WELL READ Magazine May 2023

MadamePommery:CreatorofBrut

Champagne by RebeccaRosenberg

"Thesun-drenchedvineyardsofFrance,areal-lifeheroinewho againstalloddsrefusestogiveupherdreams...andchampagne. What'snottolove?” BarbaraDavis,Best-sellingauthorof TheEcho ofOldBooks

Champagne,France,1860.MadamePommery,anetiquetteteacher andorphanagefounder,losesherhusbandandisforcedtosupport herfamily.Withnoexperience,theforty-year-oldwidowdecidesto makechampagne.Heruniquevisionistochangeitfromasweet dessertbeveragetoadry,crispwinetobeenjoyedanytime.When champagnemakersrefusetoteachhertheircraft,sheforgesaheadon herownandsecretlybeginstheexcavationofchampagnecaves undertheReimscitydump.

Soonafter,hersonandherentirecrewareconscriptedtofightthe Franco-Prussianwar,leavingMadamePommeryalonetostruggle withherchampagnedreams.AfterNapoleonandahundredthousand Frenchtroopsarecaptured,thePrussiansinvadedFrance,and PrussianGeneralFrederickFranzoccupiesMadamePommery’s houseashisarmyheadquarters.Undaunted,Pommeryuseshersecret winecavestohidetheFrancs-Tireurs,resistancefightersforFrance, whilesheplanstobuildaspectacularcastlewineryabovethecaves. Butwhenherformerlover,aScottishBaron,unexpectedlyproposes marriage,MadamePommerymustchoosebetweennobilityandher passionatequestforfinechampagneandthemostbeautifulwineryin theworld.

Basedonatruestory,MadamePommeryisaheroicnovelabouta motherandwidowwhofightsthePrussians,thesocialclasssystem, champagnepatriarchs,andchampagnetastestocreateachampagne legacy.

Rebeccaisachampagnegeek,lavenderfarmerandmulti-awardwinningauthoroffivebooks

ShefellinlovewithméthodechampenoiseinSonoma,California, whereshelivesonalavenderfarmwithherfamilyandfoundedthe country'slargestlavendercompany.(SeeSonomaLavenderarticlein theNewYorkTimes.)HerbookLavender FieldsofAmericawaspublishedin2012and aneweditionin2022.

Sincethen,shehaspursueddecadesof deliciousresearchaboutchampagneinthe winecavesandcellarsofFranceand California.Sheisachampagnehistorian,tour guideandchampagnecocktailcreatorfor BreathlessWines.Rebeccaisalsoaspeaker fortheNationalWomen'sHistoryAlliance.

"InevitablyIfindmyselfinapredicamentwheretherulesdonot apply,orworsetheycontradicteachother!" ~MadameAlexandrine Pommery

ShadowsWeCarry by MerylAin

InthiseagerlyanticipatedsequeltoMerylAin'saward-winning post-Holocaustnovel TheTakeawayMen,wefollowBronka andJoJoLubinskiastheyfindthemselvesonthecuspof momentouschangeforwomeninthelate1960s.Withthe UnitedStatesinthegripofpoliticalandsocialupheaval,the twinsandanumberoftheirpeers,includingaCatholicpriest andthesonofaNazi,strugglewiththeirfamily'sancestryand howmuchinfluenceithasontheirlives.Meanwhile,both youngwomenseektodefinetheirrolesaswomen,andas individuals.

Enlighteningandevocative,ShadowsWeCarryexploresthe experienceofnavigatingdeeplyheldfamilysecretsand bloodlines,confusingreligiousidentities,andthescarsofWorld WarIIinthewakeofrevolutionarysocietalchanges.

"ShadowsWeCarrybyMerylAinisanimportantnewbook.Itis notnecessarytoreadherdebutnovel,TheTakeawayMen,to understandthissequel,whosemeritsstandontheirown.Its themesinclude:immigration,assimilation,questionsofidentity, howwedefineourselves,andwhetherHolocaustsurvivors' familieshavearesponsibilitytotrackdownNaziperpetrators.I wasdeeplyaffectedbythenovel'scharactersandevents.The issuesraisedareasvalidtodayastheywere50yearsago.Book clubs,congregations,andothergroupsmustreadanddiscussthis work.Bringplentyoftissueswithyou."

--LindaEttinger Lieberman,Blogger, TheTimesofIsrael

"WhenIfinishedShadowsWeCarrybyMerylAin,Icried.Reading thisbookwasakintogoinghome....Tosayitismovingisan

understatement.Formanyreaders,thetaleoftwinsistersBronka andJoJowillbeaneye-openertoJewishlifeinaNewYorkgone by.Bravo." --MarilynSimonRothstein,authorof CrazyToLeave You,HusbandsandOtherSharpObjects, and LiftandSeparate "Thelate1960sofShadowsWeCarrywasatimeofturmoil-politicalandsocialturbulence,culturalupheaval,andfrayingof thebondsofconvention.MerylAinhasdelineatedthoseyears beautifully.Wefeelrighttherewiththenovel'smaincharacters... theirstorieswillhavegreatresonanceforcontemporaryreaders. EachsistermustfightforherownrightsaswomenandasJews. Buteachneedstolookbeyondherselftowardasocietyfreefrom thecrueltyofdiscriminationandthebrutalityofhatred...a memorablenovel." --SusanIsaacs,NewYorkTimesbest-selling author "Enlighteningandevocative,ShadowsWeCarryexploresthe experienceofnavigatingdeeplyheldfamilysecretsandbloodlines, confusingreligiousidentities,andthescarsofWorldWarIIinthe wakeofrevolutionarysocietalchange." --HastyBookList,Most AnticipatedHistoricalFictionNovelsof2023

MerylAin'sarticlesandessayshaveappearedin HuffingtonPost, TheJewishWeek,TheNewYorkTimes,and Newsday,andat MariaShriver.com,amongotheroutlets.In2014,shecoauthored theaward-winningbook TheLivingMemoriesProject:Legacies ThatLast,andin2016shewroteacompanionworkbook, My LivingMemoriesProjectJournal.Sheis bothastudentandteacherofhistory,aswell asaschooladministratorandresearcher. SheholdsaBAfromQueensCollege,an MAfromTeachersCollege,Columbia University,andanEdDfromHofstra University.ShelivesinNewYorkwithher husband,Stewart.

onFacebooktofindoutmoreabouttheauthors

novel MadamePommery:CreatorofBrut Champagne!

I’llannouncethewinnerinthegoodnewsgroup andconnectyouwithJulia!

Allweaskisthatyouleaveanhonestreview andtelleveryoneyourgoodnews.

MURDERCREEKWRITINGRETREAT WORKING ITINERARY

FRIDAY,SEPTEMBER1st

Check-inbeginsat12:00p.m.forparticipants.

6:00p.m. BBQontheporchoftheMagnoliaRoom.

Dinnerwillincludepulledpork,tomatocoleslaw,Miss Deborah’sfamousbakedbeans,andCocaColacake.

7:00-?? MeetandGreet. HollyShirley willgetthefun startedwithopenmic,jamsessionwithlocalmusicians, andsomestorytelling.Everyoneparticipatinginthe workshopisencouragedtospinayarnandletusgetto knowyoubetter.BYOB

SATURDAY,SEPTEMBER2nd

8:30-9:30

Breakfastinthediningroom.

OntheMenu:BreakfastCasserole,Goudagrits,Biscuits, andFreshFruit.

10:00-11:00 LaineLawsonCraft-MagnifyandMaster

YourMarketingPlan

11:30-12:30 JoeFormichella and SuzanneHudson -The PitfallsofPublishingandHowtoAvoidThem

1:00 Lunchinthediningroom.

OntheMenu:AssortedSandwiches,Soups,andFruit.

2:00-3:00 FryeGaillard and BobZellner -WritingHard TruthsandWhyIt’sImportant

3:30-4:30 TBA

5:00-6:00 Writing/FreeTime

6:00 DinnerontheMagnoliaRoomPorch.

OntheMenu:LowCountryBoil,Saladwithroasted pecans,feta,redonions,chickpeas,tomatoes,and balsamicdressing.BananaPuddingfordessert.

7:00 LiveMusicatFlannelandFloralacrossthestreet fromHolleyHouse,youmaycarryyourownadult beverages.

SUNDAY,SEPTEMBER3rd

8:30-9:30 Breakfastinthediningroom.

OntheMenu:BananaPancakes,ScrambledEggs,Bacon orSausage,andFreshFruit.

10:00-11:30 LisaKastner -AskanIndependent Publisherand AimeeHardy -HowtogettheMostoutof WorkingwithYourEditor

12:00

Lunch“TraditionalSundayDinner”inthedining room.

OntheMenu:ChickenandDressing,SweetPotato Casserole,SteamedBroccoli,Rolls,andPeachCobblerfor dessert.

1:00-2:00 CarolynHaines-WhyHavingAnAgentis ImportantandHowToFindOne

2:30-3:30 JodiCainSmith and StaceySheehan-WilsonWorkingwithBooksellersatIndependentBookstoresHowtoBookEventsandWhatToExpect

4:00-5:00 AgentPanel(TBA)

5:30-6:00 Writing/FreeTime

6:00 Dinnerinthediningroom.

OntheMenu:HomemadeVegetableSoupandCornbread

MONDAY,SEPTEMBER4th

8:30-9:30Breakfastinthediningroom. OntheMenu:-Tomatogravyandbiscuits,scrambled eggs,sausageorbacon,fruit.

10:00-10:30 MandyHaynes -DifferentAdvertising OptionsandPublishingOpportunitiesin WELLREAD Magazine.

10:30-11:00Opendiscussionwithhostsabouttheevent. Let’sexchangeideas!Whatdidyoufindmostinteresting, howwillyouusetheinformationyoureceived,whatwas themostbeneficialtoyouandyourWIP?

Participantscangetlunchtogoorstayandmeetsomeof Brewton’slocalyoungwriters.

12:00LunchwithLocalYoungWriters-MiddleSchool andHighSchoolWritingContestEntrantsandWinnersof theprizeswillbeannounced.5-6thgrades,7-8thgrades, 9-12thgrades.TheCityofBrewtonissponsoring$500in prizemoneyforouryoungauthorsandlocalmerchants willbesponsoringprizesforthemaswell.

1:00-4:00WritingWorkshopforYoungWriters

All-Inclusive RetreatRates willrangefrom

$995to$1495perparticipantbasedupon accommodations.

ClickhereformoreinformationaboutTheHolleyHouse ThefirstannualMurderCreekWritingRetreat isopenforsubmissions

Spaceislimitedandtheretreatisopentowriterswho haveaworkinprogress.Thisretreat,organizedbyHolly HartShirleyandMandyHaynesandsponsoredinpartby WELLREADMagazineandthecityofBrewton,is gearedtowardwritersofallbackgroundswhohaveawork inprogress.

Nomatteryourwritingexperience,you’llleavethe MurderCreekWritingRetreatwithimportantinformation includingthecraftofwritingdifferentgenres,what publishersandagentsarelookingforandhowtosubmit yourwork,theprosandconsofself-publishingandindie publishingv.traditionalpublishing,howandwheretofind audiobooknarrators,andlotsoftechniquesandtipsabout theartofstorytellingthatarebeneficialtoauthorsofall genresandwillhelpstrengthenourvoiceonthepage.

“UncleJ.B.isgonenow.Heneverdrankorsmoked,and maybecussedtwiceinhiswholelife.Helovedonewoman. Heworkedeverydaylikeitwashislast.Helovedusallwith everythinghehad…”

Blackwater

HollyHartShirley

MyUncleJ.B.paintedthissign.Hewasfamousfor paintinghomemadesignsandbuildingthings.Heleftthe Aoutof“Y’all”onhere,butthat'salright,becausehedid managetofit"BeGood"onitattheendandthatis somethinghechampioned,beinggood.Helovedhisbride BettyandhischildrenandgrandchildreninawaythatI haveneverwitnessedinanyotherfamily.Heflatsure lovedhistomatogravymakingMamaandshesuredid lovehim.

AsmuchasmyUncleJ.B.lovedtheliving,herevered thedead.TheBlackwaterCemetery,situated1.3milesoff ofHighway4inBradley,Alabama,ishometothegraves ofmygreat,great,great,greatgrandparentsburiedinthe early1800s.

Ourpeople'sstoriesarewrittenonthe250-year-old marblestonesatBlackwater.Ourreasonforbeing,itis buriedthere.Ourbloodcamefromthepeopleinthat sandyground.Theirstrugglesandtheirtriumphswere passeddowntousandwehavegladlycarriedthemantle.

ThoseHenleys,Gatewoods,andSweeneyswerestrong people,withbigfamiliesandevenbiggerhearts.Their infantbabieswholivedhours,andsomedays,areburied alongsidetheirmothers.EverytimeIseethosetinyslabs, Iwonderhowmanysilenttearswerecriedinthat graveyardafterworkingthefields,cookingmealsforten pluspeople,tendingtoskirt-pullingchildren,andmilking cows.

Icriedmillionsoftearsoverachildthatneverwas,soI cannotimagineburyingafull-terminfantandhavingto immediatelygobacktofarmlife.Womendidn'ttalkabout theirangstandpaininthe1800s,lifewasaboutsurvival. Peopleweretougher,theirwillswerestronger,andthere wasnotimetolookback.Lookingbackonlyallowed doubttocreepin,andsurvivalhadnoplacefordoubt. Theygotoutofbed,madeawood-burningstovefullof biscuitsandgravy,andgotonwithliving.

AshortpiecefromtheBlackwaterCemeteryisthe BlackwaterRiver.Ihavewonderedwhycemeteriesare oftenfoundnearwater.Ihaveheardspiritualistssaythat waterisaconductorforthespiritworld.MaybetheCelts whocameoverinthe1600sbroughtthatmythologywith them?Idon'tknowmuchaboutallofthat,butIdofeel closertomypeopleatBlackwaterthananywhereelse.

ThewaterinBlackwaterisicecold.Thesmellofthe sandisrawandfresh.ThebottomsandoftheBlackwater

isthepurestinNorthAmerica,andIcanpersonallyattest thatthereisnothingsofterbetweenyourtoesthanthe squishybottomofourbelovedswimminghole.

AlthoughthenameisBlackwater,itisn'tblackatall. Theice-coldwatercoursingthroughtheperfectsandisthe colorofsweetteaandBaptismsonsummerSundays.

Driftwoodandfallentrees,thathavebeeninthesame placessincemyGrandmotherwasachild,havemade divingboardsandplacestocarvetheinitialsofyour sweetheart.TherushingwateroftheBlackwaterRiveris thefinalsoundweallhearbeforeputtingsomeonewelove torestthere.Itisthesoundofourchildhoodmemories withourcousins,thesoundofpicnicsandcemetery cleanings,andifwedoagoodjobpassingdownour heritage,itwillbetheplacewhereourstoriesaretoldfive generationsfromnow.

UncleJ.B.isgonenow.Heneverdrankorsmoked,and maybecussedtwiceinhiswholelife.Helovedone woman.Heworkedeverydaylikeitwashislast.Heloved usallwitheverythinghehad.Andstill,lungcancertook himmuchtoosoon.

EdLeepassedonafewyearsago.Hemusthavebeen myfourthorfifthcousinbutwasoneofmyfavorites.He alwayscalledme"GoodLooking"andwhenIgained weightasIenteredmythirties,hewouldsay,"You'restill goodlooking,butyouneedtocomebacklookinglike

yourselfnextyear."EdLeehadthebiggestsmileand maybethebiggestteethIhaveeverseenonsomeonehis size.Hebeamedhappinessfromtwentyfeetaway.His grin,hislaugh,andhishugswereinfectious.EdlovedJ.B. andJ.B.lovedhimandtogether,theywerethecaretakers ofourheritage.

Tom-ThomasEarle,passedawaylastyearandIregret thatIdidn'tvisithimmoreoftenthanIdid.Thomas Earle—pronouncedTomaserl—helpedUncleJ.B.buryhis bestfriend,Pup,inapasteboardbox.TheyhadaLittle Rascalsstylefuneralwhentheywereabouttenyearsold, completewithlittlegirlmournersintheirSundaybest.All ofthelittlegirlswailedandnearlyfaintedwhenthe bottomfelloutofthatboxastheylaidOl'Pupinthe ground.

ThomasEarlelaterwentontobecomethesongleader andfill-inpreacherattheBradleyChurch.Hehadan infectious,happysmileandknewthewordstoevery singlesongintheRedChurchHymnal.Likeanygood Pentecostaldoes,hemarkedthesongpagewithtwo fingers,heldthesongbookclosedwithhisthumband othertwofingersofhisrighthandandbeatitwithhisleft handtokeeptime,oldschool.Healwaysslickedhis reddishhairbackinapompadourthatcurledontoplike theGerberbaby,andhehadamoleonhischin.WhenI wasalittlegirl,IaskedGrandmotherwhyThomasEarle

hadamoleandshesaid,"Whywouldhehavethat removed?That'shispersonality."

Rileyisthelastmanstanding.Heismygrandmother’s firstcousin.IneedtocheckonRileyaswell.Ihaven't beennearlyasgoodasUncleJ.B.wouldhaveprobably likedmetobe—checkingonmyrelatives—butIamgoing todobetter.AsmuchasIlovetovisitthematBlackwater, nowisprobablyasgoodofatimetomaketheroundsand visittheliving.

IthinkwhenIgohomethisweekend,Iwillbegoodand wonderwhatJ.B.woulddo?Hewouldprobablyvisitkin folksthatlivenearBlackwater,slipahundred-dollarbill inanoldwidowwoman'shand,kissheronthecheekand say,"Nowyoubegood—yousweet,purdylittlething."

Weonlyhavesomanydays,weneedtogetoutand loveonourpeoplewhiletheyarestillhere.

*PreviouslypublishedonHolly’sblog DeepSouth Ramblings.

HollyHartShirley isthefifthgenerationofwomentoliveat

HolleyHouseandsharetheirloveofgoodfoodandhospitality.

Sheisaninteriordesignerandworkedalongsidehermother, DeborahGeorge,forfourandahalfyearsontherenovationand reconstructionofthebedandbreakfast—leavingnodetailto chance.HollylivedatHolleyHouseasachildandlaterasa youngadultandnowisthefounderoftheMurderCreekWriting Retreatthatwilltakeplaceinherchildhoodhomeeveryyear.

SheisanNCIDQcertifiedinteriordesignerandresidesin

Birmingham,Alabamawithherhusbandoftwentyyears,Jimbo, andtheashesoftheirlateMaltese,WillieNelson.Sheisa professionalmemberofWritersBootcampoutofLosAngeles, California,andisanalumnusoftheYaleWritersWorkshop.

HollyiscurrentlyworkingonamemoirentitledBlackwater Birthright.

TheEmeraldNecklace by LindaRosen

Threemonthsafterherhusband'sdeathin1969,Rosalee Linoffisdeterminedtojumpbackintolife.

Forher,thatmeansreturningtoherart.Shedesperately wantstobeacceptedasatalentedsculptor,butthat requiresshedigupthecouragetosubmitherworkagainandbejudged.Herparalyzinginsecuritymountswhenshe meetshernewneighbor,best-sellingauthorFranBarish.

FranhastherecognitionRosaleecraves.ButRosalee'sjoy withherchildren,especiallyhergranddaughter,Jill,eatsat Fran,aconstantreminderofherchildlessness.Aspiralof mutualenvyensues.Itconstantlybubblesbelowthe surfaceoftheirfriendshipandisintensifiedbyFran'slong heldsecret-andherinexplicablefascinationwithJill's

"Engagingandmysterious,The EmeraldNecklaceshedslight onthatinevitabletimewhen lovers,family,friendsand circumstanceschangeand forceyoutoreinventyourself whetheryouwanttoornot." -

RebeccaRosenberg,awardwinning ChampagneWidows series

emeraldnecklace.

AsJillstartscollege,Rosaleeworriesaboutthechoices hergranddaughtermightmake.ButJill'spassionfor women'srightsmakesGrandmaproud.Togetherwith Rosalee'sfriends,theytraveltoNewYorkCityforthe Women'sStrikeforEquality-whichfurtherescalatesthe tensionbetweenRosaleeandFran.

WhenJill'sconvictionsaretested,Rosaleefacesa dilemma.DoesshedaretrustFrantohelp?Willtheir mutualjealousymakethatimpossible?Orwillthestory behindJill'semeraldbindthemtogether?

LindaRosenliveswithherhusbandinNewJersey,but whentheleavesfallandshehastoswapsandalsforshoes andsocks,they'reofftotheirhomeinFlorida.Sheisthe authorofTheDisharmonyofSilenceandSistersofthe Vine.LindaisamemberoftheWomen'sFictionWriters AssociationandTheWomen'sNationalBookAssociation wheresheisco-coordinatoroftheir GreatGroupReadscommitteeand founderoftheSouthFloridachapter. Inaddition,sheisafounding memberofTheAuthorTalkNetwork andanadministratoroftheFacebook

Group,BookishRoadTrip,and editoroftheirnewsletter, Wanderlust.

“Nobody'sDaughterisalucid recollection...heartbreakingly raw.Ina�iercelycandidvoice, Ramoshascraftedatalethat resonateswiththeuniversal truththatourpastdoesn’t de�ineus;itre�inesus.”

---AllisonHongMerrill, award-winningauthorof Ninety-NineFireHoops

Nobody’sDaughter:aMemoir ofTheMotherWound RicaRamos-Keenum

TheBookofBeloved by CarolynHaines

Asayoungwomanwidowed byWorldWarI,Raissa Jamesisnostrangerto ghosts.Butwhenan invitationarrivesfromCaoin House,heruncle’sestatein Mobile,Alabama,she’s finallyreadytocastoffthe shadowsofherpast.And whatbetterwaytodosothan withagrandpartyinher honor?

Anaspiringauthoress, Raissa’seagertosoakupmoreoflife—andimmerse herselfinthedarkhistorythathauntstheestate.Butthe revelriescometoanabruptendwhenoneofheruncle’s gueststakesadeadlyplunge.Andwhenaghostfromthe property’spast,aConfederatesoldier,revealshimselfto

Raissa,she’smoredeterminedthanevertogettotheheart ofthemysteriousdeathsthatplagueCaoinHouse.

EnlistingthehelpofReginaldProctor,aself-proclaimed medium,sheholdsaseancetoshedlightonoldsecrets. Butshediscoversthatsomesecrets,eventhoselongdead, stillhaveastartlingholdontheliving…

SoHappyTogether by DeborahK.Shepherd

Asherstultifyingmarriageis unraveling,andinthemidstof mourningthelossofhercreative self,CaroTannerhasanightmare aboutPeter,anoldlovewhom shehasn'tseenintwentyyears. Shetakesthisasasignhestill needsher.Withherthreechildren safelyofftosummercamp,Caro embarksonapre-Facebook,precellphoneroadtriptorecapture whosheoncewasandwhatshethinkssheoncehad.

Setintherock'nroll'60sofTucson,Arizona--whenCaro andPeterwerekooky,colorful,andinseparabledrama students--andinthesuburban'80s,whenCaro'screative sparkhasbeenquenchedtoservetheneedsofherhusband andchildren,SoHappyTogetherexplorestheconundrum ofloveandphysicalattraction,creativityandfamily responsibilities,andwhathappenswhentheyareoutof sync.Itisastoryofmissedopportunities,thealluring possibilityofsecondchances,andwhatweleavebehind, carryforward,andsettleforwhenwechoose.Itsitsinthat complicated,confounding,beautifulplacewherelove resides.

SomeNotesYouHold:New andSelectedPoems by Rita SimsQuillen

SomeNotesYouHold isabout survivingwhatlifethrowsatusas weage.Theso-called"golden years"aresonamedbecauseofthe highadmissionprice--the tremendouslosses, disappointments,illnesses,and failuresweallexperienceifwe

livelongenough.Thefirstpartofthebook,called"Letting Go,"focusesonsurvivingdeepgrief.Themiddlesection isamusicalinterlude,exploringthetremendouspowerof musictohealusmentally,physically,andspirituallyand toreorderourthinkingandouremotions.Thelastsection, "HoldingOn,"explorestheroadsleadingtosurvival: prayerandmeditation,communionwiththenaturalworld, andwriting.Thepricepaidforthose"goldenyears"leads totheprize:insight,joy,andakindofpeacewewere incapableofwhenwewereyoung.

“…Iamgratefulforthiscollectionandhowitunfailingly remindsmethatbeyondheartache,poetrypersistsin offeringdeepsolace.”

--MarcHarshman,authorof WomaninRedAnorak,winnerofthe2017BlueLynx PrizeforPoetry.

PalmCourtTrilogy:AnIsle ofPalmsSuspenseSeries by

StephanieEdwards

TheNelsonsistersfaceharrowing adventuresandmalevolentspirits whoattempttobringanendtotheir family.Willtheirspecialpowers, supportfromtheOtherSideand sisterlyloveforeachotherbe strongenoughtoconquerevil?

Readeachsister’sstorytodiscover howshedealswiththeghostsof herpast.

StephanieEdwards’booksfromthePalmCourtTrilogy eachdebutedat#1,Amazon’sSouthernFictionNew Releases.Now,youcanenjoythemallinoneplaceand catchglimpsesintotheNelsonsisters’worldthroughlove letters,memorabiliaandrecipes.

“Thistrilogyofhauntingsisascarynail-biter.Aclean darkadventurewithatouchofromanceweavingtogether terrorwithgoodfoodandverysweetcharacters.You'll havetosleepwithyourlightonafterreadingthissetof books!”

FiveStarReaderReview

Booklist

TheEchoofOldBooks

“Apairofmysterious booksandalovestoryfor theages.Buttheendof thebookisn'talwaysthe endofthestory...”

BarbaraDavis

RedClaySuzie by Jeffrey DaleLofton

Anovelinspiredbytrueevents

Thecoming-of-agestoryof Philbet,agay,physicallymisshapenboyinruralGeorgia, whobattlesbullying,ignorance, anddisdainashemakeshiswayin lifeasanoutsider--beforefinding acceptanceinunlikelyplaces.

Fueledbytomatosandwichesand greenmilkshakes,andobsessedwithcars,Philbet struggleswithlifeandloveasagayboyinruralGeorgia. He'shappiestwhenhelpingGrandaddydigpotatoesfrom thevegetablegardenthatconnectstheirhouses.But Philbet'sworldisshatteredandhisresilienceshakenby eventsthatcrushhisinnocenceandsenseofsecurity; exposehismisshapenchestskillfullyhiddenbehindshirts Mamamakesathome;andconvincehimthathe'snotfitto belovedbyKnox,theolderboyheidolizestodistraction. Overtime,Philbetfindsrefugeinunexpectedplacesand innerstrengthinunexpectedways,leadingtoaresolution intheformofaletterfrombeyondthegrave.

TheCicadaTree by Robert Gwaltney

Thesummerof1956,abroodof cicadasdescendsuponProvidence, Georgia,anaturaleventwith supernaturalrepercussions, unhingingthelifeofAnaleise Newell,aneleven-year-oldpiano prodigy.Amidstthisemergence, darkobsessionsarestirred,uncanny giftsprovoked,andsecrets unearthed.

DuringavisittoMistletoe,aplantationownedbythe wealthyMayfieldfamily,AnaleiseencountersCordelia MayfieldandherdaughterMarlissa,bothofwhom possessanotherworldlybeauty,alinealtraitregardedas thatMayfieldShine.Awhisperandanactofviolence perpetratedduringthisvisitbyMrs.Mayfieldallconverge tokindleAnaleise'sfascinationwiththe Mayfields.Analeise'sburgeoningobsessionwiththe Mayfieldfamilyovershadowsherownseemingly, ordinarylife,culminatingindangerousgamesand manipulation,settingoffachainofcataclysmicevents withlife-alteringconsequences-allofitunfoldingtothe maddeningwhirofacicadasong.

"Thisbookisespeciallytimelyinthis volatileerawherelivingahealthy, meaningful,andupliftinglifeby understandingmoredeeplyone'sself andthusone'sabilitytodosomakes thisbookamust-read.Iwastouched bythespecific,actionableinsightsand examplesAyeletBaronprovidestoput usonthatpath." -KareAnderson, Emmy-winningjournalist,authorand TEDspeaker.Kare'sTEDtalk(over 2.5millionviews)onOpportunity MakersTEDxtalkonmutuality,also books: MutualityMatters and OpportunityMakers.

Throughalloftheknowingand unknowing,thevisibleandinvisible, factsandmystery,lossandgain,sanity, andinsanityofitall-youarehere. Trekkingintotheunknowntakes couragebecauseitforcesyoutorealize howmuchyoudon'treallyknow.F*ck theBucketListinspiresyoutoask questions,digdeep,andcreateyour ownmeaning.Thestorystartsandends atyourownpace.Thisisn'tjustanother self-helpbook,spiritualbook,or memoir-it'sanexperience,beyond categoriesandlabels,thataskseachof ustotapintotheuniversalwisdomthat sayswecanliveourlivesourownway. servesyou.

"AyeletBaronisfiercewithfaiththat tobuckthesystemandtrustourhearts isanactofradicalself-care.Forget fear,frustration,formulasandfalse beliefs.Findfortitudewithinthese pagestofollowyourhearttoamore fulfilling,healthfuture.Fullof provocativequestionsandexpeditions, F*cktheBucketListfortheHealth Consciouswillreframeyoursenseof what'spossibleforyourselfandour collectivecourageousfuture."

-Shelly L.Francis,authorof TheCourageWay andFounder,CreativeCouragePress

AyeletBaron isavisionaryauthor,healer,andglobal futurist.ShewasrecentlyrecognizedonForbesas oneoftheworld'stopfemalefuturists.Inthemidst ofaverysuccessfulcareerasaglobalstrategy executiveatCiscoSystems,shewentthroughher owntransformation.Shewrotethisbooktrilogy becauseshewishedshehadthisuniversalguidance whenshestartedonherownjourney.Herdreamisto helpunleashmillionsandmillionsofpeople,whoare readytodoourinnerwork,andbecomethe architectsofhumanity.

C���n�so�� �r�� L���la��Co��!

WalkingTheWrongWay Home by MandyHaynes

WalkingTheWrongWayHome takesyouinsidethe extraordinarylivesofordinary people.Wherehiddensecrets arebroughttolightandburned withpastregretsinbrushpiles inthemountainsofEast Tennesseeorusedtosetfireto themassproducedtalland skinniestakingoverEast

Nashville.Betweenthepages you'llmeetPenny,aneightysevenyearoldwidowwhosleepsinherredshoes,Jimmy, aquietautomechanicwhosememoriesareneversilent, Jewelayounggirlwhoseesbeautyeverywhere,even thoughshe'slostalmosteverything,andWillie,athirteenyear-oldwhofaceshisworstfearsonlytofindoutthatthe truthisscarierthananyhaintorghoststoryhe'sever imagined.There'sElmaandRoy,acouplewho'vebeen marriedforoverfortyyears.Elmarealizesonhersixtythirdbirthdaythatit'snottoolatetoliveherlife,butit takesRoytwoweekstonotice.Spanningnearlytwenty decades,thestrugglesandvictoriesthesecharactersface aretimelessastheyallworktowardsthesamegoal.

Aplacetofeelsafe,aplacetocallhome.

MurderUnderaWesternMoon byAbigailKeam

MonaMoonandhernewhusband, RobertFarley,DukeofBrynelleth areabouttoboardanoceanlinerto MerryOldEnglandfortheir honeymoonwhenMonareceivesan urgenttelegramfromRupertHunt, hereyesandearsintheMoon coppermines.

POTENTIALRIOTAT MONTANAMINESTOPDEAD MINERSTOP POSSIBLEMURDERSTOP

COMEATONCESTOPRUPERTHUNT

SincethecopperminesarethefinancialbackboneofMoon Enterprises,Monahasnochoicebuttodropherplansandtravel toMontanaonthenexttrain.SheandRobertdescendintoa worldofseethingresentments,bitteraccusationsagainstMoon Enterprises,andbaddecisionsthatposeathreattoMona’s world.ShetravelsincognitotosearchoutthetruthofRupert’s allegationsagainsttheminingmanagement.Shemustdecideif Rupertistryingtopreventaninnocentmanfrombeinghungfor murderorifheispartofagrandioseplotagainsther.Afterall, MonahadbeenkidnappedbyRupertwhilesearchingforthe Swiftsilvermineayearago.Rupertisascoundrel,butMona hiredhimtobeherscoundrel.IsthisanotherofRupert’sgames?

Regardlessofthethreat,Monamustgettothebottomofit.

ThankgoodnessRobertisbyherside...orcouldRoberthave hisownagenda?

TheOrchard by Kristina Gorcheva-Newberry

ONEOFTHEBESTBOOKS OFTHEYEAR:NewYorkPost

ComingofageintheUSSRinthe 1980s,bestfriendsAnyaandMilka trytoenvisionafreeandjoyful futureforthemselves.Theyspend theirsummersatAnya'sdachajust outsideofMoscow,lazinginthe appleorchard,listeningtoQueen songs,andfantasizingabouttripsabroadandthelivesof Americanteenagers.Meanwhile,Anya'sparentstalkabout WorldWarII,theBlockade,andthehardshipstheyhave endured.

BythetimeAnyaandMilkaarefifteen,theSovietEmpire isonthevergeofcollapse.Theypairupwithclassmates TrifonovandLopatin,andthefourfriendssharesecrets anddesires,argueabouthistoryandpolitics,anddiscuss forbiddenbooks.Buttheworldischanging,andthe fleetingtimetheyhavetogetheriscutshortbyasudden tragedy.

"Spectacular...intenselyevocativeandgorgeously written...willfillreaders'eyeswithtearsandwonder."--

MinneapolisStarTribune

SugarBabyandOtherStories

by RiverJordan

Aunionsoldierwhodeserted,a scaredgirlinanabandoned, antebellumhome,agravedigger lookingforawife,sevensisters whowillkilltoprotecteachother,a stake-outatarundownhotel,a Spanishpriesttryingtosavehis peoplefromtheSpanishflu,a younggirlsneakingoffwithan encyclopediasalesman,anold womanaimingtouseherlastbullet.awomanframedfor murderonAllSaintsDay,aone-eyedoutcastwholives downbytheriver.

Thecharactersin SugarBabyandOtherStories are infusedbydesire,touchedbylove,andseekingretribution andredemptionateveryturn. SugarBaby isstorytellingof thehighestorder,pluckingupthereaderandtransporting themtoaworldofmystery,spirituality,violence,love,and everythinginbetween.

Annie'sSong:Dandelions, DreamsandDogs byAnnie McDonnell

Inthisshimmeringdebut-acrossgenreblendofmemoir,auto-fiction, magicalrealism,andpoetry-Annie poursoutherdreams,herloves,and herhopesalongwithher complicatedgriefcompoundedby betrayals,medicalmisdiagnoses, andinnumerablelossesthatwould breakmostpeople.Her determinationtolivealifeoflove,joy,andmeaningdespite hergreatsufferingshinesthroughoutthedarkthemesof manyofheressaysandpoems.Annie,whoisintheend stagesofStiffPersonSyndromeandhasseveralotherrare diseases,writeswithrawemotionabouttraumasfromher childhoodbestfriend'srapeandmurdertoherownlifealteringcaraccidentatage19toherdecades-longodyssey throughamedicalsystemwherewomen'ssymptomsare frequentlydismissed,misdiagnosed,andminimized.Annie's experientialmemoir,forwhichshe'sprovidedQRcodes linkingtoherfavoritesongsthroughout,allowsthereaderto getahintofwhatit'slikelivingsuspendedbetweenthis earthlyexistenceandtheafterlife.Thisisherlovesongto traumasurvivors,doglovers,andloveseekers.Shelives eachdayandnightknowingthathernextbreathcouldbeher lastandkeepsherheartfocusedonheaven.

AllNight,AllDay:life,death &angels editedby Susan Cushman

AllNight,AllDayisan inspirationalcollectionofpersonal essays,stories,andpoemsby outstandingwomenauthorswho writeabouttheappearanceofthe divineintheirlives.Someofthese angelscometosavealifeorchange aflattire.Someappeartowarn people,tellthemwhattodo, suggestmorevegetablesandmaybebettershoes.

Contributors:CassandraKing-SuzanneHenleyRiverJordan-SallyPalmerThomason-Natasha

Trethewey-SonjaLivingston-JohnnieBernhardFredericaMathewes-Green-AngelaJackson-Brown -ChristaAllan-ReneaWinchester-Jacqueline

AllenTrimble-MandyHaynes-WendyReed-Lisa

Gornick-JenniferHorne-AnnFisher-Wirth-

AveryellKessler-LaurenCamp-CathySmith

Bowers-NancyDorman-Hickson-JoannaSiebertSusanCushman-ClaireFullerton-JulieCantrell

Nanny’sPhotoAlbum

StephanieEdwards

Asachild,Ilovedcrawlingaroundmygrandparents’ closet,theplushbeigecarpetsmooshingagainstmyknees. EverytimeIvisitedtheirhouse,Ihadaroutine.Icombed throughtheneatstacksofcoloringbooksandLittle GoldenBookswithfadedcovers.Thescentofcrayons filledmylungs,andmygrandmother’scollectionof designercoatsbrushedmyheaduntilIfoundmy entertainmentfortheday.

Attheripeageof12,Idugdeeperintothestacks.By then,I’dcoloredenoughpagestowallpaperahouse. Nearlyateenager,Iwastoooldforreadingpicturebooks. Idesiredsomethingmoresubstantial,cluelessaboutwhat thatentailed.

Withdiscardedbookstoweringaroundme,Ifounda largebrownboxfilledwithblackandwhitephotos,mostly ofpeopleI’dnevermet.Womenworeelegantswimsuits ordresses,andmenstoodinfrontofexpensive-looking cars,smokingpipes.Whowerethesepeople?Whydidmy grandparentshavepicturesofthem?

I’llneverforgetthewonderofthemomentorwhat camenext—thechillthatcreptdownmyspinewhenmy grandmotherwalkedupbehindme,clearingherthroat.I heldmybreath,tryingnottopanic.Nannykeptallher possessionsintheirrightfulplace,andIdisruptedthe order.Anticipatingascolding,IreturnedtheboxwhereI foundit,butshestoppedme.

Insteadofyelling,shepulledtheboxoutofthecloset, carryingitovertoherbrownandtantweedsofa.Shedug aleatheralbumfromthebottomoftheboxandtoldme abouttheglamorouspeopleandbeautifulplacesthat graceditspages.

ThecornersofmymouthhurtbecauseIcouldn’tstop smilingassheshowedmepicturesofherasachildand teenagerlivingonCarolinaBeachnearWilmington,North Carolina,withmygreatgrandparents,whohada remarkablelovestory.

Mygrandmother’spastresonatedwithmemorethan anythingtothatpoint.EachtimeIvisited,shewouldpull outthepicturesandpourraspberry-flavoredKool-Aidinto twoofhertallstemwareglassesforustoenjoy.Mindyou, wedidn’tdrinkwhileflippingthroughourprizedphotos.

IthinksherecognizedIwantedtofeelmoregrown-up.I feltseen,andforthat,I’llbeforevergrateful.Throughher storiesandphotos,Idevelopedaloveformyfamily’srich historyandthebeautifulNorthCarolinacoast.Herstories

inspiredadeeppassionforreadingandwritingabout coastalsettings.Undoubtedly,Iwouldn’thavewrittenmy IsleofPalmsSuspenseserieswithouttheinspiration.

Lastmonth,IvisitedCarolinaBeachforthefirsttimein almostadecade.IcouldfeelNanny’spresenceasI picturedherlyingonthebeach,watchingthewavesroll outtosea.WhenIreturntoWilmingtonforabooksigning laterthismonth,Iknowmygrandmotherwillwatchover me.

BlackberryMoscowMule

OolongCocktail

Steepblackberryoolongteaandcool.

Muddleblackberrieswithsimplesyruporsugar.

Inashaker,mix2partscooledtea,2partsginger beerorgingerkombucha,onepartvodkaorgin,and juiceof½alime.

Pouroverice,garnishwithberriesandlime,and enjoywithyourfavoritebook!

INSIDEVOICES

“…IdobelievethatifItellyoumystory,ifIbringyouascloseas possibletotheplacesandpeopleIlove,thenitmakesitharderfor youtodehumanizethem,torenderharmonthem,tosupportpolicies thatwilldothemharm.”

NeemaAvashiawasbornandraisedinsouthernWest VirginiatoparentswhoimmigratedtotheUnitedStates fromIndia.ShehasbeenahistoryandCivicsteacherin theBostonPublicSchoolssince2003.Heressayshave appearedintheBitterSoutherner,Catapult,Kenyon ReviewOnline,andelsewhere.Hermemoir, Another Appalachia,ComingUpQueerandIndianinaMountain Place,wasreleasedtomuchacclaiminMarch2022.

Jeff:

Youchosetousethestructureofindividualessaystotell yourstoryratherthanemploythetraditionalnarrativefor memoir.Talkaboutthischoicewithus.

Neema:

Thereisanexpectationofcompletenesswithmemoirthat Idon’tfeelwithregardstomyownlife,ormyown writing.Ireallyappreciatethattheessaygenreallowsfor writerstoaskaquestion,andtotakethereaderontheir journeywiththequestion,butthereisnotanexpectation ofananswerattheendoftheessay.Infact,essaysthat endneatly,witheasyanswers,areoftenreceivedwith skepticismbecausethebiggestquestionsarerarely answeredsoeasily.Forme,AnotherAppalachiaisabook ofquestionsthatI’vebeenlivingwithmywholelife: Whatdoesitmeantofindbelongingwhenthe

intersectionalityofyouridentityalwaysputsyouonthe outside?Whatdoesitmeantoloveaplacethatdoesn’t alwaysloveyouback?Whatdowedowhenpeoplewe loveendupwithradicallydifferentpoliticsfromourown, andpoliticsthatclearlyseektoeraseus?Iwasn’ttryingto tellthefullstoryofmylifeinwritingthisbook;Iwas tryingtoexplorethosequestions.

Robert:

“Iexperienceadoublelosseachfall,missingboththe mountainsofmychildhoodandthemanymotherswho playedaroleinraisingmethere.”Thisisaquotefromthe essay“NineFormsoftheGoddess.”Talkaboutthisquote, yourmotivationforwritingyourmemoir,andthe reconciliationofloss.

Neema:

Inmanyways,thisbookisaresponsetoanotherbook, J.D.Vance’sHillbillyElegy.Thatbookrendersimmigrant communities,queercommunities,Blackcommunities, politicallyradicalcommunities,andallofuswholiveat theintersectionofthesecommunities,completely invisible.Soinpart,writingthisbookisanefforttorender thosecommunitiesvisible.Toassertbelonginginaplace whereoutsidersdon’tthinkwebelong.Butanother elementofmywritingaboutAppalachianandDesi elementsofmyupbringingisgroundedingrief.Because

asI’vegottenolder,andgrownmoreclearaboutmy queerness,ithasincreasinglyputmeatoddswithDesi andAppalachianspaceswherequeernessiseither explicitlyorimplicitlynotwelcome.Themoresalientmy queernesshasbecometomyidentity,theharderithas becometofeelfullygroundedineitherDesior Appalachiancommunities,andthegriefoflosingthat senseofbelongingispartofwhatI’mmappinginmy writing.

Jeff:

Younavigateseveralworldsinyourmemoir:Desi, Appalachian,Queer.Whathasbeenthereactionfromeach ofthesecultures?

Neema:

Verydifferentineachcase.Ithinkforlotsofeldersofmy Desicommunity,myhonestymakesthemuncomfortable. Theyweren’traisedtoseewomenastruthtellers,or holdersofopinion,andtheycertainlyweren’traisedina worldwhereitwasacceptableforwomentowritethose truthsdown,andthentopublishthem.Sothere’sbeena lotof,“You’resohonest,youcan’thelpit,”and,“What willpeoplesay?”andI’vejusthadtocometotermswith thefactthatthere’sagenerationalgapthatI’mnot necessarilygoingtobeabletobridge.ForDesifolksof mygenerationandyounger,theresponsehasbeenreally

lovely,withmanyinstancesinwhichfolkshavesaidtome thattheyneverthoughtourtinyDesiAppalachian communitywouldbeknowntoanyonebutus,andthat seeingitrenderedonthepagehasgiventhemapowerful senseofvalidation.

IntermsofAppalachianfolks,thewaysinwhichtheyfind resonanceinthebookcontinuestosurpriseme.Ican’ttell youhowmanyWhite,straight,cisAppalachianmenhave toldme,“IthoughtI’dhavenothingincommonwithyou whenIstartedreadingthisbook,andyetsomehowIkept findingmyselfinitspages.”Somanyofthethroughlines thatIthoughtwereaboutimmigrantfamilydynamics turnedouttobeaboutAppalachianfamilydynamicsas well.SomanyofthequestionsI’maskingresonatefor folksinAppalachia,regardlessofwhethertheyhappento bequeerorDesiaswell.

Butaboveall,thegroupoffolkswhohavehadthemost beautiful,meaningfulresponsetothisbookhavebeen queerAppalachianfolks,forwhomIthinkthequestions aboutbelongingresonatemostdeeply.Somanybaby queershavesentmemessagesexpressingthattheyfeel lesslonelyknowingthatIsharetheirquestions,andthatit helpsthemtoknowthatit’spossibletofindasoftplaceto landasaqueerperson,whetherthatplaceisinAppalachia orelsewhere.

Ultimately,I’vebeentrulymovedbyhowmuchresonance folksinallthreecommunitieshavefoundwithinthepages ofthisbook.Iwroteit,insomeways,torendermyself

whole.Tocreateaplaceintheworldwhereallofme–the queer,Appalachian,andDesipartsofme–couldbeheld together.Andyetsomehow,indoingthat,itseemslikeI alsocreatedamirrorforfolkswhoholdone,two,or sometimesallthreeofthoseidentities.

Robert:

AnotherAppalachiaisahumanstory,butit’salsoa politicalstory.Pleasediscusswhyandhowyoucreateda personalnarrativethatmakesanimportantstatement aboutourculture.

Neema:

Thepoliticsofpolarizationthrivesintheabsenceof nuance.Politicianswhopeddlepolarizingnarrativesdoso byrenderingusallflat,makinguscaricatures,andthen weaponizingthosecaricaturessothatweturnonone another,insteadofrecognizingthesystemsandstructures thatareoppressingallofus.Inmymind,theonly effectivewaytocombatpolarizationisbybringingpeople closertooneanother,makingthemseeoneanotherasfull, complicatedpeople,andthusinterruptingthestereotyped narrativethey’rebeingofferedbypoliticiansandmedia. Maybeitsoundscheesy,buttheonlysolveIcanfindto theintensepolarizationofthismomentisnarrative.It’s storiesofselfthatmakeitimpossibleforthestereotypesto gounquestioned.I’mnottryingtowritethedefinitivetext

aboutAppalachia.Idon’tbelievethereisasingle definitivetextaboutAppalachia,oranyotherplaceforthat matter.ButIdobelievethatifItellyoumystory,ifI bringyouascloseaspossibletotheplacesandpeopleI love,thenitmakesitharderforyoutodehumanizethem, torenderharmonthem,tosupportpoliciesthatwilldo themharm.

Jeff:

Whathaveyoulearnedaboutyourselfnowthatyouhave sharedyourstory,withyourfamilyandtheworld?

Neema:

I’velearnedthatthereisalotofpowerinchallenging shamenarratives,andthatonceyoufreeyourselfof shame,itallowsyoutospeaktruthtopowerinawaythat isso,soimportant.AndI’velearnedthatthoughI’velived outsideofAppalachiaforasmanyyearsasIlivedwithin it,writingabookaboutbelonginginAppalachiahas broughtmeintocloserrelationshipswithpeopletherethan I’vebeenatanypointsinceleaving.Andmost importantly,IthinkI’velearnedthatwhenweallow ourselvestobevulnerableaswriters,andletreadersinto thethoughtsandquestionsthatwearegrapplingwith,they meetourvulnerabilitywiththeirown,andweultimately allfeelalittlelessaloneasaresult.

RobertGwaltney, awardwinningauthorof southernfiction,isa graduateofFloridaStateUniversity.HeresidesinAtlantaGeorgia withhispartner,whereheisanactivememberoftheAtlanta literarycommunity.Robert’sworkhasappearedinsuch publicationsasTheSignalMountainReviewandTheDeadMule SchoolofSouthernLiterature.Hisdebutnovel,TheCicadaTree, wontheSomersetAwardforliteraryfiction.

JeffreyDaleLofton,hailsfromWarmSprings,Ga.Hisyearstelling thestoriesofplaywrightsandscriptwriterstaughthimthepullofa powerfulstoryarc.Today,heisasenioradvisorattheLibraryof Congress,surroundedbybooksandpeoplewholovebooks. Red ClaySuzie ishisfirstworkoffiction,writtenthroughhispersonal lensgrowingupanoutsiderfiguringoutlifeandloveina conservativefamilyandcommunityintheDeepSouth.

“Anessentialtexttoaddtothenew canonofAppalachianwriting—a compassionateandrigorousmemoir oftheauthor’sexperiencegrowing upasaqueerHinduchildand teenagerinasmallcommunityof WestVirginianIndians.Another Appalachiaisabrightanddeeply empatheticportraitofacomplicated place,aplacethatNeemaAvashia allowstobemultifacetedintheway itdeserves.”

—AnnaClaireWeber,WhiteWhale Bookstore

DismantlingaChildhood

JonSokol

ThelateAugustsunscorchedEdgar’sbareneckand weighedhimdownasifhewerecarryinganothermanon hisback.Theairwasthickwithhumidity.Eachgulped breathwaslikeinhalingthroughasoggysponge.Itwas only10:30inthemorning.ButonthisoppressiveSunday, hewasdeterminedtoteardowntherottingplaystructure inhisbackyard.

Perhaps“determined”isnottheproperword.Hiswife, Emily,wascertainlydeterminedtohavetheeyesore removed.Edgardidnotparticularlycareforthepressuretreatedskeletonoutback,buttherewasalothedidn’tcare for.Hedidn’tcareforthefactthatEmilyhadthreatenedto asktheworkcrewpatchingtheirneighbor’srooftotear downthemonstrosityandhaulitoff.Hedidn’tcareforthe insinuationthathewasalazyso-and-so.

Hedidn’tcaretogethishandsdirty.Hedidn’tcarefor theinevitablesnakes,thebustedknuckles,themissedball game,thepryingneighborlyquestions.Hedidnotcare.

Hedidnotcareifthedilapidatedjunglegymremainedin

itsprimeshadyspotuntilGodAlmightyandEnglishIvy broughtitdowntoitschemicallypreserved4x4knees.

ButEmilydidcare.Thefamilythatsoldthemthehouse hadbeenbrimmingwithCatholicchildren,whileshe,with herapparentlybarrenwomb,hadnone.Sohe,onthisday, the394thsincetheymovedintothe“whimsical”Queen AnneonButlerStreet,woulddismantlethestructurewith thehopesofpreservingafewpiecesofusablelumberand whatlittlepridehehadleft.

Edgar,forlorn,stoodfacingtheplayset.Heworehis worstjeansandaKISSt-shirthehadboughtataconcert in1991.Hehadbeensixteenandhadtosneakoutofhis grandmother’shouse.Thatwasbackwhentheband wasn’twearinganymakeup.Heregrettednotseeingthem beforetheyditchedthefacepaint.Sure,hecouldseethem nextmonthontheirfarewelltour,paintedandhoary,but withoutAceandChris,itjustwasn’tKISS.

Hekickedoneoftheposts.Itdidnotbudge.Hefretted thattheymayhavebeensetinconcrete.

Thirtyminuteslater,hehadassembledanarsenalof tools,somejanglingfromanuncomfortabletoolbelt,that wouldallowhimtoremoveeachboardonebyone.His planwastousesomeoftheplayset’sbetterboardstobuild apairofAdirondackchairssuitableforadults.Andmaybe abirdhouseortwosincetherottenstructurewashometo quiteafewbackyardchirpers.

Edgarremovedhissafetyglasses.Heglaredatthe monstrosityandjammedhisthumbsintothetoolbelt. “Areyoumakingfunofme,Swingset?”hesaidaloud. Thelatemorningtricklesofsweatwereturningintoa deluge.Thestructurestaredsilentlybackathim.

Edgarunhingedhisstepladderandclimbeduptothe longcrossmemberthatspannedfromthemainstructure (partpirateship,partdollhouse)toana-frametenfeet awayandsupportedthreeplasticswings.Heunhookedthe chainsonebyoneandrelishedthesatisfyingclinksasthe swingsdroppedtotheground.

“Youaren’tsotough,”hesaid.Adaddylong-legs knuckledawayfromhimonthebeam.Edgarpulledouta clawhammerfromhistoolbeltandsquashedthespider withathump.Spiderjuicesquirtedintohislefteye.It burnedlikefire.“Sonofabitch!”Herubbedithardand knockedoffthesafetyglassesthathadbeenperchedon thebillofhisballcap.

“AllGod’screations.”Hisgrandmother’swordsfrom longagowaftedthroughhismind.“Everylittlecreature hasareasonforbeinghereonGod’sbeautifulearth,”she wouldsay,lazilyswattingmosquitoesonthebackporch aslittleEdgarwouldsitintheyard,torturingantswitha pilferedcigarettelighter.

Edgarhadgonetolivewithhiswidowedgrandmothera fewdaysafterhiseighthbirthdayandtwoweeksbefore

hismotherleftonamissiontriptoParaguay.Hewould notseeheragainuntilhisownwedding.

“Ineverhadaswingset,”hesaidtotheswingset.“Not evenoneasshittyasyou.”Heloosenedrustedboltsusing acanofWD-40andaratchet.“Nodadtobuildone either.”

NeitherEdgarnorhismotherhadknownhisfather’s realname.ThetravelingpreacherhadusedPhineas Godsonasanalias.Andalthoughtheslick-hairedPreacher Godsonwascertainlypresentforthenotablymaculate conception,hehadn’tstuckaroundfortheratherbanal birth.

TheA-frametoppledtothegroundleavingtheswing supportbeamhangingprecariouslylikeamanabouttofall fromaboat.Edgareaseddowntheladderandmovedit awayfromthewavering6x6timber.Heclimbedupinto themainstructureandremovedtheplasticshipsteering wheelandthetatteredremnantsofarainbowsailthat remindedhimofhisgrandmother’sbathtowels.

Shewouldstringupthelaundryeveryothermorning andmakelittleEdgarreadtoherfromtheOldTestament. SheespeciallylovedtheshallsandshallnotsofLeviticus.

Shewasthekindofwomanwholovedherneighbor,loved herchurch,andlovedhergrandchild.Shelovedhimso muchthatshespentaconsiderableamountofhertime beatingthehelloutofhim.

Edgarpriedaboardlooseandtoreitoffthestructure. Anunseenrednailscratchedhisforearmashetossedthe planktotheground.Bloodseepedfromtheshallowcut. Hewipedthewoundonhisjeans.

“It’snotsobad,”hehadheardhisgrandmothersay. LittleEdgarhadcuthisfootonsomerebaroutintheyard. Shehadnotbelievedinvaccineseventhoughtetanus shotswerefreeforthepoorkidsinthetown.Hewould screamasshepouredkeroseneonthewoundthenwhip hisassforthewordshe’dused.

Byearlyafternoon,Edgarhadsucceededinbringing downhalfoftheplaystructure.Emilybroughthima baconsandwichandaBloodyMary.

“How’sitcoming,cowboy?”

“Itwaskickingmyassearlier,”hesaid.“Butit’s comingdownnow.”Heravagedthesandwichanddowned thecocktaillikeabackslidingdrunk.

“Areyouokay?”

“Me?Yeah.Why?”

“Youdon’tlooksogood.”

Edgarlookeddownathissunburntarms.Adriedcreek ofblackcoagulatedbloodhadcrustedontheleftone.“It’s notbad.”

“Letmeknowifyouneedsomehelp,okay?”

“I’mfine.Justleavemealone.”

“‘kay.”Emilytookhispaperplateandemptyplasticcup

andlefthimabottleofwater.

Hewatchedasshewalkedbacktothehouse.Shewould havebeenagoodmother,hethought.Butbiology’scruel randomnesshadmadethatimpossible.Helookedbackat theplaystructureandrubbedhiseyethatstillstungfrom spiderguts.

Let’sgetthisoverwith.

Edgarusedthebluntendofasplittingmaultocrash downtheslidingboard.Hefoundthatdestructionwas moresatisfyingthanpullingnailsandtappingoutbolts. Herippeddownthemonkeybarsthatremindedhimofthe playgroundatschool.Theschoolhehadattendedupuntil thirdgradewhenhisgrandmotherpulledhimoutofthat “GodlessLakeofFire.”

“Theystillteachingyouaboutmonkeysanddinosaurs?” shehadaskedoneday.“Iknowthey’reyourfavorite animals,buttheydon’tneedtobeteachingthattrashto youngminds.”

Edgarthrewdownthemaulandfelltohisknees.

“That’sright,boy,”heheardhersay.“Prayfor forgiveness.”

Idon’twantforgiveness,youoldbat.

“TellJesustoforgiveyouforlisteningtothatsinful music,”shesaidinasinginggospelvoicethatgrewlouder inhisskull.“Tellhimtoforgiveyouforyourbathroom iniquities.Yourevilintentions.Yourrebelliousnature!”

Edgarvomitedonthegroundstainingthegrasswith bloodred.Hebegantofeel—better.Hewipedhismouth andstoodonshakylegs.Hesawhisgrandmotherlyingin hercoffin.Herfacewaspowderedanunnaturalwhite,and sheworeabluedressandatwistedgrin.

“Laughifyouwant,butI’mdonewithyou,”hehadtold thecorpse.Hewaseighteenwhenshehadfinallydied fromsomeundiagnosedillness.

Edgarfacedthestoicremainsandadjustedhistoolbelt. “Swingset,”hesaidinagravelyAnthonyQuinnvoice.“I loveyouverymuch.ButIwilltakeyoudownbeforethis dayends.”

HejammedinhisearbudsandscrolledtoACDConhis phone.Hisheadbobbedtothesnaredrumslashes signalingthebeginningof“WhoMadeWho.”Hepulled thecordonhischainsawanditroaredtolife.Henolonger caredaboutpreservinganything.Aftertenminutesthe playsetthatoncebelongedtoanunknownchildwas turnedintoalifelessheapofsplinteredgraywood.

Edgarkilledthesawandpulledouthisearbuds.He lookedoverthefenceandsawReba,hisneighbor, watchinghimfromherbackporch.Sheheldalimegreen wateringcan.Herbrowwaswrinkledwithconcern.

“Doyouneedsomehelp,Edgar?”

“Noma’am.I’mgood.”

It’sallgood.Fornow.

JonSokolisawriter,forester,traveler,andfurnituremakerfromnortheastGeorgia.Hisshortstoriesand essayshaveappearedintheJamesDickeyReview,Gray’s SportingJournal,SouthernLiteraryReview,Gutwrench Journal,ReckonReview,CowboyJamboree,TheDead MuleSchoolofSouthernLiterature,andotherjournals andanthologies.In2021,hegraduatedfromReinhardt UniversitywithanMFAinCreativeWriting.Joncanbe foundonlineatwww.jonsokol.comand@JonSokolWriter onTwitter.

ThePartyOrganiser FiorellaRuas

Thisisgoingtobegreat.Bella’sgoingtobesochuffed aboutthis,MegthinksinthetinykitchenetteofherSouth Londononebedroomflat,dragging,inanartstudent intensesortofway,onherroll-upasshepondersher weekendawayintheSouthofFrance.Ifonlysomeone hadthoughtoforganisingasurprisepartylikethatforher forty-fifth.Ontheotherhand,asshe’sconsistentlylied aboutherageovertheyears,whowouldknow?Evenshe doesn'tknowhowoldsheisanymore.Themathematics havegotharder.She’llprobablyenduphavingherfortyfifthbirthdaywhenshe’saroundfifty-seven.

Whenanyonehasaskedherage,herresponsehas alwaysbeen:howolddoyouthink?Andthenshe’sjust gonealongwiththeiranswer.Hergroupoffriendsmust allhavedifferentfiguresintheirheads.She’snoticed people’sguesseshavesteadilygotcloserandclosertothe realityofherageandwhen,inthepast,sheusedtowalk awayfeelingsopleasedthattheythoughtshewaseight

yearsyoungerthanshewas,nowtheyseemtohitayearor soofftherealfigureandnotalwaysintherightdirection.

“Iknowhon,IwishIcouldtakeyouwithmeaswell,” shesaystohercatRory.“Youcouldhangoutinbarns withsomerealcoolFrenchcats.”

WhatwouldshedowithoutoldRory?Megthinksas shecaresseshishairylittlechin.

Whowouldshehearheavybreathingnexttoherat night,lyingonhisbackwithhislittlepenisintheair, fartingawaywithpleasure,pukingontheduvetinthe earlyhoursofthemorning?

JustasRorystartstopukewiththeemotionofitall,the doorbellrings.It'slate.Alittleshudderofpanicfilters downthroughMeg’sbody.Becausesheknowswhoitis. She’sbeenthroughtherapyandcourtcasestogetridof him.Onlyhejustwon’tgoaway.

Thedoorbellringsagain.Theroll-updropsoutofher hand.

“Meg,”amoaninglittlevoicecomesthroughthedoor. Fuck,whydidn’tsheturnoutthelightquickenough. Shecan'tpretendshe'snottherenow.

“Iknowyou’rethere,”thelittlewhiningvoicesays.

"No,I’mnot.Goaway,"Megshoutsfromthebedroom doorattheshadowshecanseeintheglassofthefront doorquicklyscanningalltheboltsandlockstoseeif they'realllocked.

OhGod,you’dthinkwithageandwisdomand experience,she’dhavelearnedtospottheoddbadapple inherboyfriendcollection,thelatentabuser,thelurking misogynist,thedangeroushomicidalstalker....butno,for twoyearsago,notonlydidshemanagetohitchupwith oneboyfriendturnedstalker,buttwo.Twostalkersforthe priceofone.She’softenwonderedwhatthissaysabout her,whatnormalsane,experienced,world-wisewoman would,whilstonederangedexboyfriendwasstalkingher, enduphavinganaffairwiththepolicedetectivedealing withthecasewhoturnsouttobeevenmoreviolentand dangerousthanthestalker.

“PleaseMeg.Openthedoor.”Hisvoicehasgottenmore menacing.It’sthesameoldpattern.Howwasshemeant toknowthatbehindthatheroic,virile,unrealAmerican copfilmlooklayaninsecure,whininglittlemanproneto fitsofviolence?Well,that’sit.Itwastoounreal.She shouldhaveknownhewasjustplayingapartandhad watchedtoomanyAmericanfilmshimself.Theonlything, infact,theyhadincommon.

Megpickstheroll-upoutofthemassofotherlittle stub-outsandre-lights.Shewentonacoursetolearnhow todealwiththistypeofpotentiallydangeroussituation. Shelearnedtobecalm,tomakelightofthesituation,to soundlikeoneofthosewellmeaningpatronisinglate nightradioDJsdealingwithanobviouslyderangedand

potentiallydangerouslistener.

“Youhavetostopthis.Youhavetogohomenow.I'm tryingtobeniceaboutthis.Youdon’twantmetocallthe policeagaindoyou?”

“Iamthepolice.”

“No,Robert.Remember?You’vebeenthrownoffthe forcefor stalkingme.Forgottenthatlittlecourtcaseweall wentto?Thelocalpapernameandshamething?Andthen thenicepolicementookyourbadgeandgunoffyoulike inthefilms.”

“Ididn’thaveagun."

Andwhydidsheevengowithsomeonewhohad absolutelynosenseofhumour?

“Youhadabadge,comeon.Look,you’vejustgottoget itintoyourhead.NeitherInortheMetropolitanpolice forceloveyouanymore.”

“I’mgoingtotopmyself,”hesayspathetically, changinghistack.

“Listentome.Idon’tloveyouanymore.I’mnotsureI everdid.Rory’spukedjustatthethoughtofyoucoming tothedoor.It'sover.Pleasejustgohomehoney.”

“Honey.Youcalledme honey.”

“Yes?”

“Soyoustillloveme,”hesays,affirmatively.

Thismanisacompleteidiotandamanipulativeoneat that.Averybadcombination.

“Honey,Icallmydentist“honey”.Icallthecashier withbracesandspotsatSainsbury'scheckout“honey”. Don’tmeanIwanttohavesexwiththemhoney.Goaway. Pleasedon’tdothistome."

"Meg....,"heshoutsashebangshisfistonthefront door.

Megjumps,droppingherrollupyetagainandgoes backintothebedroomtograbhermobilefromthebedside table,tryingtokeephercool.

“Honey,I’mgoingtocounttothree.AndthenI'mgoing toringthatlittlenumbertheygavemeandthesanemenin policeuniformswillcomeandtakeyouawayagain.”

“Justshowmeyourfaceonemoretime,”changinghis toneyetagainintoanalmostbalanced,normal,reasonable voice.

“One.”

“IpromiseIwon’tdoanythingsilly.”

“Two.”

“Meg...”

“Three.Right.I'mcalling.”

“Okay,Okay,I’mgoing.”Hekicksthedoorbefore stridingangrilydowntheroad.

Oh,well,couldbeworse,atleastshedealtwithitall prettywell.Calm,makinglightofthesituation,non confrontational.

JustaswellI’mgoingaway,Megthinks,asnotforthe

firsttime,shelistens,herearupagainstthefrontdoor,to checkifthecreepyfootstepsaretrulywalkingaway.

Megisoneoflife'scoursetakers—coursesin assertivenesstraining,beingawellwoman,cat psychology,becominganovernightsuccessbutnotoneof thesecourseshaveevertoldherwhysheissoattractedto, atbest,losers,atworsthomicidalmaniacs.

And,asshecrawlsonherhandsandkneesovertothe livingroomwindowwhereshepeepsoutofthecurtainsto makesurethecreepyexpolicemanhastrulywalkedoff intotheSouthLondonnight,she’scomingtothehorrible conclusionthatthereisnoanswer.

MaybeI’lljusthavetokillhimliketheyendupdoing inthefilms,Megthinks,asshewatcheshimwalkaway intothenight.

“ThiswillreallycheerBellaup.”Megthinks.And althoughsheiswellawarethatyoucan’ttellsomeone who’sindepressionhowluckytheyare—it’sliketelling someonewithnolegsthey’reluckytohavea wheelchair—shestillcan’tunderstandwhyheroldcollege friendneedscheeringupinthefirstplace.

Whyshe'ssodepressed,Godonlyknows.Sheisso

LUCKY.Youjustwanttoshakeherandtellhertobuck herideasup.Shecouldbeinawheelchair.Orworse,have nolegs and nowheelchair.Livingbythesideofthe

railwaylineinAfricaorSouthAmerica.Justastub,

wheelingherselfaroundonatrolley.Orshecouldbeme. MegthinkstoherselfasshefoldsherovernightT-shirt intoherback-packwhichRorythecathasmanagedto coverinamammothamountofhairinanalarminglyshort amountoftime.

FiorellaRuas'writingbackgroundisintheatre.Afteroneofher playsreceivedcriticalpraiseintheNationalpress,shewas commissionedtowriteforFilmandTV.Fiorella'sstoriesand poemshaveappearedinseveralanthologies,magazinesand literaryjournals.Shehasjustfinishedherfirstnovel.

TheBreadGrabbers

JonathanPett

It'sthesmellofoldcoffeeandstalewine,behindthe curtain,thatdivideshishomelifefromhisshoplife.His lifefromtheirs–fromthebreadgrabbers.

Ashetakesthefirstdragoftheday–thatfirstdragthat fillshiswholebody,thatshootsdownhisarms,dizzying andsteadyinghimallatonce–Martinleansonthebarand contemplateslastnight,thedebrisscatteredalongthepine bar.Dirtyglasses,spiltbeerandchampagne,oldsmoke andpeanuts.Whydoeshedoit?It'saveritablepublic servicehe’sofferinghere.Everybirthday,everyspecial occasion,allthelocalpeoplewithnowhereelsetogoand no-oneelsetosee,allmaketheirwayovertoMartin's. Whereelseistheretogointhemiddleofnowhere?

Lastnight,itwastheturnoftheonlyEnglishguyinthe village,Jack,celebratingthesecondscanofhisbabywho, hedrunkenlytoldMartin,he’sdecidedtocallMJ.What doesthatevenstandfor?

Martintakestheoffendinglittlecrunchoftobaccoout ofhismouthandspitsintotheashtray.Stepsfromthecafé

intotheshop.

ThisisDésirée'sarea.Nothis.There'ssomethingabout thatcounter,thatoldcashbox,themeatslicer,thatwhole servicearea,thatturnshisstomachfirstthinginthe morning.Thisiswherehiswifebecomesashopkeeper andhe,ifyoulistentovillagegossip,alazy,miserable bastardwholetshiswifedoalltheworkwhilstheserves drinkstohismatesintheback.

Well,tobeashopkeeperwasnothislife'sambition. Runningroundforastreamofmiserablecountrypeople. Anyonewithawalletcanlookhiswifeintheeye–she's justashopassistant–andcomplainabouttheirbread,get hiswiferunningaroundtheshop,forthisandthat, moaningaboutthem,daringtocloseforlunch.Oreven worse,thinkingthattheyhaveanyrighttotakeaholiday. They’rethebreadandwaterofthisvillage.Theyhavea dutytoserve.They'remoreimportantthanthevillage doctor.Andmuchlessexpensive.

ThisisthepartofhislifeinCasterathathehatesthe most.ThepartthatputshimandhisbelovedDésirée down,putsthematthelocals’service.Désiréebending andbowingandrunningaroundforthemall.Shesaysshe doesn'tcare.Andmaybeshesaysthatforhim,becauseshe knowsshehasnochoice,becausesheknowsthathewon't doittohimself.He'llgetinallthedeliveries.He'llstack theshelves,andmakecoffeeforanyonewhoaskshim

nicely,buthewon'tserve.Anyone.

Thechurchbellsstarttheirringing,bullyingawaytheir lives,aconstantreminderoftheirindispensability,ashe opensuptheoldshopdoor.Deadoneighto'clock.Not badforathirty-fiveyearold,whowenttobedat4:30in themorning,afterconsumingararemixofdrinks includingarmagnac,whiskey,wineandbeer–allsloshed downwithsomefoiegrasandTheClash.

Helooksout,seesthemistlininguponthehorizon,and startstolikethisCasteraagain,startstorememberwhy theyansweredthatad,lookingforacoupleofsuckers,to runavillageshopinthemiddleofnowhereandwhyhe’s stillhereinsteadofdrivingdeliveryvansintheMarseille suburbs.ThiscoolofthemorningCastera,notyetspoiled bycustomers,thebreadgrabbers.Thisisagoodmoment forhim,themomentbeforethedaybegins.Beforetheday ofbreadandmoneyandtalk.

Hegoesoutside,leansonhiscarandlightsuphisroll. HelooksupatJack'sclosedshutters.Jackdoesn'thaveto getupatthistime,hedoesn'thavetogethishandsdirty withcoinsandseehiswiferunaroundonsomeone's whim.

And,asMartincrusheshisfirstcigaretteofthedayinto theground,heturnsandseestheIrishwoman,Patsy,with thedogsandthenicelegs,whowas,apparently,aday timechatshowhostbackinIreland,comingdownthe

roadandit'sstarting,thedayisstarting,noavoidingit.

…andthere'ssmelling,sixty-yearoldbachelorboy, Roger,who’sneverownedaTVsetorafridgecomingin fromtheleftandit's...

…inevitable,inescapable.Howmanygreetingswillhe havetogothroughinaday?Hewantstogorunningwhen heseesthosefirsttwocustomersoftheday,boringdown onhim,breadintheireyes,baguettes,baguettes, baguettes.Breadswimmingaroundintheireyes.

Woulditkillthemnottohavesomethingtodunkin theirbowlsofcoffee?TheyprobablythinkheandDésirée shouldopenearlier.Theymustliterallyhearhimunlock thedoors,thosegreedybreadgrabbers.He’ssickofthe sightofbread.Hecoulddowithouteverdippinganother pieceofbread.

'Desiree!'heshoutsup,ashereluctantlystepsintothe shopafterthem.WalksinpastRoger,whoisalready standingthere,smelling,atthecounter.Waitingforhis bread.Hedoesn'tdareaskhim.

AndasDésiréepoundsdownthestairs,Martinsteps intohisterritory–thecaféattheback–andstartstoprepare somecoffeefortheimminentarrivalofhisregulars.

AsMartinpourshimselfhisfirstespressoofthedayand watchesDésirée.AftershowingRogeroutofthedoor,she stands,archedinthedoorway,coveringthelightofthe doorwithherform,thoselong,longlegsfromMarseille,

toweringoverhislife.Hestillcan'thelpeyeingthem–it's sortofobscene,toeyeupyourwifeaftertwenty-odd years,itwouldfeelmoresaneandrespectabletobeeyeing uppassingwomen–buthestilleyesuphiswifeandhe'll beeyeingupthoselonglegstillthedayhedies.That amazingbodyfromMarseillethathastakenoverhislife.

Heknew,assoonasheseteyesonthatfifteen-yearold girlwiththatMarseilledarknessandthoselegs,thathe wouldneverwantanotherwoman'sbody.Howcould anyonecomparewiththoselegs…inthosewhiteshoes? Andshortskirt…firstthinginthemorning?Givethe localssomethingtothinkabout,astheydunktheirbread intheircoffee.

HervoiceboomsoutatChristian,thevillagegardener, ashepullsupinhisvan.Jesus,that'savoicethatcould breakstone,cuthisheartintwoifheneverhearditagain, ifitwastakenawayfromhislife…andinstepshismate Christian,kissinghiswife,asMartinalreadystartstopour outanespressoforhim.

ThisskinnyChristian,withamazingstrengthfor someonesoslender,isallfreshairandthinmusclesand goodness.Helikesthismanandhispresenceinhisbar andcan'thelpwonderingwhythiseasyman,with innocenceinhissoul,iswastinghislifeawaywithatight, punyeyedfifty-fiveyearoldwifewhomakeshimwork hislifeaway.Christianstartshisdaywithapaperroundat

5:30inthemorningbeforecomingtoworkherefromnine tosixandspendshiseveningsandweekendsworkingon buildingahouseforhiswife'sparentsordaughteror whicheverofhervoraciousfamilyneedstoabuse Christian’skindnessnext.

Andfollowinghimin,there'sintellectualcommunist, skirtchasingpostman,Didier,withamazinglylittlemoral strengthforacommunist.Didier,withhiswispy,balding, blondhairandsmoothcommunisteyes,alwaysdashesin, withanewspaperunderhisarm–alwayssomecapitalist crimetodiscuss.Ifyoucomebackhomeunexpectedand seeDidier'syellowpostvanparkedinyourbackyard,you knowyourwife'sbeentemptedbysomeoftheDidier treatment.

Everymorning,likeclockwork,8:30am,thesetwo friendsbothfindtheirwayintohisbarandspendthenext thirtyminutesoftheirlivestakingthepissoutofeach other.

Thesebanteringbastardsarefollowedinbythemothers whocomeinat9:15am,afterdroppingofftheirkidsat thelocalvillageschool.Theplumber'swife,thefarmer's wife,andthecomputerprogrammer'swife.Now,that’s whenitbecomesinterestingbeingacafébarman,that's whenhebecomesdiscrete,hoveringsensitively,likeareal barman,areal garçon,eavesdroppingonthosebitsof insightintotheirmen'slives.Allthathonestyandgentle

bitchinessandtalkofmedicalstuff.

Andthen,dottedthroughtherestofthemorning,there's thelonelylonerswhoneedsomecontact,somelaughter, sometime,someofMartin’scoffeeandsympathy.The widows,thedivorced,theoutofwork.Thisisthetimeof daywhenhefeelsthemostexposed,outintheopen.

Heavyweightofthemorning.Whenalltherighteous, goodpeopleareoutatwork.“What'shedoinghere?

LettinghiswifeDésiréedoallthework,hedoesn'teven botherservinganycustomers,justsitschattingawayinthe barwithhismates.He'sgotthreekidsandallhedoesis playcomputergamesandhavecoffeewithhismates.”

Thisisthetimeofdaywhenhecontemplatesleaving thisvillage,stuckoutinthemiddleofnowhereinteresting. Thisisthetimewhenhelongstoseetheblueseaaround Marseillewheretheyusedtoliveor,anywherebutthis imposingquietandcalmandheavyjudgement.Thisisthe timewhenheresentsseeinghisdignifiedwifebending andscrapingaroundforafeweuros.

Hetakesanothercigaretteoutside,leaningonhiscar, lookingupatJacktappingawayathisPCandseestheir nextdoorneighbourPierre,outontheterrace,lookinglost withouthisOdette,whoislying,illwithcancer,inthe roomleadingontotheterrace–Pierrerelayingtoherthe gossipoftheday.

Ithastobesaidthere'sloveanddevotioninthatold

couple.TheBirdmanPierreandOdettegossiptheirlives away,inheaven,fromtheirperchtogether.Theysharethe sameinterests-people.Howmanycouplescansaythat?

Discussingpeoplealldaylongandintothenight,onthat observationpost.

Heknowsexactlywhatallthevillagersthinkofhim, whattheybitchaboutbehindhisback,thatheshouldbe moreofamanandgoouttoprovethathecanworklong hours.Butwhyshouldhegoofftowork,leavinghiswife athomewhenallhewantstodoisbewithher,sharehis lifewithher?He’sdonethatgoingouttowork,having separatelivesandslowlygrowingapartwhenhewason theroad.Hedoesn'tneedtoprovehishumanworthby killinghimselfworkingforteneurosanhour,pounding theroadsandwonderingwhothefuckhiswifeandkids are.

Andthisistheonlythingthatmakesitworthwhilefor him,stayinginthisgodforsakencountryhole–thefactthat hecanlaughandtalkhisdaysawaywithhiswifeandget toseehischildrengrow.Thisshopinthemiddleof nowhereinterestinghasatleastgiventhemthat.

Andmaybeit'sworththeprice.Ofthejudgementand scornofthebreadgrabbers.

Hismorningfinisheswiththemiddaybreadflood.You canseetheelbowinglookofangerintheireyes.Asthey runinfromworkdeadontwelve.Don'teverrunoutof

breadorwewillburnyourhousedownandshoveyour childrendownthewell.Don'tyoueverthinkofclosing down.Ortakingaholiday.Weneedourbread...bread, bread,bread.Breadformorning,breadformidday,bread fordinner.Fuckingbread!

Hehastokeeptellinghimself,tostophimselffrom deckingoneofthem,thatthey'recloseto12:30.His favouritemomentoftheday.Shutupshop.Thesoundof thatdoorclosing.Slidetheboltacross.Getoutthatnew whitewinechilledinthefridge.Primeur.Good,fresh words.Firstoftheseason.Tasteslikespring.Watchthe news.SeeifLePen'stakenoverandJack’spackinghis bags.

Intheafternoon,asDésiréemanhandlesstacksofmilk andbottlesofwater,inbetweenhoarselaughterand chattingwiththecustomersandpassers-by,heslopesoff downtotheallotmentforacoupleofhours.Ohdon't worry,guiltandshamefollowhimdownthere.Hefeels bad,tolethiswifetaketheburdenbuthecan't,hejust can't,heneedshistimeawayfromthosebreadgrabbers.

He’scoveredhere.Awayfromdeliveries,gossip, criticism,money,serviceandthatendlesssupplyofbread. Thatcounter,thosecoinschanginghands.

Hesitsandcontemplates,inhisplasticgardenchair,a littlesmellofsmokefromhisrollupfillingtheair.Herbs inthebreeze.It'ssweet,thissun.Thisair.Thisgentlelife.

Heknowsit.Heknowsthatit'sbetterthananythingthey had,backintheMarseilleinnercity.Heknowsthat everythinghasaprice.Thispeaceandbeautyand tranquillityhasaprice.Alittlebitofhisandhiswife's dignity.

Butthisisundoubtedlyagoodplacetobe.Forhis eleven-yearoldsontoplayoutinthestreetuntillateand nothavingtoworryabouthimgettingintodrugs,fights andgangs,likehedid.Thatwasanotherreasonwhythey hadtoleavetheMarseillesuburbs.Helefthisreputation thereandhissonwouldhavehadtocontinueonthe legacy.Herehehasafreshchance.Smallschools,fresh air,nocrimeorviolence.Sometimesheevenforgetsto lockthecaratnight.Howlongwouldittakebackin Marseilletohaveregrettedthatmistake?

Jacksometimesjoinshiminthegarden.Theysitand theycontemplate.Cranberries,dope.Havingchildren.As JackgoesonathiminhisincomprehensibleFrenchand sometimeshehastopretendtounderstandhim,whenhe doesn’tknowwhatthehell'she'sonabout.Butitdoesn't matterwhathe'stryingtosaytohim.It'sbeinghere,it's savouringthetime,breathinginthesmellsofthoseherbs that'simportant.

Intheevening,ashethundersTheClashandDésirée getsuptodance,solight,socool–stillhisMarseillegirl–andthewhiskeysetsin,thattrancelike,beautifulhalfland

ofwarmwhiskey,asTheClashpoundthefloor,poundthe villageonaMondayevening,cutthroughthatgentle quiet,asJoeStrummer'sfuckfuckingvoicecutsthrough thatSouthofFranceairandthatbottlesmashing,face punchingbeatgrindsout,helooksatDésirée,lightfoot dancing,freshasafifteen-yearold.They’vebeenthrough friendsandchildrenandsoulplungesandmarathonpissupsandthey’llbewhiskeydrinkinganddancingontheir owngraves.

Butthisishowhealwayswantedittobe.They'rea coupleofoldteenagerswhoneverwanttogrowup.He wantstosmashhiswaythroughlife,drinkingandplaying musicandwatchinghisprettyMarseillewifedance.He wantstheworldtobegood,tobekindandforgivinginhis alcoholinducedoblivion,oneveningslikethis,inhishot breathedparadise,withJoeStrummersteamingitinthe background,itis.

By3am,thechildrenarefinallyasleep,drapedoverthe sofa.Claraatoneend,FelixdrapedoverlittleManonat theother.Afterrunningthemselvesaroundthevillage, waitingfortheirparentstodrop,theyfinallygavein.But nottheirfather.Thereheis,inthe3amcalm,drinking withhisEnglishfriendwithwhiskeykindnessinhiseyes.

They'vegotredwineintheirhearts,himandJack.What acoupleofsadoldpiss-upsthey'dbothbewithoutgiant DésiréeorJack’sbadtemperedwife,Bella.Sippingtheir

livesawayinredhell.Waitingforthatblur,thatdelusion, thatmistywinetime,whentheycrossovertotheother side,thesad,lifelessside.Oftheexcluded,thefuckups, theweak,thesofthearts,rebelsofthisfuckingshitworld whocan'tbringthemselvestobuyallthatshitaboutthree piecesuitesandfamilycars.

Iftheyhadn'tbothfallenintothatsweettrapoflove. Fifteenyearsold.Whatsortofageisthat?Stomachless, cocky,geezingaroundonhisbike,neverrealisinganyone likeDésiréecouldwanttospendherlifewithhim.Hedid hisdeadlife.Hedidhislorrydrivingintothenight,into hislife.Hedidhisworkoverlove,children,life.Hedid hisworkfornoreturn,hisembittered,loveless, passionlesskillingtoil.Andnowhe’slivingforlove.

WhenBellafinallymanagestopersuadeJacktogeton hisway,hesuddenlyrememberswhat'swaiting downstairs.Hesuddenlyremembersthebreadgrabbers. AndashewatchesJackandBellastaggerdowntheroad intotheirlittlehouse,hefeelsassoberashe’severbeenin hislife.Acoldnessshootsdownhisbody.Hetakesalast roll-up,asDésiréenudgesthechildrenawakeand manoeuvresthemtobed.Andhewonderswhetherhe wantstogetuptomorrow.Hewonderswhatwouldhappen iftheyjustdidn'topentheshop.Iftheyjustclosedthe shuttersonCasteraandallthosebreadgrabbersforgood.

“HurryupMartin.Gottogetupat5amtogoandget

thebread!”

Jonathan's workhasappearedinseveralanthologies,magazines andliteraryjournals,bothinprintandonline.Hehasalso writtenfortheatre(RoyalNationalTheatrestudio,London Fringe,EdinburghFestival....),TV(BBC,World Productions,CarnivalFilms...)andFilm(ScalaProductions,Met Films...).Oneofhisfilmsiscurrentlyinpre-production.

“Yeah,yeah.Fuckingbread.”

AGeorgiaLoveStory

ClaireHamnerMatturro

ThesummerofmysenioryearincollegeIdroveup fromTallahasseetoSouthGeorgiatotryandhelpmyaunt whenherfosterson,Albert,acousinbybirth,ranoff again.SoonasIpulledupinAuntEdna’slonggravel drivewayoutinthecountry,IcouldhearFlash,herhound dog,howlinglikeallgetout.

AsIsteppedoutofthecar,Flashbayed,long,low,and deep,akeeningofsuchanguishIwouldhavethought AuntEdnahaddiedexceptshewassittingonthefront porch,shadedbytheancientoaks,wrappedinthescentof thejasminebloomingonthegardenfence,andwearinga pairofthread-barebell-bottomjeansshe’dprobablyhad sincethesixties.Shewassippingatallglassoficedbrown liquid,andnotwithstandingthetwigofmint,Isuspected thiswasnottea.

“What’swrongwithFlash?”Iasked,walkingupthe stonepathwaytotheporch,gratefulforapuffofbreeze.

“Well,son,Ibeenaskinghimthatallmorning,andhe

hasn’tbotheredtoexplainjustyet.”AuntEdnaputher drinkdownandpusheduptostanding.“Igetyousome tea?Orarealdrink?”

Flashletoutayiportwoingreetingbeforehereturned touninterruptedhowling.

IthoughtabouthowgoodatallglassofJackDaniels withmintonicewouldtaste,butthenthoughtofthat narrow,hillyroadbacktoTallahasseewithatleastthree crossesroadsideatthesharpcurves.“Maybetea,later.”I climbedupontotheporch.“TellmewhatIcandoto help.”

“IbeenoutlookingforAlbertallmorningandhave plainworemyselfout.So,firstoff,setaspellwithme whileIrest.”AuntEdnapointedtoawroughtironbench besideherownwickerchairasshesatdownagain.“That is,ifyoucanstandlisteningtoFlash.”

“Youreckonhe’stryingtotellussomething?Like Albert’sstuckinaholesomewhere?”Ikeptstandingbut movedcloseenoughtosmellthelavenderoilAuntEdna likedtodabonherwrists.

“Nope.Werethatthecase,Flash’d’veledmethere already.I’lllaybetsAlbertmadeittotownwithoutfalling inahole.He’sscrappyforaneight-year-old,thatboy.”

“WellFlash’ssuretryingtotellussomething.”Ifelt thatbreezeagain,morewindnow,blowingenoughtocool thesaltysweatonmybareforearms.“Thinkastorm’s

fixingtohit?”

“Yeah,likeArmageddon,ifyoureadthepapers.”Aunt Ednapickedupherglassandcommencedsippingher whiskey.

“Sure,likethehoundsofhellintheBookof Revelations.”

Sheshookherhead,andinherbestschoolteachervoice said,“BookofRevelation.Nos.”

Flashkepthowling.Hisclawsclickedonthewooden slatesoftheporchasheracedfromonesidetotheother.

Irepeated,“HowcanIhelp?Wheredoyouwantmeto startlooking?”

Beforesheanswered,oneofthosestandardtansedans thestatelikestobuypulledupthegraveldriveway, comingtoastopbesidemyowntwenty-yearoldCivic.

EdnaandIstudiedthesituationasawomangotoutofthe driver’sside.Sheworeablueseersuckersuit,thejacket looseoverawhiteblouse,andatinylittlegoldcrossona chainshinedatherneck.

Thesun,comingthroughthegreentreetopsinbright, sharprays,hitthatwoman’sredhairandIswearthose beamsricocheted.Itwaslikeablastofheatlightninghit myfaceandsomethinglikeafloodgatebrokeopeninme. Icouldheartherushandflowofmyownbloodasmy heartkickedupagoodbitmorethananextrabeatortwo. Myfingersstartedtotingle.

“That’sournewsocialworker.”AuntEdnaputdown herglassofwhiskeyasshespoke.

Theredhairedsocialworkerwalkedovertothe passengerside,openedthedoor,andpulledAlbertout. Shenevertookherhandoffthebackcollarofhisshirt.He glaredupattheporch,hishazeleyesdefiant.Heonly woreoneshoe,hisbrownhairstoodoutinodduncombed tufts,andhehadaredscrapeacrosshispugnose.His jeansweremuddyandrippedatoneknee.

“Goodafternoon,MissEdna.”Thesocialworker paused,castasharpeyeatFlashbeforepointingalong, slenderfingerathim.Flashtuckedhistailandgotquiet. LookingbackatAuntEdna,shesaid,“Ifyouwanttobe raisingupthisboy,you’regoingtohavetodobetterat keepinghimhome.”Herfaceglowedpinkwitheitherheat orfrustration.

“Whatyousuggest?”AuntEdnadidn’tbothertostand up.“Itiehimtothebedatnight?”

Flashstartedupwhimperingashescamperedatthe edgeoftheporch.

“Youcouldgivemesomeicecreamever’night,”Albert said,lookingupatAuntEdnawithastrangehopeful expression.AuntEdna’dtoldmebeforehowhestoleand hidfoodandwefiguredhemust’vegonehungryalot beforeshetookhimin.“I’dsurestayputifyoufeedme icecreamever’night.”

“Andwatchyougetroundandfat,turnintoasugar diabetic,nosir,we’renotdoingthat.ButI’llseeyouget plentyofgood,decentfoodtoeat.Don’tIalwayspromise youthat?YougeticecreamSaturdaynightwithrestofus, andonholidays,butnotever’night,youhear?”

Thesocialworkerwasstaringatmenow.Istaredback. ShewasthemostbeautifulwomanI’devenseen,withthat redhairdowntohershoulders,pale,clearskin,pointed chin,andthoseblueeyesgleamingbackatmewiththe sunlightallglitteringonher.Shewaslookingatmeso hardshehadtopushherglassesoffherfaceintoherhair, wheretheyrestedlikeaheadband.

NowIamagood-lookingyoungman,tall,darkhaired andsquarejawed.Iknowit’snotrighttobragonyourself, butI’vegotamirror.Andthewaythatwoman’slips finallypartedintoasmiletoldmeshethoughtsotoo.

Flashstartedwigglingandwagginghistailattheedge oftheporch,andhiswhininghitanew,highpitch.

“LordandHeaven’ssake,Flash,geton.You’renottied up.”AuntEdnawavedherhandtowardAlbertandFlash leaptofftheporchandranfortheboy.

Alberthuggedthedog,whostartedgivinghisfacea lavishdeeplicking.

“MaybethenyoucouldletFlashsleepwithme.”Albert cockedhishead,awinsomekindoflookIsuspectedhe’d practiced.

AuntEdnaappearedtobestudyingthatidea.Iknewshe didn’tholdwithlettingdogssleepinbeds,butIalsoknew sheplannedtohangontoAlbert.

“Couldbe,”shesaidatlast.

“Iwantmeaharddeal,then.”Alberttookastep forward,Flashdancingrightalongwithhim.“Putitin writin’forme.”

AuntEdnasmiled.Ismiled.Flashwaggedhistailso hardhefellover.Thesocialworkerkeptwatchingmeas hersmilegotbigger.AuntEdnaandIthinkAlbertwill makeafinelawyeronedayifshegetshimoutofgrade schoolalive.

“Done,”AuntEdnasaid,androseasiftoheadinside forpaperandpen.Itwasthenshenoticedmeandthered hairedsocialworkerstandingtheregazingateachother, ourbreathingalreadyinsync.

“Y’allgoingtohavesomemightyprettychildrenone day,”shesaid,andpickedupherwhiskeyandwentinside, trailingthescentoflavenderandwithFlashandAlberton hertail.

Andthat’showImetmywifeinSouthGeorgiaonahot summerdaymysenioryearincollege.

ClaireHamnerMatturro hasbeenajournalist,lawyer,organic blueberryfarmer,andcollegeinstructor.Sheisalsotheauthorof eightnovels,includingaseriespublishedbyHarperCollins.Her poetryappearsinSlant,KissingDynamite,NewVerseNews, OneArt,MuddyRiverPoetryReview,TopicalPoetry,TigerMoth Review,LascauxReview,andisforthcominginGlassworksand EunoiaReview.AnassociateeditoratSouthernLiteraryReview, shelivesinFloridawithmyhusbandandourrescuedcrossedeyedcat.

IntheSilenceoftheNighttime

MikeTurner

Iclosemyeyes

Inthesilenceofthenighttime

Hearingonlymyheart

Beatingagainsttheinevitability

Ofthedawn

Haltingly,reminiscencesbegintowhisper

Warmsummerdays

Greeneyesandravenhair

Thesoftrain’sgentlekiss

Againstourentwinedfingers

Thenautumn’scrispzephyrs

Leavesofbronzeandgold

Framingourfinalembrace

Beforeourpathsdiverge

Yougoingonahead

Nowthecoldcloudsofwinter

Pewterskiesandbarelimbs

Huddlingalonebeforeawaningfire

Indarkenedsolitude

Untilatlastthememoriesrunout

AndIamleftwithonly“now”

Tearsofthepastspent

Withnolongingfortomorrow

Andshouldthedawnnotcome

Knowingallthathasgonebefore

Turnstodustinthecornersofmysoul

Inthesilenceofthenighttime

MikeTurner retiredtotheAlabamaGulfCoastaftermorethan twenty-fiveyearsasaFederallawenforcementexecutive.An adultedukuleleclassopenedtheworldofmusicandsongwriting toMike;withmorethan200originalsongstohiscredit,hewas namedMaleGospelEntertaineroftheYear(2017)bytheNorth AmericaCountryMusicAssociationsInternational.Mike’s originalsongshavereceivedradioandInternet/streamingplay intheUS,UK,Europe,AustraliaandThePhilippines.Hehas hadmorethan250poemspublishedinmorethan30literary journalsandanthologies;hispoetrybook,Visionsand Memories,isavailableonAmazon.Whennotwritingand recording,MikeexploresthebackwatersoftheNorthernGulf withhiswife,Pamela,ontheirrecreationaltrawler.

Mother'sDay WillMaguire

Thelasttimemymotherknewmewasafewyearsagoon Mother'sDay.

Shehadstartedforgettingandrememberinginthewrong order.

Forgettingthethingsaroundher,rememberingthedistant past.Liketimewassuddenlydyslexic.

Theyhadherinthishospitalwardfortheelderlyonsome backstreetoffthemaindragcalledMemoryLane

MemoryLanewouldbefunnyifitwasn’tsocruel.

Shekeptaskingforamirrorbutdidn'trecognizeherself

anymore.

Shewasseventeenagainbuttrappedinaneighty-yearold body.Ayounggirlstaringindisbeliefatthepersonshe wouldbecome.

Shedidn’tknowherhusbandordaughtersorsons anymore.

SomedaysshethoughtIwasherlongdeaduncleorher brother.AndneartheendshethoughtIwasherfather.

Shepleadedwithmeagainandagaintoletherseethat Irishboythatwasjustbackfromthewar.Theonethatgot shotintheheadandsurvivedandkeptknockingonthe doorlateatnight.

Theonethatwassomehowinlove—thegenuinearticle— beforehecouldpossiblyknowallitdemands.

“PleasePapa…pleaseletmeseehim."

“Ma….it'sme.Yourson.”

“He’sdifferentPapa….pleasedon’tchasehimoffagain. Letmego."

‘Please…IthinkIlovehim….”

Ifeltmyheartbreakoncemoreandmyeyesfillagain, listeningtothestartofthatsixtyfiveyearkindoflovestill seventeeninhermind.

Istaredatthefloor,thenlookedintohereyes.

Ireachedoutandputmyhandonhercheekandnodded.I feltthewordsthickeninmythroat.

“Yes,”Iwhispered.“Yesofcourse.Youcango."

ThenIlefttheroomandfelltoonekneeinthehallway untilanursestopped,worrieditwasmyheart.

Sheneverrecognizedmeagain.Andafewdayslaterthe worldfinallylethergo.

“PleasePapa…letmego.”

ShehadtwelvekidswiththeboyIgavemyblessing to...thatsoundslikealotunlessyou’reIrishCatholic.

Tomeitjustsoundslikethebuzzofhungeraround suppertime.Itsoundslikeanargumentoverthelastpot pieormyfathersayinggraceeachnight.

Itfeelslikeoldwornouthandmedownpantswithnew patchesscratchingatmykneesormylittlesister'ssweaty handonherfirstdayofschoollookinguplikeIwasthe solethingontheplanetworthtrusting.

Andittasteslikepowderedmilkandbaloneysandwiches anditsmellsofseasaltinAugustonaoneweekvacation totheCape.

Twelvekidsisfullofrivalryandresentment.Itisbloody nosesandblackeyesbecausesomeolderkidwasalways pickingonthebrotheryoudon’tmuchlikebutlovejust thesame.

Mostlytwelvekidsisneverbeingalone.SoeachnightI usedtosneakupoffasideporch,pullmyselfontotheroof ofthebigmoneypithousewelivedin,laybackonthe shinglesandsingtothestars.

Andlatershetoldmeshewouldlistenoutherbedroom windowinthedarkforthesoundofherleft-handedson callingouttothesky.

Twelvekidswastheproof,infoodandoilbills...inshoes andsecondjobsofhowmuchmyfatherlovedmymother. Hestilldoesthoughshedoesn’trememberanyofthat now.

SoIrememberforher.

ThatlastMother’sDaymyfathersaid “Callyourmother.Letherhearyourvoice.Ithelps."

Sofullofdreadandheartache,Idialedandlistenedand calledoutoncemoreforconnection.Andsheanswered andrememberedmeforafewminutes.ThatlastMother's Day.

Wetalkedaboutlove.Justafewwordsfilledwiththe weightoffeelingandthrownoutoverthewiresbetween us.

“PleasePapa…IthinkIlovehim."

Thenthelinewentdead.

I'malongwayfromseventeennowbutsomenights,like mymother,Ilookintoamirroranddon'trecognizemyself anymore.

Myeyesarenolongermyown.They'vebecomesomeone else's.Filledwithallthey'vehadtosee.

ButinthemorningunderneathIstillseehers.

ItmakesmethinksomedayI’llbeabletoseetheworld likeshedid.Withgratitudeandhumility.With understandingandfaith.

Someday.

SotodayI’mfullofrememberingandforgetting.They comejumbledtogether.

Ithinkmyheart'sdyslexic.

ItgetslostonMemoryLane.

Istillhearmyfathersay“Callyourmother."

Ithelps. SoIdo.Icall.

Icalloutwithsmallwordsfulloftheweightoffeeling. Iwhispermyrememberingintotheforgotten.

AndtonightoncemoreI’llclimbontotheroofofme,sing tothestarsandprayshe'sstilllistening.

WillMaguire isawriterandsongwriterlivingin

Nashville,Tennessee.Hismostrecentshortstories, “HigherPower”and“Unisphere,”haveappearedinThe SaturdayEveningPost.

OriginallyfromIowa, MarkBraught studiedgraphicdesignat theMinneapolisCollegeofArt&Design,andgraduatedwitha BFAfromIndianaStateUniversity.Thefirsttenyearsofhis careerwerespentontheothersideofthetableasanartdirector andcreativedirector.In1984,hestruckoutonhisownand createdMarkBraughtStudiostofocusprimarilyongraphic designandillustration.Hehascreatednumerousaward-winning visualsolutionsforvariouscorporations,designfirms, advertisingagenciesandpublishersintheUnitedStatesand locationsworld-wide.Therehavebeenlecturesand presentationsatschools,institutions,conferences,events, festivals,andorganizationsacrossthecountryandhastaughtas anadjunctfacultymemberattheUniversityofGeorgia, PortfolioCenter,IvyTech,HollinsUniversity,andtheCreative Circus.

Currently,MarkdoeshisscribblinginCommerce,Georgiawith wordsofencouragementandguidancefromFigletteandBuddy.

Artist’sphoto:JanaJonesPhotographie

MARKYOURCALENDARS!

ThespottofindupcomingAuthorEvents,

WritingRetreats,andWorkshopsNearYou

MARKYOURCALENDARS!

ThespottofindupcomingAuthorEvents, WritingRetreats,andWorkshopsNearYou

ParkRoadBooksinCharlotte,NC

Ifyou’reanauthor,bookstore,or aninstructorandyouwouldliketo announceanevent- reserveyour spottoday!

ANNIE’SANTICS

“…myideaofperfecthappinessiswhenwewomenhavea voicethatisheard.WhentheERAispassed,whenwomenno longerhavetofightsohard,whenmyfriendswhoaregay andtransdon’thavetofeargoingoutside.Myideaof perfecthappinessisverymuchabouttheworldwelivein rightnow.”

AmyFerris

“Doyouhearmenow!”

TheauthorIchooseeachmonthisonethatIbelievewas borntoshine-thismonth,Iwanttointroduceyoutothe effervescent,extraordinaryandilluminatingbadass, Goddess,Goddass,andRuckusMaker-AmyFerris.She isanauthor,screenwriter,editorandplaywright.Her memoir, MarryingGeorgeClooney:ConfessionsFromA MidlifeCrisis debutedtheatrically(Off-Broadway)in 2012.RuthPennebakerof TheNewYorkTimes calledher memoir"poignant,free-wheeling,crankyandfunny."Amy co-edited,alongwithHollyeDexter,thenewanthology DANCINGATTHESHAMEPROM.Shehascontributed tonumerousanthologiesincluding: HeSaidWhat?The DrinkingDiaries,ExitLaughing, and TheBuddhaNext Door.AmyisonfacultyatTheSanMigueldeAllende LiteraryFestival,ontheAdvisoryBoardofTheWomen's MediaCenter,sheservesontheBoardofDirectorsat PetersValleyArt,Education,andCraftsCenter,andisa foundingBoardmemberoftheScranton,PAbasedPages

&PlacesLiteraryFestival.Sheprimarilywritesaboutall thingswomen-centric.Whilesheoftenfeelslikeshe'sin retrograde,shequiteenjoysherlife,andherferventwish isthatallwomenawakentotheirgreatness.Shelivesin NortheastPennsylvaniawithherhusband. IusetheProustinterviewmodeltolearnmoreabout authors.Iaskedthem10ofthe35questions.TheProust modelisawayoflearningmoreaboutapersonbeyond thetypicalinterviewquestions,andwhatwelearnisoften new,fascinating,orevensomethingyouwouldnevereven thinktoask.Thisishowwelearnmoreabouttheir character.Authorsareevenknowntoanswerthese questionsaboutthecharacterstheyarecreatingfortheir novels.

Thesequestionsareaskedofsomeonefamouseachmonth inthe VanityFairMagazine andIhavealwaysgottena hugekickoutofit.

Q:Whatisyourfavoriteoccupation?

A.Writer.

Annie:Ilovethisanswer,becausethereisadifference betweenbeingawriterandbeinganauthor.Ilovethatyou chosewriter.

Q:Wherewouldyoumostliketolive?

A:Intheheartofmyhusband.

Q:Whatwouldbeyourgreatestachievement?

A:Beingabletoforgive.

Annie:thatisatoughone.That’sbrilliant.

Amy:Annie,Ithinkyouneedtoforgiveyourselffor feelingthisway

(Formoreonthisandotherpartsofourconversation, pleasewatchourvideoorlistentothepodcastonWell ReadMagazine’sBetweenthePages)

Q:Whichwordsandphrasesdoyoufindthatyou overuse?

A: “FuckYou!!” (ThisdeservestobebothBoldand italic)

Q:Whatisyourgreatestextravagance?

A:Icantellyouwhatmygreatestextravaganceusedto be,shopping.Nowitwouldbegivingawaypiecesofmy heart.

Q:Whichlivingpersondoyoumostadmire?

A:GloriaSteinem

Q:Whatdoyouvaluemostinyourfriends?

A:Ivaluethemstickinginthroughthickandthin.Not disappearingonme,oranybodywhensomestuffhits thefan.Youknow,Ithinkfriendshipislikemarriage.

Q:Whatisyourgreatestfear?

A:Abandonment.

Q:Whatisyourideaofperfecthappiness?

A:Thisisgoingtosoundreallycompletelytotallynuts, butmyideaofperfecthappinessiswhenwewomen haveavoicethatisheard.WhentheERAispassed, whenwomennolongerhavetofightsohard,whenmy friendswhoaregayandtransdon’thavetofeargoing outside.Myideaofperfecthappinessisverymuch abouttheworldweliveinrightnow.

Q:Whichtalentwouldyoumostlovetohavethatyou don’tbelieveyouhavenow?

A:Iwouldlovetohaveanincrediblesingingvoice!

ThisissuchafunpartoftheinterviewtolistentoandI simplycannotgetoverhowmuchwehaveincommon.It showsthatyoucouldhavesuchdifferentlivesandyetstill beconnectedbycertainthreadsthatbindyou. Itistrulyfascinating.Thisbeautifulworldwelivein shouldbebuildingmorebridges.

Ijustmadeanewfriend!

Don’tmissourfullinterviewandpodcastonWELL READ’sBetweenthePages.

ANNIE’SANTICSwithANNIEMCDONNELL

FindoutmoreaboutAmyhere: www.marryinggeorgeclooney.comandfollowheron Facebookhere:bit.ly/3Vbv2GA

AnnieMcDonnell

Authorof Annie’sSong:Dandelions,Dreams&Dogs,Book Reviewer,AuthorInterviewer,Teacher,Speaker,Writer,Author Consultant,Co-Admin.AtWorldoftheWriteReviewBook Club,Blogger,Authoronlineeventplanner.

DoYouHearMeNow?

AmyFerris&AnnieMcDonnell

Iamoftenboldandnotsooftentimid.

Iamoftenaudaciousandfearlessandonoccasion stumble.

Iamoftenlisteningtootherswhoseheartsarebreaking whilemineismending.

IamoftendeeplyproudofthewomanIhavebecome becauseasayounggirlIwasoftentoldtobeseenandnot heard.

Iamoftenloudsootherscanbeloudoften.

Iamoftenremindedofmydreamsasayounggirl, realizingtheyareallcomingtrue.

Iamoftendaydreamingofwaterfallsandbutterflies realizingbothmystrengthandbeauty.

Iamoftenonasoapboxaboutmyopen-mindedbeliefs, becauseIfeelespeciallystrongaboutthem.

Iamoftenseekingthepeoplethatlistentome,becauseI grewupsounheard.

Iamoftenthewomanthatshoutsfromtherafters,“Do youhearmenow”!

“MarryingGeorgeClooney isawonderfulread.Itis disarminglycandid,and laugh-out-loudhysterical.” –JohnBerendt,authorof MidnightintheGardenof GoodandEvil

MarryingGeorgeClooney: ConfessionsfromaMidlifeCrisis AmyFerris

WELLFED: ALiteraryFeastforYourMind, Body,andSoul

Thebeststoriesaretoldinthe kitchen...

WellFedismorethanacookbookit'sacollectionofrecipesandmemoriesfromsomeof today'shottestauthors.

Itwillbeavailableasabeautiful12X12hardcoverwith glossycolorpagesmakingittheperfectgiftfortheholidays -settopublishbeforeThanksgiving2023.Everyauthor’s biowillbelistedinalphabeticalordersoreaderscanlearn moreaboutthepersonbehindeachstory.

Keepinmind,thisisn’tanordinarycookbook. It’sa

collectionofyourfavoritemealsandmemoriestosharewith readersalongwiththestorybehindthepersonwhoeither taughtyoutomaketherecipeorsomeoneyoushareditwith.

Everyentrywillhaveatleastafour-pagespreadtoshare yourmemory.

Ifyouhaveafavoritememoryyou’dliketobeconsidered, pleasesendyourrecipe,thememorybehindit(wordcount forthememoryshouldbebetween250-600words),abrief 3rdpersonbio,andaphotoofthepersonconnectedto yourmemoryto threedogswritepress@gmail.com

Contributorswillreceiveonecontributor’scopyfromthree dogswritepressandlotsoffunopportunitiestoconnectwith readersonWELLREAD’ssocialmediasiteswhenIstart promotingthecookbook.

Formoreinformationclickhere.

WELLSERVED-StoriesandSpirits:a collectionofcocktailrecipesandthebooksthey werecreatedfor…

Didyou-orsomeoneelse-createaspecialcocktailto celebrateyourbook?

Ifso,let'ssharethemwithreaders!

WELLSERVEDisanotherfunwaytogetourbooksseen. Everycocktailrecipewillconsistofafourpagespread.

1stpagewillbeaphotooftheauthorenjoyingtheirdrink, 2ndpagewillbetherecipe,3rdpagewillbeanimageof thebook'scover,andthe4thpagewillbethebook's description.

ThecallforsubmissionswillcloseattheendofJune, 2023.PublicationdateforWELLSERVEDissetfor Novemberof2023andwillbeavailableforpurchase throughallonlineretailersincludingmyfavoritebookshop.org.

Allcontributorswillreceiveonecontributor'scopyfrom threedogswritepressandlotsoffunopportunitiesto promoteeachotheronWELLREADMagazine'ssocial mediapages.

Formoreinformationclickhere.

ThisMother’sDay,GiveMom theGiftofLearning!

WhenyougiveanOLLIgiftcertificate,yougivethechancetoexplorea widevarietyofcourses,activities,andlecturesbothonlineandin-person. Thediverserangeoftopicsensuresthereissomethingforeveryone!

OLLIisn’tjustaboutlearning.It’salsoaboutbuildingmeaningfulrelationships withotherswhoshareyourinterests.Mostmembersare50andolder,but thereisnoagerequirement.OLLIwelcomesalladultlearners!

»GiveanOLLIatUAHmembership ortermregistrationgiftcertificate!

Thesemestertuitiongiftcertificateappliestofallorspringtuitionfeesfor onesemester.Itdoesnotcoverindividualcoursefees,summertuitionfees, oranyadditionalcostssuchassuppliesorlabfees.

osher.uah.edu/ GiftCertificate

ThePerfectWriter’s Getaway

Doc'sHideawayisjustthatit'swhereDoctorHolley wouldhideoutwhenhe didn'twanttoseepatients oranyoneelse.Offtheside ofthehousewithadoor headingouttotheMagnolia Stage,Doc'sHideawayisa perfectroomforsomeone whowantstositoutsidein themorningandenjoythe startoftheday.Thereisa privateentrancefor travelersandaluxurious queenbed.

Ifyou'reintownforan eventatHolleyHouse, Doc'sHideawayisonedoor awayfromalloftheaction. Thiscoastalthemedqueen

suitehasaspaciousbathroomandaflip-downantique desk-youwillfeellikeyouareonatropicalvacation.The heartpinefloorsareoriginaltothehousefrom1903.It'sa shortwalktobreakfast-downthecorridorfromthedining room.

Hemingwaywouldhavelovedthisroomandsowillyou!

OFFTHEPAGE

Amonthlycolumnthattakesusoff

thepageandintothelifeof RiverJordan

River Jordan isThePowerofStory….

OnAWingandAPrayer

Forthosewhohavearomanticizedvisionofwhata writer’slifeisallaboutitoftenentailsideasofunlimited chargecards,travelingtoexoticlocations,certainlynever needingtobeartheburdenofboringissueslikepayingthe electricbillandkeepinginsuranceonacar.Thestuffof commondaysandsurelybecomingpublishedwilldeliver usallfromthenitpickingdailydutiesoftakingcareof businessandstayingalive.TowhichIheartedlysay,Hear, Hear!AndAmen!AndIthinksurelyalsothisshouldbe thelifeofawriter.Andsometimes,Ihavehearditsaid thatthisisthewaythingshappenoreventuallya professionalfriendwhohaswrittentheirbuttsoffforyears andpublishedtwelveortwentybookssuddenlyseemsto havehitthebigtimewithabreakoutbookthatputsthem overtheedge.Therearealsothosestoriesofpeoplewho neverdreamedofwritingatallbutonedaytheywere

standingintheaisleofthegrocerystaringataJeno’spizza boxwhensuddenlytheywerestruckwiththeentireidea forJENO’SREVENGEandtheyrushrighthomeand writesaidnovelinaflurryoverathreedaykindofliterary madnessandthefirstagenttheyquerysignsthemandthe bookgoesouttoauctionandissnappedupforseven figuredealandamoviedealimmediately.

ButforthemostpartthewritersIhaveknownhave beensomewhereonaslidingscaleofprovidence.And whiletheirshipmayonedaycomein–theyarerowing thehelloutofthelittleboatthey’reintryingtojuststay afloatandmakeitaroundthenextbend.Ifthishappensto beyourstory–don’tdespair.AndIdon’tmeanthatlike yourshipissurelyaroundthenextcornerImeanitlike–don’tdespair.Youknowthesayingaboutitbeingabout thejourneynotthedestination–yeah,Iknow.BSweall wantthegoldenthing(whateverthatmaybe).Thegreat, grandwizardtoshakeawandofmagicdustoverussowe willhavebestsellersandbesetforeverwhichisagrand dreamreally.ButIwasconsideringtodaywhatIhave lovedaboutmywritinglifeanddamnit,ithasbeenthe journey.IthasbeenthereadersandwritersI’vemetalong theway.It’sbeenthefunnywayI’vegottenbysometimes.

Suchas–

WhenIwrotemyfirstnovelIlivedinthewoodsinmy

Airstream.Itwasoneofthebesttimesofmylife.StuffI didn’tuseeverydaybutthoughtIdesperatelyneededwas instorage.ThatmeanttheactualstuffIusedeveryday wasallIhadandallIneeded.Isatbythecampfireat nightlookingatthestarsandlisteningtotheradio.Andby dayIworkedonmyfirstnovel.Now,thisisthetruthof whatthatlookedlikeandthefactIdon’thaveaphotoof thisisludicrousbutIdonot.

Ispentthedayswritingonmyoldlaptopbutforsome reasonIdon’trememberithadtobepluggedin.(Iguessit didn’tholdachargeanymore.)Isatinafoldingchairata littlesquarefoldingcardtablenexttoapowerpolewith mylaptoppluggedindirectlyatthepowerpole.Tobe abletoseethescreenIhadatwo-dollarbeachumbrella stuckinthesand.So,Iaminthewoodsatacardtableina foldingchairunderabeachumbrellawithalaptop pluggedintoapowerpole.Ijusthadtowritethatagainso youhavethevisionofitall.Thisiswhatthiswriter’slife lookedlikeatthattime.

Iboughtatownhouseandgotmorestuffandhadalittle deskwhereIwrote.UntilIdecidedtoleaveandmoveto Nashvillewithnothingbutmylaptopandabackpack.I subletanapartmentwithalittlefireplaceandabalcony thatlookedoutintoabigtree.Ihadnofurniture.Fora

deskIhadabeercooler(foodcoolerfornon-beerpeople) andIsatcross-leggedonthefloorandputmylaptopon thecoolerandwrotefromthere.Eventuallysomelovely peopleloanedmealittledeskandIboughtafifty-dollar futontosleeponandthisiswhereandhowIwrotethe novel, TheMessengerofMagnoliaStreet.

Imovedintoatownhouse,gotmorestuff.Wrotefroma bedroomlookingoutintoabigOaktree.ThisiswhereI wroteSaintsInLimboatnightafterworkingatthecollege andIgotupat4:30inthemorningtoworkonitbefore work.WhenitcametimetofinishTheMiracleofMercy LandtherewasnowayIcouldfinishitwithworkand otherdemandssoItookamonthoffandborroweda lovelyfriend’slittlecabininthewoodsofadesertedfish camp.Thecabinwaspreciousuntilitbecameinfested withScorpionsthedayIarrived.Iwokeupthatfirst morningbysimplyopeningmyeyesandseeingagiant Scorpionstaringatme.Islowlygotoutofbedandbacked awaytofindsomethingtokillit.WhenImovedmypillow therewasanotheronewaitingformethere.Now,whenI sayitbecameinfestedImeaninfested.Ihadtopullthe bedtothecenteroftheroomsothescorpionscouldn’t climbupthewallsandgetinbedwithme.Isleptwithmy shoesonsoifIwokeupandwenttothebathroomIwould notsteponascorpionwithabarefoot.And,yes,Ididstep

onthemenrouteinthemiddleofthenight.Itiedascarf aroundmyhairandwrotealldayandallnight.No television,nointernettospeakof,nostreaming.No distractionsexceptthescorpionsandIgottowhereIcould seethemmoveoutofthecornerofmyeye.Thenthewolf spidersmovedin.Ikidyounot.Iwaswalkingaroundlike Ramboettekillingspidersandscorpionswithbooksand bricksandrocksandwhateverIcouldlaymyhandson. And,Iwaswriting.Iwouldnotleave.Iwouldnotquit. And,Ididn’tuntilthenovelwasfinishedamonthlater(I hadbeenworkingonitayearbutitwasdeadlinetime).

SincethattimeI’vehadampleroomandmultipledesks, mywritinghasimprovedovertheyearsbutthatcertainly hasn’tbeenbecauseofwhereIwaswritingina‘proper office’.It’sbeenthegettingbyandgettingonwith whateverIhavetoworkwiththathasmadeupthe everydaynutsandboltsofbeingawriter.Likewise,it’s beenotherwritersandreaderswhohavehostedmehere, thereandbeyondalongtheway.Andintheprocess,I’ve learnedthatIwillfightpoisonousthingstofinishthejob. ThatIwillwritepluggedintoapowerpole.Onabeer cooler.Asaplaywrightfriendofmineoncesaid–We’re writers.We’ddoitwithastickinthesandifwehadto.

Yes.That.

Whentheroadgetswearyandthewriter’slifeisn’tall itscrackeduptobeinsomeromanticversionofamovie, thenit’ssolovely,trulylovely,torememberthekindof grittyloveforthefreakinworkofitiswhatbringsusback tothepage.Overandoveragain.Yearin,yearout.Andit doesn’teverhavetogetcushyoreasy.Itjustneedstobe onehonestwordafteranothertellingastory.Tellingit better.Tellingitbest.

IthinkIwishattheendofawriter’sdaywhenwe lookedupfinallyfromwhateverworldwe’dbeenlostin–Iwishwelookedlikewe’dbeensawinglumber,wood dustintheair,maybedirtstreaksonourfaces,sweaton ourbacks.God,Iwishwelookedliketheworkwe’dput intothedoingofit.That’stheromancerightthere.It’snot thegloryofanotherphotowheresomeonehasdonemy hairandmake-upforhoursandbouncedlightoffofMars somehowtomakemelooktenyearsyoungerthatIwant.

It’sthatphotoofmeatthecardtable,surroundedby weedsandgrasskneehigh,windinthepines,sittingbya powerpoleinthemiddleofnowhereunderthatcheap umbrella.That’sthephotoIwantrightthere.That’sthe oneI’dbeproudtoshare.

RiverJordanisanauthor,speaker,teacherandradiohost.Asa southernerwithaglobalperspectivesheisapassionate advocateforthepowerofstory.River'swritingcareerbeganas aplaywrightandshespentovertenyearswritinganddirecting.

Sheisthebest-sellingauthoroffournovelsandathreespiritual memoirs.Asacritically-acclaimedauthorherworkhasbeen mostfrequentlycastinthecompanyofsuchwritersasFlannery O'Conner,WilliamFaulkner,andHarperLee.

Red ClaySuzie by JeffreyDaleLofton

Anovelinspiredbytrueevents

Thecoming-of-agestoryofPhilbet,agay,physically-misshapen boyinruralGeorgia,whobattlesbullying,ignorance,anddisdain ashemakeshiswayinlifeasanoutsider--beforefinding acceptanceinunlikelyplaces.

Fueledbytomatosandwichesandgreenmilkshakes,and obsessedwithcars,Philbetstruggleswithlifeandloveasagay boyinruralGeorgia.He'shappiestwhenhelpingGrandaddydig potatoesfromthevegetablegardenthatconnectstheirhouses. ButPhilbet'sworldisshatteredandhisresilienceshakenby eventsthatcrushhisinnocenceandsenseofsecurity;exposehis misshapenchestskillfullyhiddenbehindshirtsMamamakesat home;andconvincehimthathe'snotfittobelovedbyKnox,the olderboyheidolizestodistraction.Overtime,Philbetfinds refugeinunexpectedplacesandinnerstrengthinunexpected ways,leadingtoaresolutionintheformofaletterfrombeyond thegrave.

"Arrestingdebut...avividdepictionofauniquechildhoodthat feelsuniversalinitslonging."--ChristopherCastellani,authorof LeadingMen

"Fromanew,pitch-perfect,Southernvoice,astorysoclosetothe heartyoucanalmosthearitbeating."--JamesHart,authorof LuckyJim

"Anintimateexplorationofpeople,place,andidentity,RedClay SuzieopensuptheideaoftheSouthintoonethatismore

inclusiveandreal."--W.RalphEubanks,authorof APlaceLike Mississippi:AJourneyThroughaRealandImaginedLiterary Landscape

"JeffreyDaleLoftonisawriter'swriter,whosestrong,authorial voicecapturesyourimaginationwithanunshakablegrip."-WilleeLewis,PEN/Faulknerboardmember,editorof Snakes:An AnthologyofSerpentTales

"AdeeplymovingstorybyauniquenewvoiceinSouthern literature,RedClaySuziebelongsinthehighschoolEnglish syllabus."--ElaineGreenstone,educator,formerInternational BaccalaureateexaminerinEnglish,curriculumspecialist

"Wecarewhathappenstothisobservantvoice,asPhilbet searchesforthehandbookoflife."--JoanneLeedom-Ackerman, authorof NoMarbleAngels andupcoming BurningDistance

"RedClaySuzieoffersalessoninwhatittakestothriveina worldthat'sintentonbuildingfences,anditdoessowith affectionandsweetness."--PaulLisicky,authorof Later:MyLife attheEdgeoftheWorld

"RedClaySuzie'sPhilbetLawsonjoinsScoutFinch(ToKilla Mockingbird)andFrankieAddams(Memberof theWedding)inSouthernliterature'spantheon ofoutsiderchildren.WhilePhilbetfinds unlikelyalliesinhissmallworld,others ridiculehissensitivenatureanddeformedbody. Philbet'srootsareplantedintheSouth's inhospitableredclay,buthegrowsup,honest tohistrueself.ReadRedClaySuzieandcheer onPhilbet,anewliteraryhero."--AliceLeccese Powers,writerandeditorofthebestselling In Mind series