “Pom-poms”showedupas“porn-porns”(whichIthought aboutkeeping).Therewasa“Porneranian”inastory.

Periodsbecamesemi-colons.Commasbecame semicolons.Blankspacesbetweenwordsbecamesemicolons.Iknow—andI’mofthe“maybeuseonesemicolon perbook,ifany”tribe—deep-downthatthere’ssomekind ofSemi-colonAppreciationSocietythatcolluded,much likecertainsenatorshopingthey’dnevergetmentionedin anon-goinginvestigation.

But,also,semi-colonsbecamecommas,orperiods.

Toomanyhyphensbecameem-dashes.Em-dashes becamehyphens.Isweartogodthatsomewhereinthat newmanuscripttheword“her”became“hen.”The statement“Iloveher”showedupas“Ilovehen.”Nothing againstpoultry,butitjustdidn’tfitwithawhitemanand blackwomaninSouthCarolina,inlove,wonderingwhat todowithwhattheyforesawasaformidableproblemin

theirfuture.

ThelowercaseletterObecamethelowercaseletterA. Vice-versa.LowercaseI’sbecameuppercaseI’s.Double quotemarksbecamesingleandsinglequotesbecame double.Lsbecame1s.

Throwinacopyeditorhiredoutfromnot-herewho changedthingslike“Iwantonlytodrink”to“Iwantto drinkonly…”ornotknowingthat“y’all”isspelledthusly, not“ya’ll.”

Onandon.So.Insummary,asanyfirst-yearcollege studenttakinganEnglish101classmightunderstand, save everything.Oncethestorycomesoutinabook,goback andre-type exactly howthatstorycameoutfinally.Spend moretimere-typingthestoriesthanyouwouldwriting new stories,sendingthemouttomagazineswhoseeditors mightwanttoputthoughtsinquotationmarks(wrong,I think),orthoughtsinitalics(wrong,too)andoneswho don’t(right).Keepsaidstoriesinafolder.Everytimeyour computerdies,makesureyouhaveadisk,athumbdrive, aCloud,awhatever-the-fuck’s-next.

Orjustwrite,becausespendingallthistimeon technologicalworrying—intheend,really—mightcut youroutputby,say,99%.Orninety-ninepercent.Or99 percent.Orninety-nine%.

GeorgeSingleton SouthernVoices2020

HooverPublicLibrary

Ron'sbowlingscoresdidn'timprove.TheyandRon worsenedwithtime.Ihonestlydidn'thaveconcerns.Ron alwaysfocusedonothers-alwayswentoutofhiswayto help.Ifiguredhejustneededsomerest.Heprobablywas over-doingit,Iconcluded,withwork,bowlingleague, coachinghiskidsandhelpingeveryoneandanyonein need.ButRonwaseventuallydiagnosedwithALS (amyotrophiclateralsclerosis),morecommonlyknownas LouGehrig'sdiseaseintheUnitedStates.Forthosenot familiar,it'snotsomethinganyone"getsover".Withtime hediedduetotheawfuldisease.Anentirecommunityof friendsandneighbors,alongwithworkassociatesfeltthe painoflosinghim.Andtoamuchgreaterextent,hiswife andchildrenfeltenormousloss.TothisdayImisshim andwishIcouldhavedonemore. IthasnowbeenafewyearsandIjustgotnewsofa collegefriendbeingdiagnosedwithALS.Itrulyhatethis disease.

DeathbyGreed byAbigail Keam

Josiahisworkinginherhoneybee yardwhenshehearsacommotion comingfromherhorsepasture.She rushestowardtheuproarandcomes uponahuge,enragedTexas Longhornbull.Themassivebeastis angrilysnorting,pawingtheturf,and threateningaprizedThoroughbred stallion,Comanche.Josiahmaynothavemuchknowledge ofcattle,butsherealizessnorting,pawing,andlowering theheadaresignstogetoutoftheLonghorn'sway!

Gettingthebulltocalmdownisnosmalltaskandinthe end,Josiahhasabustedfenceandabarndoorrippedoff itshinges.OncetheLonghornissecure,Josiahhurriesto notifythebull’sowneronlytodiscoverthemanisdead andlyinginapoolofhisownblood.

Thepolicenaturallyassumethebullisresponsibleforthe owner’sdeath,butJosiahhasherdoubts.Sheisconvinced foulplayisinvolvedandworkstosavetheTexas Longhornfrombeing“putdown.”Willshesolvethe murderandsavetheLonghornintime?

"AbigailKeamwriteswithvisionandunderstanding. Keamleavesthereaderyearningformore." -Midwest BookReview AbigailKeam isanaward-winningandAmazonbestsellingauthorwhowritestheJosiahReynoldsMystery SeriesaboutaSouthernbeekeeperturnedamateurfemale sleuth.Besideslovinghistory,Kentuckybourbonand chocolate,Abigailloveshoneybeesandformanyyears madeherlivingbysellinghoneyatafarmers’market.She isanaward-winningbeekeeperwhohaswonmanyhoney awardsattheKentuckyStateFairincludingtheBarbara HornAward,whichisgiventobeekeeperswhoratea perfect100inahoneycompetition.

Astrongsupporteroffarmers’marketsandlocalfood economy,MissAbigailhastakenherknowledgeof beekeepingtocreateafictionalbeekeepingprotagonist, JosiahReynolds,whosolves mysteriesintheBluegrass.While MissAbigail’snovelsarefor enjoyment,shediscussesthe importanceofalocalsustainable foodeconomyandlandmanagement forhoneybeesandothercreatures.

ShecurrentlylivesontheKentucky Riverinametalhousewithher husbandandvariouscritters. Shestillhashoneybees.

WalkingtheWrongWay Home by MandyHaynes

WalkingTheWrongWayHome takesyouinsidethe extraordinarylivesofordinary people.Wherehiddensecretsare broughttolightandburnedwith pastregretsinbrushpilesinthe mountainsofEastTennesseeor usedtosetfiretothemass producedtallandskinniestaking overEastNashville.Betweenthepagesyou'llmeetPenny, aneighty-sevenyearoldwidowwhosleepsinherred shoes,Jimmy,aquietautomechanicwhosememoriesare neversilent,Jewelayounggirlwhoseesbeauty everywhere,eventhoughshe'slostalmosteverything,and Willie,athirteen-year-oldwhofaceshisworstfearsonly tofindoutthatthetruthisscarierthananyhaintorghost storyhe'severimagined.There'sElmaandRoy,acouple who'vebeenmarriedforoverfortyyears.Elmarealizeson hersixty-thirdbirthdaythatit'snottoolatetoliveherlife, butittakesRoytwoweekstonotice.Spanningnearly twentydecades,thestrugglesandvictoriesthese charactersfacearetimelessastheyallworktowardsthe samegoal.Aplacetofeelsafe,aplacetocallhome.

Wordbyword,chapterbychapter,Iwasleftonmytoes, thenontheedgeofmyseat,andultimatelyfeeling breathless!Thisauthor'screativeflairledmeonajourney ofthethrillingandthespirited,byallowingmeamost intriguingescape~oneIhadbeencraving,andoneIknew Ms.Ross-Daviswoulddeliveronastoherauthentic,and believableprose.

THEHITMAN'SWIFE,withitsfast-paced,nervesparkingelementsofdangerandadventure,lendsitselfto bone-chillingsuspenseandtheunimaginable,aswellas theshimmerofromancethatradiatesthroughout,witha storythatburneditswayintomyheartandsoul,andstill remainsthere…” DeniseBirtofWildsageBookBlog “Agovernmentsanctionedhitsquad,acharismaticleader withapenchantforbrassknucklesjustice,admittedly againsttheworstoftheworstchildrapistsandmurderers. Awifeandachild,thewifeherselfavictimofthese heinouscrimes,andnowstruggling withPTSDanddoubtsaboutherself andherloving,devotedhusband. Astoryofredemption,forgiveness, andrevenge,wrappedneatlyintothis short,sharpreadthatistruly deservingofafive starthriller.” FiveStarReader Review

WeAreLivingHistory

T.K.Thorne

Wearelivinghistory.

WELLDONE!Essays,Memoirs,andTrueStories

hisradioshow.

Havingacommonenemyoftenbindspeopletogether. Thus,thecitizensofGermanycoalescedwhenJewswere targetedas“theenemy.”Butthatworksbothways.

Sixty-fouryearsaftertheattemptedbombingofBethEl,thesynagogueisworkingonacivilrightsexhibit aboutlookingtothefuturebyexaminingthepast.Iwas askedtobeaspeakeratthelauncheventbecauseIwrote thisbook—BehindtheMagicCurtain:Secrets,Spies,and UnsungWhiteAlliesofBirmingham’sCivilRightsDays.

Ittookeightyearstocomplete.WhileIwaswritingit,I thought—Willanyonebeinterestedinthisorwillitjustbe anothertomeforthehistorians’bookshelves,ifthat?Butit hadbecomealaboroflove,soIlaboredon.

Iwokefromthe“coma”ofwritingtofindmybook relevant.Thatwasnotnecessarilyagoodthingbutwas whyIwasspeakingatBeth-El’sevent.

Forthemostpart,theWhitecommunityhaswelcomed thebook’srevelationsaboutwhathappenedbehindthe scenes(orbehindthecurtain)inacitythatchangedthe world—storiesofsecretmissionscarriedoutbythepolice andsheriff’sdepartments,aswellaslittle-knowndeedsof civilrights’alliesinthecitybrandedwithimagesof“dogs andfirehoses”usedagainstchildren,animagesearedinto thenation’sconsciousness.

Beth-El,however,adiminutive,elderlyBlackwoman approachedmeandaskedmetosignhercopyof Behind theMagicCurtain,whichshehadbroughttotheevent.

Idid,ofcourse,andshetoldmeshehadbeenayoung childduringthecivilrightseraandherparentshadbeen veryinvolvedintheboycottsof1962and1963.Shealso toldmeshehadenjoyedthebookandhowmuchitmeant toreadconfirmationofthingswhisperedinherhomeand communitywhenshewasyoung,thingsshehadnever knownweretrueornot.Itcompletedacircleforher.

Itwasasmallinteraction,lastingonlyafewmomentsin thechaosaftertheevent,butitmeantalottome.Shehad probablygivenlittlethoughtasachildthatshewasliving apivotalmomentinhistory.Nordidthosewhowentto prayatTempleBeth-Elonemorning,orthosewho listenedtoFatherCoughlin,HenryFord,andCharles Lindberghspewsupremistviewsthateventuallyembraced genocide.

Wearelivinginapivotalmoment.Itwillbewritten about(andalreadyhas)andonedaywewillbetheones whosay,Iwasthere.Whatarewegoingtotellfuture generationsaboutwhatwedid...orwhatwedidn’tdo?

ABanterThatSings

ClaireFullerton

ThestreetsofGalwayweregraythatnight.Everywhere Ilooked,graybuildings,graysidewalks,grayskybeneath amistfloatinginfromtheAtlantic,hoveringominously andimprintingcoronasonthesidewalkfromtheinterior lightofpubsstillopeninthemidnighthour.

OurfootstepsechoedaswewalkedfromTheKings HeadtothehackneyofficeonDominicStreet,acrossthe streetfromTaylor’s,whichwasKieran’sfavoritepub. KieranusedTaylor’sashispersonaloffice.Manywerethe nightshesummonedDarrenandShannonandmeto Taylor’stotalkbusinessbecauseKieranneversawtheline betweenworkandplay.Wereitanyothernight,thefour ofuswouldhavegoneintoTaylor’s;wewouldhavesailed throughthedoorinKieran’swake,followinghis bouncing,proprietaryswaggerashemadehiswaytothe backsectiondesignatedforIrishtraditionalmusicians.But theeveninghadbeenexhaustedatTheKingsHead.Itwas pasttimetocallitanight,andIhadtogethometo Inverin.

WELLDONE!Essays,Memoirs,andTrueStories

Iwasstandingonthesidewalkwhenthehackneydriver broughthistwo-doorHondaaround.Ibidgoodnighttothe threeofthemandgotinthefrontseatforwhatwouldbea thirty-minuterideupthecoastroad.You’dthinkthe memoryIretainofthatnightwouldcenterontheactivity inTheKingsHead.Closetoonehundredpeoplehad turnedoutforTheGalwayMusicCentre’sinaugural showcaseoflocalmusicians,whichthefourofushad spentanentiremonthorchestratingonbehalfofthenonprofitbusinesswe’dstarted.ButasIrelandhasahabitof makingartofthecontrary,whatstandsinmymemoryis thehackneyridehome.

Itwasn’toftenIhadcausetomakethejourneyfrom GalwaytoInverinatnight,butwhenIdid,itwasaneerie experience.Thetotaldarknessonthetwo-laneroad,how themoonilluminatedtheseainshiftinghuesofblack, cobalt,andsilver;thelonesomestretchoftreeless landscapebeneaththeabsenceofsoundmadethejourney surrealasIwatchedforsignpostsguidingmehome.Itwas agradualchangeofconsciousnessasIlefttheenergyof GalwayCityandcreptintothebleaksolitudeofInverin. WheneverItookahackney,there’dbeaconversationwith thedrivertofillinasilencetoofraughtwithpossibilities, butthentravellingwithastrangerinthedarkofnight tendstocreateatacitalliance.

Onthisnight,thehackneydriverwasalocalnamed MichaelConnolly,andIadmitIstarteditallbecauseI’m uneasywithweightedpauses.Ihaveanervoushabitof fillingingapswhenIthinkthere’stoomuchdeadair.

“Areyoufromaroundhere?”IaskedMichaelConnolly, whowasraven-hairedandblue-eyedandlookedtobein hisearlythirties.Tallandlithewithgracefulhandsresting looselyonthesteeringwheel,itseemedhe’dcutthrough thiscoastalswathofConnemarasomanytimesthatthe carnolongerrequiredhisguidance.

“Iam,yeah.Bornandraisedjustuptheroad,butI’ve donemeshareoftravelling.”HisConnemaraaccentgot underthevowels,rolledtoasingingpitch,andendedeach sentenceinamannerthatleftmeexpectingmore.“You’re anAmerican,yeah?”hecontinued,inthatwaytheIrish haveoflettingyouknownothingslipsbythem.

“Yes,”Isaid.“I’mfromMemphis,Tennessee,butI’ve spentthelastfewyearsinLosAngeles.”

“LosAngeles,”MichaelConnollysaid,repeatingthe nameasifheweresorrytohearofmytroubles.Ican’tsay Iblamedhim.Hewassorelaxedwithhimself,sobrighteyedandopenthathelackedtherequisitewarymannerit takestogetbyinaplacewhereallthatglittersisn’tgold.

Igavehimasidewaysglance.“HaveyoubeentoLos Angeles?”

“OhGod,yeah,”hesaid.“Livedtheretwoyears,soI did,andthatwasenoughforme.Myideaofheavenis IrelandwithLosAngelesweather,”hesaid.“Myideaof hellisLosAngeleswithIrishweather.”

Itwasaseamlesslydeliveredlinewithsuchperfect timingthatitleftmespeechless.Fivemonthsonthewest coastofIreland,andIstillhadn’tloosenedmygriponthe thrillofIrishbanter.Ifoundallexchangesfascinatingand

wouldstudythedistinctivephrasingofthemusicaldialect inthevainhopeI’dbeabletomasteritoneday.

BecausetheIrishhaveaneffectonaperson.They’reso goodatbeingthemselvesthatitmakesanoutsiderwantto becomeoneofthem,toshedalldissimilaritiesanddrift intothateasywayoftheirs,wheretheartof communicationisabanterthatsings.

ClaireFullerton isthemultiple,award-winning, traditionallypublishedauthoroffournovelsandone novella.Shehasrecentlycompletedherfifthnovel.Claire livesinMalibu,Californiawithherhusbandandthree Germanshepherds.

MikeHilbig

WELLDONE!Essays,Memoirs,andTrueStories

whichcoversthegiganticfishhookshapedscarthatcurves aroundtheentirelengthoftheleftsideofhisheadand stopsjustabovetheear.Itlooksbetterthanitdidjust threedaysagowhenIlastvisitedhim.

Infact,onthewaytotherestauranthetoldme,It’sbeen twoweekstodaysincethesurgery.

Iwasdrivinghiscarforhimsincehe’snotallowedto anymore.Iturnedthewheelandsaid,Feelslikeayear.

Hestaredintentlyoutthepassenger-sidewindowand mumbled,Feelssurreal.

Ithoughtofthejokehealwaystells—howmany surrealistsdoesittaketoscrewinalight-bulb:fish—but mydadactuallypreferredgorillasinclownmakeup,it’s hismostfrequentacrylictrope.Whilewewereeating,I suggestedhestartanewpainting.He'sbeencomplaining thatMomwon’tlethimdoanything,thatshe’safraidhe’ll keelover.

Iask,Whataboutthatselfportraityoutalkedaboutin thehospital,theonewithyourmissingparts?

should.

Histonedoesn’tsoundtoocommittal.Iwonderifit’s becausehe’salreadyseenthedeclineofhishandwriting anddoesn’twanttowitnessthedemiseofhisbrushstrokes oncanvasiftheurgetoself-expresshasn’treachedthe tippingpointyet.

HowamIsupposedtoknowhowitfeelsanyway?I’m notapainterandI’mnottheonewithcancer.I’mjustthe sonwhokeepstryingtothinkofhimdifferentlybutalso can’thelpbutmakeitaboutmyself,whatI’mlosingand whatIneverreceivedthatIthoughtIwanted,orthatI thoughtIneeded,orthatIjustthoughtaboutbecauseI thinktoomuch,ornotenough,certainlyit’snottheright amount,nottherightqualityofinteriority.Likenomatter howmuchIhopeandhopeandhope,Ican’tstop sentencinghimtodeath,theoptimismturningtoan opulenceofworryingaboutthestatistics,calculatinghis odds.IsthiswhatitisthatFreudmeant,howwebuytime bybettingonanuncertainfuturewithadwindlingstackof chipscashedinfromamoreorlessvaluablepast?

Yet,herehestillis,tappinghisfingersonthetabletopas hecrumplesthepaperthatonceheldhisburger,talking aboutthenaphe’lltakewhenhegetshome.Wegetupand makeourwaythroughtheexit.Asthebelldingsoverhead, Ihearthecashiersay,Takecarenow.

Hervoiceechoesbothominouslyanddirectlywhenwe

reachourfrontrowspotandDadnodstothedisabled parkingplacardhangingfromtherearview,saying,It’s permanent,youknow. AndIagree.

MikeHilbig livesinHouston,TXwithhispartnerLeslie andhisdogGinger.HeteachesEnglishandCreative WritingatUH-DowntownandatLoneStarCollege.His firstbook, JudgmentDay&OtherWhiteLies,was publishedbyMadvillePublishinginFeb.of2022.This storyisdedicatedtohisdadGary,whosadlypassedaway fromGlioblastomaonJanuary10th,2021.

SleepingOnPaul’sMattress

BrendaSuttonRose

Frommycrouchingpositionunderthehouse,Iwatcha hearsebackintotheyardandstoprightshortofthefront porch.It’slateintheday,andthesunisbleedingred acrosstheskyforasfarasIcansee.Fourmenwithfleshy facesclimboutofthehearse.Theystraightentheirtiesand flipimaginaryhairsfromtheirdarksuits.Theylooklike whitesugarfrostingonashit-pileifyouaskme.Youcan’t dressuppovertylikeours.No,youcan’tcolorourhouse anythingbutuglynomatterhowmanypolishedshoes walkupitsdecayingsteps.

AsAugustbreathesthegod-awfulstenchofthe outhouseupthenosesofthefuneralattendants,theyscowl andexchangeglances.Oneofthemenbreathesfromhis mouthandexhalesthroughhisnose,tryingtofilterthe odor.Anotherstiflesagag,hismouthandthroatmoving spasticallyasifhe’dneversmelledshitbefore.IfPaul couldseethesehighfalutinmenwiththeirnostrils

puckeredup,lugginghiscoffinfromadeluxeblackcar spiffedupwithcurtainsinthewindows,he’dscreamwith laughteruntilithurtlikehell.

Bythetimethemenheavethecasketfromthehearse, sweatdripsasconstantasaleakyfaucetdowntheirfaces andnecks.HeatsmotherstheSouthinthesummerand, downhere,wesweatlikeabunchofsinnerswiththe hottestseatsinhellforthreeorfourmonthsoftheyear. Eventheairleakswithhumidity.IfIdidn’tknowbetter, I’dswearGeorgiawasnothingbutagiantpressurecooker. Theymoveinunison,theirfeetshufflinginrhythmover dirtandrocks,aimingforthesteps.Iwatchandcount theirpaces.Therottingporch-stepsmoanandsaginpain undertheirweight,butthewoodholds.Beforewemoved inthispieceofshitwecallhomehadbeenusedasapack houseforcuredtobacco,and,untilyesterday,anicotine scentloomedineverycorner.Today,theroomsreekwith thesweetnessofdecay.Ismellitfromdownhere.A mixtureofdecayandshitwiththefaintesthintof unansweredprayerstakingupresidenceinmynose.

Theusherstakeexactlythirty-threestepsmovingthe coffinfromthehearsetothefrontdoor,buttheypant, tryingtoremainuprightandappearunaffectedbytheheat andtheweighttheycarry.Theywouldn’tlastanhour workingbesidePaulandmeinthetobaccofields.

Throughthegapsbetweenthefloorboards,Icouldsee

straightupthepreacher’swife’sdressifIwantedto.If Paulwerestillaliveanddownherewithme,I’dbe strainingtoseewhatcolorpantiesshechosetowearoutto ourshackandsearchingforpubichairpokingfromthe elasticaroundthecrotch.I’vegotnostomachforitnow, though.Theacheinmygroinhasmoveduptomyheart. AllIwantismybrotherwithhishairshiningcopperand blondunderthesummersun.Iwanttoinhalehisfamiliar earthyscentandtouchhiscallousedhands.Buthe’slying deadinthepineboxthat’sjustarrivedspecialdelivery fromthefuneralhome.Blewhisownbrainsoutwhilethe restofuswereoutinthefieldsworking.Myoldmansent himhometorefillthewaterjugandhenevercameback. Stuckthebarrelinhismouthandsqueezedthetrigger whilesittingonthebedweshared.Theoldmandragged themattressoutbehindthehouseyesterdayandtoldmeto cleanit.Saidwecouldn’tthrowitawaybecausewedon’t havethemoneytobuyanotherone.Iwashedthatbloodsoakedmattressuntilmyhandswereraw,sore,and shriveled,butPaul’sbloodstainsremained.Youcan’t imaginewhatit’sliketowatchyourtwinbrother’sblood streaminglikewaterthroughyourhands,knowingit’sthe lastofhimyou’lleversee.Icountedintothethousands whileIscrubbed.Twice,Ilostcountandhadtostartover atthenumberone.Themattressisleanedagainsttheback fence,drying.Iexpectit’llbegoodanddrybytomorrow

nightiftheweatherholds.

TheBaptistpreacher,whoneverlaideyesonuswhite trashuntilyesterday,hearsthemenfromthefuneralhome arriveandmovestothedoorwhilemyoldmansitsina chairinthecornerwithhisheadinhishands,mostlikely dreamingofadrink,andMamastandslikeazombieinthe oppositecornerwaitingforthedeadbodyofherson,the oldestbytenminutes.Allfouroftheattendants,soaked andsteamingfromtheworkoutofcarryingthecoffinup thesteps,arewaitingforsomebodytoholdthedooropen andletthemin.Thepreachertakeshissweettimegetting tothedoor,andthen,likeamanwithahollowhead,he invitesthewiltedmeninside.“Won’tyoupleasecome in?”

Ofcourse,they’recomingin—they’vegotadeadbody todeliver.

Thisscreamstuckinsidemythroatisgrowingbythe minute.Ifitkeepsswelling,it’llchokemedead.Iknowas wellasIknowmyownnamethatifGodplayedfairit wouldbemyoldmaninthatpinebox.Butnothing’sfair inlife.Notadamnthing.Itshouldhavebeenhimwho swallowedthebarrelofthatgun.Ofcourse,he’dhaveto ownaconsciencetodothat.Ifheeverhadone,he strangleditinwhiskybeforeIwasborn.IfIeverfindmy oldmandeadlikeIfoundPaul,don’tyoubelievefora secondthatI’llwastemytearscryingoverhim.Hellno.

I’llcramhisintoxicatedbodyinacoffinandtossasmany whiskybottlesasIcanfindontopofhim.ThenI’llpoura pintoverhiscorpseandstufftheemptybottleneckinhis mouthlikeapacifier.Marinatetheoldmaninhisown whiskybeforeweburyhim.ButIdon’twastemytime wishingforthesefantasiestocometrue.Ilearnedalong timeagothatwishesarenothingbutweedsofhopeand hopegrowsoutofwhisky-soakedlies.

Icrawlonmykneesinthedirt,followingthecoffin throughthegapsinthefloors.Somebodyhasmovedthe couchacrosstheroom.Theyreplaceitwithadollyon casterswheretheyplacethecoffin.It’saboutwaisthigh. MymamamoansandItrynottohearher.Stopit!Stopit! Stopit!Shutup,Mama!Shutup!

Thenumberscome,swallowingmewhole.Icount, chantingnumbers,fillingmythoughtswithnumerals becausethat’swhatyoulearntodowhenyouroldman beatsyouwithastrapuntilbloodseepsthroughyourskin; that’swhatyoulearntodowhenhecomeshomewithhis breathreekingofwhiskyandthedevilflappingonhis back;that’swhatyoulearntodowhenyourmama’s colorblindtothepurplebruisesonherboys’bodiesand thescarscarvedintheiryounghearts.Andthat’slikely whatmymama’sdoingasshewatchesthemenfromthe funeralhomedeliverher13-year-oldsoninacoffin.Ibet she’sbleedingdigits,maybeinmultiples:two,four,six,

eight,ten,andonandon,buryingherselfinacemeteryof numbers,diggingthatgravedeeperanddeeper.

Iwatchfamilyandfolksfromthecommunityarrive carryingdishesoffood,asifanybodyinthisdumpfeels likeeatingredvelvetcakeandfriedchicken.We’vegot fourroomsinthispathetichouse,andmybrotherblewhis headoffinoneofthem—nobodyinhisrightmindwill wanttositatourtable,biteintoourfoodandtasteour misery.

Ascardoorsslam,Icountthefootstepsoflegsmoving towardthehouse.Sofar,myoldmanhasn’thitthebottle, butIdoubthe’llbeabletoholdoutmuchlonger.Ifhe stayssoberallnightandthroughthefuneraltomorrow,it willbeamiracle.Andwesureashelldon’tgetmany miraclesouthere.Foronceinhislife,theoldmancan claimagoodreasontodilutehismemorieswithalcohol. Hiseyes,darkandhardasnailsinacoffin,areparched andthirsty,andhishandstremblewithurgency.Itwon’t belong.Lordknowsitwon’tbelong.

ForasfarbackasIcanremember,I’vebeensubmerged innumeralslikeadrunktryingtoswimhiswaythrough lifeinsideamoonshinestill.Whenmyfatherswaggers throughthedoorwithabottleofliquorinhishands,his lethaleyesslashingeverythinginhispath,numbersbleed fromme.Icountsilentlywhenhewhipsmewithastrap, tallyingtheslapstomylegs,latertotalingthemarkson

mybody.IcountwhenIwalk,countingmysteps,keeping scorewitharhythm,myspeechlesstonguemarchingto thebeatofasteadydrum:a-one-and-a-two-and-a-threeand-a-four-and-a-five-and-a-six.Ican’tstopcounting;I triedafewtimes,butthenumbersgushfromme,oozing likeawoundthatwon’tstopbleeding.I’macontinuous hemorrhageofnumbers.

MeandmyoldmanscrapedPaul’sbrainsfromthe wallsyesterdayandwashedthebloodandgorefromthe headboard.Hesaiditwasourplacetodoit.Thepreacher toldmyoldmanthathe’dfindsomegoodChristian membersofthechurchtocleantheroomforus,buthe saidno;we’ddoit.Thesheriffsaidhe’dhiresomebodyto doit.Theoldmanrefused;itwasourresponsibility.AsI cleanedmyidenticalbrother’sbrainsfromthebedroom,I countedthebeatsofmyheart,poundinglikeasavage druminsidemychest.Theyearis1954,andIcounted 1,954beats.Talkaboutcoincidences.

Paulwantedtobesomethingwhenhegrewup,buthe didn’tknowwhat.Youcan’tplanforthefuturewhen you’relivinginabattlefield,andtheenemyisyourown deadbeatfatherwhoseloveforliquorisonlyoneofthe mostlethalthingsabouthim.He’dkillhisownwifeand childrenforadrink.SomemightthinkI’mpaddingthe truth,butslipintomyscarredskinandtrydreamingunder theweightofamanwhowon’tletyouspeakanopinion

bornfromyourownhead—amanwhobeatshischildren toapulpforslammingadooranddragshiswifetothe bedroomwhenhecomeshomedrunk—andseehowmuch time’sleftfordecidingwhatyouwanttobewhenyou growup.Shit.Allyouknowisyouwanttobefree.You throballthewaydowntoyourboneswiththedesireto wakeupwithoutfearanddreadknottedtightinyourbelly. Youlongtosleepafullnightwithoutnightmares screamingatyou.That’sallyouknow.Likeaprisonerof war,youspendeveryminutecountingdowntofreedom. Youmightnotbelievethis,butPaullovedpoetry. Maybeyouthinkapoorwhiteboyhasnoreverencefor mattersoftheheart,butItellyouthatpovertyisthe motherwhogavebirthtothewordsofpoets.Paulidolized WaltWhitman.HelikedKeatsandFrostandsomeofthe others,too,butheflat-outworshippedWhitman.You shouldhaveheardhimrecite,“OhCaptain!MyCaptain!” Hedidn’tjustquoteit;thewordscriedfromhistongue anddroppedlikesaltytearsaroundhim.Icanhearhim still:“Mycaptaindoesnotanswer,hislipsarepaleand still.Myfatherdoesnotfeelmyarm,hehasnopulsenor will.”

Pauldidn’ttellmehisplans.IfI’dknownhewasgoing tokillhimself,I’dhavetoldhimtoturnthegunonme too.Don’tleavemeinthishellwithnowayout.ButPaul didn’tconfidethedetailsofhisescapetome.Hemapped

outaplanandmadeadashforitwithoutevenlooking backatme,histwinbrother,hismirrorimage.Heripped myheartoutbytherootsandleftmescreamingonthe battlefield.Goddamnhim.Goddamnhim.

Onenight,notlongago,IaskedPaulifhisheadbulged withnumberslikemine.Hetoldmeofcourseitdid.“We camefromthesamewombonthesamedaywiththesame parentsandweresplitfromthesameegg.Ofcoursewe bothhavenumbersrunningthroughourheads,Peter.” Untilthen,IthoughtIwastheonlyonecountingtosleep withasteadylullabyofnumbers.Ilivebythebeatofthe digitsinmyhead.IfIcleanoutthenumbers,Idon’tknow whatghostsImightfindhidingthere.I’mtooyellowto openthatbox.Maybethat’swhatPauldid.Maybehe stoppedcounting,andthedemonsofthefutureroseup fromthatgraveyardinhismind,screamingfromevery corner.Godknows,hedidn’twanttoturnoutlikeourold man.

Mosquitoesbuzzaroundmyears,warninglikea rattlesnakerightbeforetheydrillintomyfleshandfeast onmyblood.Icounteightmosquitoessquattingonmy armsandlegs,andthere’smoreswarmingaroundmy head.Ican’tfeelthembitingme.Nothingpenetratesme otherthanthisachepoundingoutnumbersinmyhead.

Thatcoffinholdsnotonlymybrother,buthislaughter andhisangerandhistearsandhismemoriesandhislove

GhostinThisHouse-paintingbyBrendaSuttonRose

TheCourageofWaywardGirls

PennyKoepselandClaireMatturro

Weborderedvibrantpinkwithbrightorange whilepaintingpeacesymbolsonposterboards inartclassandcastofftheteacher’sreprimand thatthosecolorsclashedbecausepeacesymbols lookbraverwithDayglofluorescent.

Weranthroughwoodsindime-storeflip-flopsand fringedcutoffs,sunburnedandfastastheboys welaterraceddowndarkeningalleywaysfearless onbananabikeswhileignoringcommandstoact likeyoungladiesbecausewherewasthefuninthat?

Wesnuckoutofhighfootballgamestorisk hitchhikingdowntownatnightbecause anythingwasbetterthanwatchingthosedamn jockscrashtheirthickbodiesintoeachother whilecheerleadersleaptinanelyovernothing.

WesmelledlikeWinstonsandweed andsometimesthatJovanMuskwhich weshopliftedonadarebutneverliked asmuchaspatchoulioilandincense smokethatlingeredinourlonghair.

WerodeEasy-Riderstyleonthebacksof rebuiltHarleystojointhepeacemarches withmenchanting“hellno,wewon’tgo” andwrappedwetbandanasonourfaces infrontofpoliceloadingteargascanisters.

Wegrewupboldinourunnerving faithinstreetsweneverfoundonmaps andfeltthefirstpricklesofageonskin madetenderbytheloosegravel weskiddedthroughratherthanturnaround.

Wereveledgiddyandheadstronginthefull plentyofyouthheedlessthattheshinysharp piecesoftheruleswebrokewouldbecome acollageofclashingcolorsbravelydisplayedon abeigewallinahousewhereolderpeoplelive.

RainCanBeaMelancholyThing J.B.Hogan

Raincanbeamelancholything, fallingsoftlyonanemptydirtlot whereahomeoncestood, listeningtoitunderametalroof, soundsteady,repetitive,familiar, fallinglightlyondarkleaves inacold,emptypark.

Raincanbeamelancholything, fallinggentlyinyourmemory ofwhy,andwhen,andwho, mistsoffloatingpast ridingonhintsofwind.

Raincanbeamelancholything, blockingsight,darkeningnight–darkandempty–savetherain, rainfallingsteadilydown.

J.B.Hogan haspublishedover300storiesandpoemsand elevenbooks,includingBarHarbor,BountyRiders,Time andTimeAgain,MexicanSkies,TinHollow,Living BehindTime,LosingCotton,TheRubicon,Fallen,The Apostate,andAngelsintheOzarks(nonfiction,local professionalbaseballhistory).HelivesinFayetteville, Arkansas.

TommyDarinLiskey spentnearlyadecadeworkingasa journalistinVenezuela,ArgentinaandBrazil.Heisa graduateoftheUniversityofSouthernMississippi.His poetry,fictionandnon-fictionhasappearedin TheRed TruckReview,DeepSouth,DriftwoodPress,and Heartwood amongothers.Besidesthe CultivatingProject, hisnarrativeanddocumentaryphotographyhasbeen publishedin TheMuseumofAmericanaandMidwestern Gothic,amongothers.Hehaspublishedthenovella-length shortstorycollection, ThisSideofTheRiver,and collaboratedwiththepoetKellyBelmonteforpoetryphotographybook, Transit.Hehasanothercollectionin theworkscalled HardDelta.HelivesintheAmerican DeepSouth.

FortheLoveofDolly!

amgrief.

IfyouhadtochooseONESONGofDolly’sthatyou feltwaswrittenforyou,whatwouldtheybe?

Dustin: Thisisahardquestion,almostcrueltolimitme toonesong,butI’llplayalong.Oneofmyconstant favorites–the#1spotonmyDollyfavoriteslistrotates dependingontheday–is“ShatteredImage,”theversion onherHalo&Hornsalbum.I'mfarfromperfect,butI ain'tallbad.Ithurtsmemorethanitmakesmemad.You gatheryourstonesbystoopin'solow.Thenshattermy imagewiththestonesyouthrow.Ifyouliveinaglass housedon'tthrowstones.”It’ssongwritinggenius!

Julie: “DumbBlonde!”Actually,whatresonateschanges bytheday;IcouldhardlyclaimthatanyofDolly’ssongs arewrittenjustforme.ButthepowerofDolly’slyrics causeme–allofus,really–toapprehendthemindifferent waysdependingonourstatesofbeing,whichispartofher mastery.“TheSeeker”isbothprayerandapleafor guidancedependingonhowyouseeit;in“HereYou ComeAgain,”thereisareclamationand/oranadmission coupledwithsurrender.In“ThereWasJesus”--herduet withZachWilliamsthatmostrecentlyhelpedmenavigate adarkchapter–thereisareminderofperseverance–a blessinginthebrokenpieces–andanemphaticpromiseof continuedspiritualpresence.Andofcoursethereis“The GrassisBlue”withitsrhetoricalflipsasasymbolof healingandheartbreak,anditsstellarbluegrass

complexity. IlovetoplayagamewithmyfriendsImadeupcalled, PlaytheSaddestSongYouKnow.Ifyoursongmakes theotherplayerstearupyouwin.Dolly’s Downfrom Dover winseverytime.It’ssopowerful.I’masucker forsadsongs,stories,andpoems.Ifyouhadtochoose onepoemfromtheanthologythatwillbreakmyheart (inagoodwayofcourse),whichonewoulditbe?

Dustin: Duringthesubmissionperiodthereweresomany instancesofJulieandIcallingoneanother,startingthe callwith,Girl.Didyoureadthispoemyetbecausedamn? ThisisalsoahardquestiontoanswerbecauseIloveevery poemintheanthology.It’sananthologyofdamngood Dollypoems.ChadFrame’s“TheIntimateBiography” mademelaughoutloudandgiveanextended Awwwwwwwwww.Itwasoneoftheanthologypoems thatIhadtoreadtomypartner.

Julie: Ohindeed–thewaysthatDustinandIexperienced aweandtearsoversomanyDolly-passionatepoems crossingthethreshold!Thereareanumberinthe anthologythatraisepraise,breakyourheart,andputon theirdancingshoesdespitethedepthsofsorrow.DavidMatthewBarnes’“WalkingtoKmarttoBuyaDolly PartonAlbum”transformsmeeverytime–itstender honesty,itsharrowingdips,thewayitweavesDollyinto self-discoveryandshows–throughaction–suchpure admissionsofloveandvulnerability.

wouldbeco-editingananthology.Weagreedearlyonthat wewouldreadsubmissionsoutloud,onthephone, together.Theexperienceofthatenergywasunparalleled–weweremovedbyhowmuchDollyfansshoweduswith theirwork,anditledtoalotofdiscussionaboutthe anthology’strajectory.Wecelebratedoverpoems together,satinawe,weptsometimes,butwerealways takenbythededicationthatsomanypoetsputintotheir submissions.Itwasdifficulttoturndownstrongworkthat didnotnecessarilydovetailwithourvisionforthebook, butwehopeanyonethatsubmittedknowsthatwewere honoredtoreadtheirtakesonDolly.Welaidoutthebook inlatesummerandfinalizeditinlatefall;wehopereaders experiencewhatwedidinbringingthischorusofvoices togetherandthattheyalsodotheseeminglyimpossible–fallevenmoreinlovewithDolly.

FortheLoveofDolly!ByMandyHaynes

HowcanreaderssupportLetMeSayThis?

Readerscanasktheirlocallibrariesandbookstoresto carryLetMeSayThis.Thebestfinancialoption–especiallyforbookstores–istoorderdirectlythrough MadvillePublishing.Orderingacopyofthisbookalso doesalittlegoodinthisworldbecausewe’redonatingour annualeditorroyaltiestoDollyParton’sImagination Library.

Also,ifreadershavealocalbookstoretheyadore,weare opentoschedulingreadingsandQ&Aeventsbothin personandviaZoom.Wearealsohappytospeakto classesorparticipateininterviews.Youcancontactusvia emailatletmesaythisanthology@gmail.com.Wecan’t waittohearfromyou!

IfyouareateacherandwanttoimplementLetMeSay Thisintoyourcurriculum,wewelcomethattoo.Every poemintheanthologyisauniquetakeonhowto implementpopcultureinpoetry.Theanthologyalso spotlightsafewforms–villanelle,ghazal,sonnet,anda fewprosepoems,tonameafew–thatwouldbegreatfora formsclass.

Andofcourse,theanthologyisanidealgiftforDolly fans.Andwearealwaysexcitedtohearwhenreaders havepurchasedcopiestodonateaswell.

HowcanreadersstaycurrentonLetMeSayThis

ANNIEINTRODUCES

DeborahGoodrichRoyce

TheauthorschoseneachmonthareauthorsthatIbelieve wereborntoshine!LetmeintroduceyoutoDeborah GoodrichRoyce. YouwillnotbeabletoputDeborahGoodrichRoyce's literarythrillersdownonceyoustartreading!Allofher storiesarethrillingandmovingatthesametime.Her novel“RubyFalls”wontheZibbyAwardforBestPlot Twistin2021and“FindingMrs.Ford”washailedby Forbes,BookRiot,andGoodMorningAmerica's"bestof" listsin2019.Hernewest,ReefRoad,willbepublishedon January10,2023.

Theyareall5Starreads.Theyfeelsopersonal,you wonderifthereisanytruthbehindthem.Thestorybehind “ReefRoad”isactuallytakenfromatruecrimethathit closetohomeforDeborahandI’mlookingforwardto readingherinterviewsoncethebookisreleasedtolearn more.That’sanotherthingIenjoyaboutreadingher books,besidesthetwistsandhersuperbwriting,is learningmoreaboutthestoriesbehindeachone.

DO encourage“conversation”.

DON’T beajerk.Forexample,ifsomeonetagsyouina postyoudon’twanttobeinremoveyourselforsenda privatemessage.Don’tmakeapubliccommentwiththe intenttoembarrassorshamethepersonwhotaggedyou. Especially ifit’ssomeonewho’sbeensupportiveofyour posts/page/etcinthepast.

DON’T commentonapostorsharewithoutreadingit completely.Whatmightseemlikeapositivepostatthe beginning,couldendwithpassiveaggressivesnark.You don’twanttoputyourstampofapprovalonsomething youdon’tagreewithaccidentally. DO interactwithyourfollowers.Thankthemforbeing there–askthemforrecommendations,advice,and absolutelyasktoseetheirpets.Behonestandbuild connectionsonlinejustlikeyouwouldinperson.

DON’T beneedy–don’tconstantlyaskyourfollowersto shareorlikeyourpageeveryday. DO handlecriticismgracefully.

DON’T beaspammer–ifagroupsaysyoucanselfpromoteonFriday’sonly,youself-promoteonFridays only.ReadtherulesandtheAboutSectionsonthepages.

Ifyou’renotsure,PManadministrator.

DO watchyourgrammarandspelling.Ofcourseweall havetheoccasionaltypobutpayattention.Especiallyif you’repromotingafellowauthor.Double,no-triple check-author’snamesandtitlesofbooks.

HappyNewYear

HerewegoblazingintoaNewYear.Readyornot. Inspiredortired.Thecalendarpageturnsandfindsus walkingoutthedaysofourlives.Wecouldsayit’snobig deal.Justanotherday,anotherhour,acolorlesschange.A numberofnosignificance.ButIforonehaveneverfelt thatway.JustasEasterholdsthehopeofresurrectionand embodiesSpring,theturningofthecalendartothefirst, crispdayofanewyear.ThatlongcleanslatefeelslikeI amstandingonamountainlookingattheviewfaroffover themountains,downahundredroads,outtoahorizonthat defiesmewithitsmajestyofmystery.

NomatterwhatIplan,nomattermylife’sgoalsor interruptions,themostamazingthingisthatthemystery oftimeitself,oftheunfoldingdays,thepeoplewemay meet,theoldfriendswepurposetosee–allofitwillbe preciousinsomewaybutthethingwecancertainlycount onisthattherewillbesurprises.SomethingforwhichI havenotalwaysbeenthankful.Thesurpriseofaflattire,a leakingroof,asickchild.

NewsontheHomefrontorforeignlandsthatarenot

madeupofthesurpriseswewouldlikebuttheopposite. Theycarryworryandbadtidings.

Here’satinycalmingnoteregardingthosesurprises’ unknowntousonthisNewYearDay–whatevercomes, whateverhappens–westillhaveeachother.

Therewillstillbethesurpriseofkindnesses unexpected.Theonesthatcomealongatunexpected places,inunexpectednotes.

Kindwordsfromfamilyandfriendsandtheonesthat alwaysbringtearstomyeyes-thatkindnessfroma strangerinthemiddleofamomentwhereitlookslikeno helporhopeisaroundthecorner.

Ican’talwaysbesomeone’shelpbutIcanpurposein myheartthisyeartobewillingtoparticipateinthegreat, divine,danceofbeinghumaninaworldthatneedsmore peopletappingintothatplacethatmakesusgreat.

DoIhavealistlongerthanmylegofthingsIwantto achievethisyear?Yes.Travelsabroadandathome. Languagestolearn.Bookstowrite.Memoriestomake. ButifthereisjustonespecialresolutionIcouldmakethat wouldnotfocusonmebutonotherpeopleitwouldbeto laymyhandonmyheartandinapeacefulmomentagree tobepresentinmylifeinallthesmall,mundanemoments whereIamwalkingthroughmydays,wherepausingand sayingonekindwordtoastrangercouldmakea differenceintheirday.

Onecompliment.Onedollar.Onehelpinghand. Becausehere’sthething–weareallpartofanever evolving,changingstorythatisbeingwritteneverydayof