WELL READ Magazine May 2024

Lights, Camera, Bones:ASarah Booth Delaney Mystery

by Carolyn Haines

“The tough-as-nails Mississippi belles reveal more than just a killer in their exciting quest for the truth.”

“Amovie company filming in Greenville, Mississippi, gets pushback from people with secrets to hide. The movie is ostensibly about the 1927 flood that killed and displaced many but made fortunes for others. Though it’s billed as an action flick starring Marlon Brandon, scion of a wealthy and politically powerful family with deep roots in the area, some locals fear a hidden agenda. Private investigator Sarah Booth Delaney and Tinkie Bellcase Richmond, her partner in detection, also have deep roots in Greenville, and Coleman Peters, Sarah Booth’s life partner, is the sheriff in the adjoining county. So when a gaffer vanishes, the insurance company hires the women to find him before the film goes down the drain. Local loudmouth Lamar Bilbo, who’s already been complaining that the film will make Mississippi residents look bad, is joined by bookshop owner Mary Dayle McCormick in an attempt to use any means possible to shut down the production. When Marlon disappears, his grandfather, Senator Brandon Brandon, ask the sleuths to find him even though his relationship with Marlon has never been loving.Awater search discloses the gaffer’s severed foot, and everyone fears the worst. The foot was severed by one of the sharks known for occasionally swimming up the Mississippi; having a shark around makes the search for Brandon much more dangerous. Sarah Booth and Tinkie search everywhere they think Marlon or his body could be hidden and suspect everyone involved in the film. Who has a secret so powerful that they’re

willing to kill for it?

The tough-as-nails Mississippi belles reveal more than just a killer in their exciting quest for the truth.” - Kirkus Review

Available May 21, 2024 Pre-order today!

Praise for Sarah Booth Delaney mysteries:

“Haines shows Sarah at her madcap best back in her hometown in this clever adventure. This is crazy cozy with a little something for everyone: paranormal doings, plenty of Evanovich zaniness, and a cast of eccentrics.”

―Booklist on Bone to Be Wild

“Enjoyable…Jitty, the headstrong ghost who shares Sarah Booth’s family home, is just one of the many well-drawn characters who help bring this Southern tale to colorful life.”

―Publishers Weekly on Rock-a-Bye Bones

Carolyn Haines is the USAToday bestselling author of over 80 books. The 30th book in her long-running mystery series, Sarah Booth Delaney mysteries, will be published in 2024. She is an animal advocate and runs Good Fortune Farm Refuge, a 501c3 charity, from her small farm inAlabama.

Join The Haunted Book Shop for a launch party in honor of Mobile mystery novel phenom Carolyn Haines on May 23, as we celebrate her latest novel, "Lights, Camera, Bones." Carolyn will be joined by cozy mystery author Miranda James and editor of Well Read Magazine, Mandy Haynes. Count on hijinks and hilarity when these three are involved!

Mandy will attempt to interview Carolyn for Well Read, if Miranda keeps the heckling in check.

Make sure your funny bone and curious mind are intact for this event. It is one you won't want to miss!

In "Lights, Camera, Bones," we step again into the shoes of the much-loved character Sarah Booth Delaney, a fiery and resourceful private investigator from the South famously described by Kirkus Reviews as “Stephanie Plum meets the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.”

Book purchase from The Haunted Book Shop is required to enter the signing line.

In January of 2023, WELL READ Magazine began accepting submissions for prose, poetry, and visual art. I received a wonderful mix of fiction, flash fiction, non-fiction, and poetry along with some amazing artwork. Some of the pieces will make you laugh and some will pull at your heartstrings—there are a few pieces that might make you cry or get your blood boiling. There are no prompts or themes for the submissions so I never know what I’m getting into until I dive in. Every single one is a surprise and a treasure.

BEST OF 2023 VOLUME ONE features submissions from January to June

BEST OF 2023 VOLUME TWO features submissions from July to December They are now available in print and digitalpick up a copy today!

HOME-BOUND

Real-life characters in our hometowns

Carolyn Haines Introduces Hamsel and Gretel (and their incredibly interesting person, Dr. Traci Freeman)

“This little piggy went to…”

One thing for certain—none of the little piggies at Traci Freeman’s house will be going to market. Not ever! In fact, Hamsel, Gretel, and Clover, a trio of attractive pigs, will always “stay home,” because that is what they love.

Alocal veterinarian who specializes in small animals, Freeman has a lot of experience working with animals not often seen in veterinary clinics. The pigs are her special love, but she has chickens, a cat, four horses and she is also dedicated to caring for a number of species on the African continent.

Over the years, she’s made numerous trips to Rwanda and Ethiopia to help the local populations learn to care for the animals they love and rely on for survival. It is the mission of her heart to help. But when she is inAlabama, Traci loves her pigs and horses.

“Clover is 16,” Freeman said. “She’s a pot-bellied pig, so bigger than Hamsel and Gretel, who are Julianas.

Clover is also something of the diva of the house. When she gets on the sofa it is all hers. She does share the bed with her siblings, but mostly Clover reigns supreme.”

Hamsel and Gretel don’t care! They have the perfect pig’s life and they know it.

As partners at TLC Veterinary Clinic on Snow Road in Semmes,Alabama, Freeman and Dr. Lynne Leonard provide care for hundreds of animals. Their clients are mostly cats and dogs, but on occasion, the pigs will visit the vet clinic, greeting guests and trying to open bags of prescription dog and cat food. The pigs figure any food left within reach is fair game.

On some days, Leonard’s pet chicken roams around the kennels, completely unimpressed with the dogs and cats. While dogs and cats make up the majority of the practice, both vets have stepped up to help injured wildlife and a host of farm animals until specialists could be found. The day-to-day practice is never dull.

Freeman and her husband, Chris Whitehead, both fell under the sway of the highly intelligent pigs, and while Clover was an only child for a while, they added Hamsel

and Gretel nearly two years ago. The younger pigs are more active than Clover, but they are no less opinionated.

“Pigs are really smart,” Freeman said. “They have the intelligence of a five-year-old child.” To that end, the pigs have dozens of toys, puzzles, and games. “We’re big on enrichment toys for them,” Freeman said.

She’s taught them all to shake hands, blow a horn for a treat, and frolic in the yard, much like big dogs. Clover prefers the sofa over outdoor exercise, but she can display her intelligence when the mood strikes her. They can solve puzzles, and Clover can do over twenty tricks.

Freeman owns four horses and for many years rode competitively and participated in equestrian events around the world. Now she rides for

pleasure, doing a little jumping and dressage, but the itch for showing competitively has been scratched enough.

“I ride for pleasure mostly now. I still enjoy taking lessons and learning but my interest in showing and competing has waned.” Her home is filled with blue ribbons from the days when she showed to win.

Along with the pigs, Freeman has given her heart to the African continent. In a perfect world, she’d be able to travel there regularly to teach veterinary skills to local residents. “The people are so beautiful and generous,” she said. “They need so much. I feel like I can make a real difference there.”

To that end, Freeman has spent time there learning about gorillas and the routes open to saving them as more and more of the world becomes developed. She has studied at preserves and with wildlife specialists to expand her skills.

Freeman also enjoys spending time out West. “Chris and I love Montana,” she said. “We spend as much time as we can there.”

But for right now, Semmes,Alabama is home to Freeman and the “three little pigs.”

“They haven’t threatened to huff and puff and blow the house down. Yet,” Freeman said. “But they do love to give their favorite humans some hufflepuffs.”

The pig’s nose is extremely sensitive and can elongate

and change shape to allow them to root deeply in the ground.And that same nose will give kisses and snuffles— tickling even the most protected neck.

“The pigs are very attached emotionally to their humans,” she said. “They are like children. We have a schedule, a good dietary routine (pig feed for breakfast and dinner and some fruit and veggies for lunch).

“These guys are very loving,” Freeman said. “The only thing to keep in mind is that a pig is a prey animal. The only defense is flight.” If they become frightened, they are liable to bolt or panic and they are big and strong. “They really do make excellent pets. They’re very clean.”

Clean and adorable.

At the Freeman/Whitehead house, the three little pigs never have to worry about stray wolves or going to market. “We don’t eat pork,” Freeman said with a smile. “These pigs are safe from becoming bacon.”

And yes, they are smart and fully aware of their protected status. No huffing or puffing for them—just maybe a few hufflepuffs against Freeman’s neck.

Hamsel and Gretel as babies

Hamsel and Gretel now

When Dr. Traci Freeman isn’t traveling on foreign veterinary mission trips, taking care of her patients, or spoiling her fourlegged babies rotten, she likes to paint. Here is a small sample of some of her art you’ll find in the lobby of TLC Veterinary Hospital in Semmes,Alabama.

WHAT ARE YOU

YOU READING?

Guesthouse for Ganesha:ANovel by Judith Teitelman

GoldAward in the Regional Fiction (Europe) category of the 2020 IPPY Awards

Gold Medal in the Fiction–Literary category of the 2020 Readers’ Favorite BookAwards

SilverAward in the Audiobook: Fiction category of the 2020 IBPA Benjamin Franklin Awards

“Teitelman paints an intensely beautiful world in which different cultures merge in surprising ways. . . .Arich and moving story about an unlikely pair.” ―Kirkus Reviews

In 1923, seventeen-year-old Esther Grünspan arrives in Köln “with a hardened heart as her sole luggage.” Thus begins a twenty-two-year journey, woven against the backdrops of the European Holocaust and the Hindu Kali

Yuga (the “Age of Darkness” when human civilization degenerates spiritually), in search of a place of sanctuary. Throughout her travails, using cunning and shrewdness, Esther relies on her masterful tailoring skills to help mask her Jewish heritage, navigate war-torn Europe, and emigrate to India.

Esther’s traveling companion and the novel’s narrator is Ganesha, the elephant-headed Hindu God worshipped by millions for his abilities to destroy obstacles, bestow wishes, and avenge evils. Impressed by Esther’s fortitude and relentless determination, born of her deep―though unconscious―understanding of the meaning and purpose of love, Ganesha, with compassion, insight, and poetry, chooses to highlight her story because he recognizes it is all of our stories―for truth resides at the essence of its telling.

Weaving Eastern beliefs and perspectives with Western realities and pragmatism, Guesthouse for Ganesha is a tale of love, loss, and spirit reclaimed.

Celebrate Guesthouse for Ganesha’s fifth year anniversary of publication by picking up a copy this month!

Red Clay, Running Waters by

Leslie K. Simmons

Feathered Quill BookAwards - Finalist Historical Fiction

American WritingAwardsFinalist Historical Fiction

CIBALaramieAwards (Americana Fiction) - Finalist

Eric Hoffer Da Vinci Eye Award (cover design)Finalist

In 1824 John Ridge, promising son of a Cherokee leader, returns from his New England education with his White bride, Sarah Northrop, burning to defend his people's rights, and realize the dream of an independent Cherokee Nation.

Peace at home evades when tensions rise between the Southern states and the federal government, pulling the Ridges into the crossfire of a divided country on the brink of civil war. Faced with expulsion from their homeland during the 1830s Indian Removal crisis, with options eroding, andAndrew Jackson in office, John and Sarah must forge a path to retain the Cherokee Nation in the midst of tyranny and deceit.

Atimely saga of one family's search for justice, this true story of profound love, sacrifice, and the meaning of home weaves the complex strands of politics, race, religion, and love into the tapestry of the turbulent times before the Trail of Tears.

Wayward Girls by Claire Matturro and Penny Koepsel

When late-night phone calls summon Jude Coleridge and Camille Prescott back to the Talbot Hall School for Girls, painful memories bombard them. Though estranged for years, both bear the physical and emotional scars from their youth.

At the boarding school, they were branded “the crazy girls, the ones who lie” and became unlikely best friends. They soon formed a trio with a new student, WandaAnn, who pulled them into her bewildering relationship with the school psychologist, Dr. Hedstrom. But WandaAnn’s wild stories masked a truth that threatened to engulf them all.

As teens, the girls could only rely on each other as they moved toward an unfathomable, fiery danger. Now, in the crumbling halls of Talbot, hours before the building’s demolition, they must grant forgiveness, to themselves and others, if they are to move forward.

"Wayward Girls" is a portrait of brave sisterhood, infused with beauty and exquisite pain. Your heart will melt with every turn of the page." Laura Benedict, Edgar-nominated author of The Stranger Inside

The Best of the Shortest:ASouthern Writers Reading Reunion by Suzanne Hudson, Joe Formichella, and Mandy Haynes

Contributors:

Marlin Barton + Rick Bragg + Sonny Brewer + Doug Crandell

+ Pia Z. Ehrhardt + David

Wright Faladé + BethAnn

Fennelly + Joe Formichella + Patricia Foster + Tom Franklin + Robert Gatewood + Jason Headley + Jim Gilbert + Frank Turner Hollon +

Suzanne Hudson + Joshilyn Jackson + BretAnthony

Johnston +Abbott Kahler + Doug Kelley + Cassandra

King + Suzanne Kingsbury + Dawn Major + Bev Marshall + Michael Morris + Janet Nodar + Jennifer Paddock + Theodore Pitsios + Lynn Pruett + Ron Rash + Michelle

Richmond + R. P. Safire + Dayne Sherman + George

Singleton + Robert St. John + Sidney Thompson + Daniel

Wallace + Daren Wang + James Whorton, Jr. + Mac

Walcott + Karen Spears Zacharias

“I love story collections because of the variety of voices and visions. Because each story is very short, the book is like a treasure chest, so many jewels, so rich with reflection and value. Wonderfully curated.” FIVE

STAR READER REVIEW

Suzanne Hudson is the author of two literary novels, In a Temple of Trees and In the Dark of the Moon. Her short fiction has been anthologized in almost a dozen books, including Stories from the Blue Moon Café and The Shoe Burnin': Stories of Southern Soul. Her short story collection Opposable Thumbs was a finalist for a John Gardner Fiction BookAward. Her short stories, All the Way to Memphis, brings characters from the South to life in a way any reader will know and love. She lives with her husband, author Joe Formichella, near Fairhope,Alabama.

TheyAll Rest in the Boneyard Now by Raymond LAtkins (Author), Evelyn Mayton (Illustrator)

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

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

Going to the Water byAnn Hite

APlace and a Story That Will Take Your BreathAway

Mama always said our lives were ghost stories—metaphors—to hide the truth behind.

And so begins the struggle Isla Weehunt—wife of wealthy chicken farmer, Scott Weehunt— encounters to keep her family buried in the past and her secrets well hidden. But plans, no matter how well thought out, have a way of taking their own paths.

Isla receives a call late one Friday night that rocks her perfectly crafted life. Velvet, her estranged sister of seventeen years, has died in what appears to be an arson, leaving behind a teenage son, Randal, and a tangled mess of murder and chaos. Isla never thought she would return to Nantahala, to the sweet, rugged gorge of her childhood. And taking her nephew into her life was certainly never on her agenda. The thought of conversing with her mother, devastated byAlzheimer’s, seems out of reach. But there are questions that need answering about Velvet’s death and hidden stories that go back generations.

Isla’s life will change whether she embraces it or not.

WELL READ Magazine's Best of 2023 Volume One edited by

Mandy Haynes

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

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

WELL READ Magazine's Best of 2023 Volume Two edited

by Mandy Haynes

In Volume Two, you’ll find fortythree submissions written by a fantastic mix of award-winning authors and poets plus new ones to the scene. Three submissions in this volume were nominated for a Pushcart Prize: A Bleeding Heart byAnn Hite,AFew Hours in the Life of a Five-Year-Old Pool Player by Francine Rodriguez, and There Were Red Flags by Mike Turner.

The cover art is by artist, DeWitt Lobrano, who had several pieces published in November’s issue.

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

Asa Is Back!:AnAsa Reynolds Suspense Short Story byAbigail Keam

Asa Is Back! is an Introductory short story toAsa Reynolds, daughter of Josiah Reynolds from the Josiah Reynolds Mystery Series. This short story is a prequel to Death By Theft: AJosiah Reynolds Mystery. There will be more short stories aboutAsa coming, so hang tight. You will learn more of her back story before you plunge into Death By Theft:AJosiah Reynolds Mystery. You will see how the two stories fit together.Asa Is Back! is part suspense, part cozy, and part life-affirming fantasy. One thing though -Asa is a bad ass!

Josiah Reynolds' daughter,Asa, spent her adult years striving to make the world a better place. However her chosen life has exacted its toll.Asa is broken in body and spirit. Suffering an injury,Asa Reynolds flees to Key Largo to heal and reassess her life.Asa is depressed and feels she has made foolish mistakes in the past that have cost her much happiness. Still,Asa can’t stop beingAsa. She sees a little girl in need of help and decides to intercede the way only she can.And best part of all,Asa might have made a friend with Eva Hanover, owner of the Last Chance Motel. Eva tellsAsa that the motel is magical and miracles happen. WhileAsa doesn’t believe Eva’s stories, she would welcome any help—even if it comes from mermaids and manatees.

Encounters With Nature - a collection of prose, poetry, and art by members of Amelia Island Writers andArtists edited by Mandy Haynes

Coming Soon!

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

—

Deb Rogers, author of The Florida Woman

Walking The Wrong Way Home by

Mandy Haynes

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

Aplace to feel safe, a place to call home.

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

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

Oliver by Mandy Haynes

“Dear God…and Jesus and Mary…”

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

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

When you purchase an “ad” for $50, you get a full page slot in WELL READ’s What Are You Reading? section with a live link to your website and a live purchase link of your choice.

Readers asked for full page, easy to read, “book recommendations” in place of traditional looking advertisements and I was happy to oblige.

As a bonus, there are personalized individual graphics made of your book image and author photo (if you choose to purchase a two page spread or more) with your book description and/or blurbs, bio, etc., shared to eight additional FB bookish accounts and to WELL READ Magazine’s Instagram, Pinterest, and Facebook sites –(that’s 50K in potential views of your book when you combine all the sites).

WELL READ is distributed through ISSUU (the world’s largest digital publishing and discovery platform available). WELL READ Magazine receives an average of 8,000 views each month from readers all over the world.

Past issues are available and easily discovered on Issuu’s site. *All PAST issues, including the article and visual stories, remain active and are linked to the current issue. You can continue to share them for as long as you like.

There is strength in numbers. Your “ad” will be included with the featured authors, great interviews, submissions, and the other fantastic books readers look for to add to their reading lists.

INSIDE VOICES

“…I wanted people who weren’t Asian American and or gay to feel connected to the story.”

Robert

Gwaltney and Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Curtis Chin

Aco-founder of theAsianAmerican Writers’Workshop in New York City, Curtis Chin served as the non-profits’first Executive Director. He went on to write for network and cable television before transitioning to social justice documentaries. Chin has screened his films at over 600 venues in twenty countries. He has written for CNN, Bon Appetit, the Detroit Free Press and the Emancipator Boston Globe.Agraduate of the University of Michigan, Chin has received awards fromABC Disney Television, New York Foundation for theArts, National Endowment for theArts, and more. His memoir, "Everything I Learned, I Learned in a Chinese Restaurant" was published by Little, Brown in Fall 2023. His essay in Bon Appetit was selected for Best Food Writing inAmerica 2023.

Jeffrey: Writing a memoir is telling one's truth. Why did you decide to chronicle your life in book form?

Thanks for having me on your podcast. My memoir started as a personal project for my family. When my siblings, who had all moved out of Detroit, started having kids, I wanted the next generation in our family to know about our hundred year history in the state. Story-telling seemed the best way for little kids. It was only after George Floyd was murdered and there was a rise in anti-Asian hate crimes that I really decided to sell the book.

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Curtis Chin

Robert: Your book is as much about you as it is about the cares and hardships of your family and the people in your community, both the Chinese-American community, the Detroit community in general, and the queer community that you slowly, cautiously joined. What was behind your decision to tell their stories alongside your own?

I knew the book would address my experiences as an AsianAmerican and queer writer and community organizer, however, I also wanted the book to be a Detroit memoir, as well as a memoir of the 80s. I wanted people who weren’tAsianAmerican and or gay to feel connected to the story.

Jeffrey: You navigate several worlds (Chinese-American, Detroit, and queer communities). What has been the reaction to your story from each of these cultures?

The biggest support has come from both theAsian American and Detroit community. They really have been turning out to show their support. Many of the leading organizations from these communities have been reaching out to me, offering their support, hosting readings and buying bulk copies to share with their members. The book has also struck a chord with people interested food and people who consider themselves foodies. While I have had a number of gays – old and young – come to my readings, I would love more support from the institutions in the

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Curtis Chin

LGBT community. For instance, none of the major LGBT press has written about my book. I wonder if it’s because of the title, though the cover is rainbow.

Robert: There is a passage not too far into the book about realizing it is possible for family to stop loving. Will you talk about that and why you planted that in the midst of what is an otherwise bouncy and humorous account of your early life?

Growing up in the inner city of Detroit, I was constantly surrounded by death, danger, and destruction. But my parents always made me and my siblings feel safe. The idea of ever disappointing them or losing their love scared the hell out of me. I put that in early, just to show you the stakes for me and how that has been a guiding force in my life.

Jeffrey: Your father had an uncanny ability to find common ground with anyone, and he encouraged you to talk to strangers. His example showed you there was no need to be afraid. Talk to us about the example he set and how you've used that confidence to navigate the world.

When you’re a kid, oftentimes, you parents will say “don’t talk to strangers.” My parents gave me the exact opposite

advice. They told us to talk to strangers and who they were referring to were the customers in our dining room. They wanted us to meet them and hear their stories. It taught me not to be afraid of people who were different than me, but also not to be afraid of asking questions.

Robert: You discovered a fundamental truth about cooking. This is simplified, but the "least little difference can have a huge impact on the outcome of the dish." How did that realization shape how you interact with the world around you?

As one of the smaller kids in class, it gave me the confidence to interact with the bigger kids. I felt that I could hold my own weight.

Jeffrey:Another observation: "To get a good education, you just have to put up with a little discrimination." Tell us about that and your family's decision to "weigh the kids' future against the present" and how you think they were strong and resilient enough to make difficult decisions as an investment in the future.

For my parents, education was the pathway out of the working class. They pushed us to prioritize our studies and to get good grades on our report cards. When we moved to

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Curtis Chin

the suburbs that were 98% White, we faced a lot of discrimination, both in school and out. Our house was the victim of vandals at least every other month – eggs on garage door, our mailbox being smashed, our windows being shot with a bb gun. But the schools were the best rated in the state, so my parents told us to just ignore it and get that education.

Robert: “Friends are temporary, but family is forever.” How does that early life lesson square with you?

Those were words that my mom used to say whenever she wouldn’t let us go out to play with the kids from school. Instead, she told us to play with our siblings or cousins.As a gay person, I don’t know how much I believe that, especially since we often create our own chosen families.

Jeffrey: I love the story about Yul Brenner's visit to Chung's. Will you tell us how this international movie star helped you see your own father as a true hero?

My dad always felt that Chinese restaurants didn’t get their due, compared to other well-known cuisines like French or Italian. So, when this Oscar-winning actor decided to book our restaurant for the private cast party for his Broadway musical that was in town, my dad was

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Curtis Chin

ecstatic. He felt vindicated. He spent the whole week making the place sparkle. But when Yul Brynner was a dick to the entire wait staff, I realized that the true idol was my dad, the Chinese waiter who worked so hard to make sure everyone had a good time.

Robert: There is an order to life in a Chinese-American culture. Family comes first, then there's a generational hierarchy, and, finally, the individual is the least of these priorities. How does this square with "For here or to go?" as both a practical question for restaurant patrons and also a philosophical question for those of us who search for a world to which we can belong?

I think being an individual and part of a community are compatible. Everything in moderation, right? For instance, when you decide that you want to come out, do it for yourself, but also think of the impact that it might have on other people. I guess that should teach people to be more compassionate.

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Curtis Chin

Curtis Chin 陳國材

Writer/Producer/Director/Activist

“This “vivid, moving, funny, and heartfelt” memoir tells the story of Curtis Chin’s time growing up as a gay Chinese American kid in 1980’s Detroit.”- Lisa Ko, author of The Leavers

Everything I Learned, I Learned in a Chinese Restaurant -AMemoir

Curtis Chin

MOUNTAIN MAGIC with ANN HITE FIRE TALKER

All ofAppalachia is known for its magic, charms, and spirits. But there is something unique about Southern Appalachia. From ten-years-old, I was raised by my granny, who was born and raised in SouthernAppalachia. MyAppalachian roots go back to the early 1700s on her side of the family. From the minute I came to live with Granny, we made at least one trip a month to visit her sisters, my great aunts, who still lived in the backwoods of Appalachia. While in their presence, I learned Granny could be two separate women.At home she was a straightlaced, proper talking Southern lady ofAtlanta.At the old home place Granny evolved into another person, who dipped snuff and spoke a strange language I didn’t always understand.At the feet of these mountain women, I learned to be a storyteller that led me to be a writer. While at home, Granny wasn’t always forthcoming about her background. On one occasion when I was around three, my parents brought me to visit Granny. My dad was in theAir Force and we rarely got to visit Georgia. While Granny stayed home to cook us a big dinner, we went to a Sunday service in a cramped little church, where Dad attended as a kid. The preacher, who did a lot of screaming and yelling, was some kind of kin to Dad. Mother and Granny had never been much on attending church so this often caused friction between my parents. I got the wiggles like most kids my age would.

Mother kept promising if I was good, we would soon be back at Granny’s house for one of her fine desserts. When we finally got back to Granny’s little bungalow on the outskirts ofAtlanta, I was overjoyed. Granny gave me the run of the house while she finished in the kitchen. I moved through each room, stopping in front of the floor mirror to flounce and admire my pink ruffled dress which Mother had made for me. Granny had an old-fashioned bathroom that I purely loved. The pink claw-foot tub captivated me. It was a bubble bath paradise. To enter and leave the bathroom, I had to pass an upright gas heater.

“Annie, come eat.” Granny called from the kitchen. I slid by the heater faster than I probably should have, and one of the dress ruffles caught on the grate. Somehow in the process of freeing myself before the blue flames caught me, I placed my right palm on the top of the stove that was hot. For half of a minute, there was no feeling. Then a horrible pain shot through my hand and I screamed. Dad came running and tore my pretty dress, getting me away from the heater. He carried me to the kitchen table as I howled in pain. Granny came running. She took my hand, closed her eyes, and blew air on it.A beautiful cool breeze eased the pain out of my body.

“I think we need to take her to the hospital.” Mother said, pushing her way closer to me. I stopped crying.

“Just calm down.Ann is feeling better.” Dad reassured Mother.

My fiery red hand faded to a normal color. Many years would pass before I understood what had taken place.

Fire-talkers have been part ofAppalachia for centuries. Their ability to pull fire from a burn has never been viewed as magic, but as a gift from God.Aperson who is gifted with this ability uses a secret Bible verse. In some cases, it is a charm instead. Both males and females are fire-talkers. If a fire-talker tells the Bible verse, they can no longer pull or blow the fire out of a burn. So the verse is guarded and only passed down to those seen fit to take up the gift. We don’t hear so much about fire-talkers now, but seventy-years ago when heat, cooking, and washing clothes depended on a fire, burns were more numerous. Fire-talkers were kept very busy.

In the sixties my sister in-law was burned on her arm and my mother in-law called a relative who was a firetalker. This person took the fire away over the phone. The story goes that the burn stopped hurting and never left a scar.

I can only say when Granny blew on my palm the pain was gone. Mother, who grew up with these beliefs, was skeptical about leaving her only child to the fate of mountain healing. She proceeded to melt butter. When it was cool, she rubbed it over my palm that showed no signs

of a burn.

So what helped me heal? I will leave this to the reader’s judgment. What I do know, even though I fight it often, is that Mountain magic is real and is still used in the hollers and mountains ofAppalachia.And of course, by the descendants of granny witches, who still believe, all over our country.

Innocence - a Lack of Guile or Corruption Hope Kostedt

At age 5 my biggest worry was not breaking my favorite purple crayon, because the other purple crayons are either a little too dark or much too light. I’m happy. My parents love each other and love us. I have started to make friends I am sure will last a lifetime and role models I am certain will never let me down. Nothing is confusing because it’s all black and white … and the perfect shade of purple. I am so innocent; I don’t even know the definition of the word.

At age 12 my purple crayon, along with the others, are never used but I know they are still there. I am just too busy, too old to use them. Still naïve, but I’ve seen some things. I’ve lived long enough to know love isn’t what it’s made out to be, friends come and go, and role models shouldn’t exist, they just let me down. I know but I don’t fully understand. I cling to that innocence as it slowly starts to fade away with each passing disappointment. At age 19 my crayons are gone, in the trash. I haven’t

seen the perfect shade of purple in years. I’ve witnessed more than I can bear and what’s worse is that I understand it all. The love I thought my parents had and tried to mimic has now left me heartbroken beyond known repair. I have a whole new set of friends but have convinced myself there is an expiration date, there always is. The people I chose to admire have turned out worse than those I chose to despise. I am not happy. I just want my innocence back.

At age 25 I miss the simplicity and the feeling of unadulterated happiness. I have experienced good. I’ve accomplished. I’ve laughed. I’ve loved. However, there is the unavoidable bad. I cannot regain the innocence. It’s gone. Stripped from me by too many people, with too many things.

At age 5 when I would make an error coloring, I would snatch that perfect purple crayon and color over it. There is nothing that crayon couldn’t make look better. No one could see any problems.

So, at age 30 I drive, and I buy a box of crayons. The purple crayon isn’t included but if I have learned anything, it’s how to make it work. I am not innocent but I will color over it so it cannot be seen.

Hope graduated from Grand Canyon University with Summa Cum Laude with a bachelor’s degree in educational studies in October 2021. Hope has written for multiple programs, for voiceovers and more. Her whole life, she has been a dancer, performer and choreographer with a background in the entertainment industry. She has interpreted words with movement, and it is an art she takes great joy in. She has found her own words and has been working to bring those to other people through writing and all this art form has to offer.

Your Daughter John Grey

She is your creation. Not just the long blonde hair, the bright blue eyes, but the flared pink dress, the white-button shoes.

Family genes may be inevitable but the haute-couture for seven year olds is strictly from your fashion playbook.

That’s why, when you take her out for the world to see,

it’s like unwrapping a box from an expensive toy store, extracting a prize-winning doll to the oohs and aahs of those assembled.

In the public square, your daughter has no say in who she is.

But, behind the scenes, her thoughts are like jail breakers, digging tunnels, assessing the surrounding walls for the possibility of scrambling over them.

Someday, she will dress for comfort, in her own taste, for the amusement of herself and whoever she chooses to impress.

But, for now, she’s a work of art with your name written clearly

within the frame. She’s the perfect daughter, the perfect child. How perfect that must make you.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.

TheAttempted Murder of Rivals

Martha Ellen Johnson

Dad threw me away to save my life. I did not know.

you are nothing martha - you are worthless martha - you are garbage - rot rises from inside - you are ugly - no one loves you - no one will love you - you are nothing - you’re nothing - nothing - nothin’- not - a - thing Repeat. Surrender. Believe. Peaceful drift. Phantom. No more words. Far away. Hovering. Go through the motions.

No resistance.

Accept all assaults. I seek abuse. Stranger, use my body. Monster, devour my soul. Still no pain. I smile.

I stop eating give away my clothes. burn my paintings shred my poems. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Soon. Why does it take …….. so long? My sister next. [Mom would be the only one.] She ran ………. to me! help me - help me - help me - help me She appears.An apparition. I reach out. Hand in hand. Me and her.

Crying. Laughing. Goofing off. Coffee and and and and and Dad threw us away to save our lives. We knew.

Martha Ellen Johnson is retired and living alone on the beautiful Oregon Coast. She relocated from Chicago in 1972. She’s an old hippie with a lifelong interest in psychology and social justice. Johnson is a former child abuse investigator with published prose and poems in various journals and online. She writes to process her wild life.

In the Silence of a Memory

Nancy Chadwick-Burke

On a routine walking path, the asphalt has ended. The innocence of a park’s spring landscape ahead pulls my seamless footing onto bumpy gravel. My unsteady legs balance when I step onto an open patchwork of dandelions, plotted like yellowy polka dots, in a thicket of bleary green tips of emerging grass. It is an evolving scene: picnic benches begging for gatherings, jungle gyms in primary colors waiting for the embrace of little limbs, and sandboxes corralling plastic playthings, ready for small footprints.

In the distance, on the opposite side of where I stand, a narrow river rolls through a sparse forest of oaks in their leafy berths. Midday has turned its brightest, the sky, its bluest, promoting energy sent from the heavens.

I cannot find rest from shifting on a seat of uneven planks of distressed wood. Distractions keep pace like any

good shadow does. Interruptions spark like lightning bolts as I home in on the intrusions—screeching little voices and scampering feet, the crackle of electric wires surging through tall poles, the smells of new wood from the field house, damp earth, and oranges, and a dog’s bark. The disturbances have canceled the silence I have come to seek.

In the wake of clouds clipping tree canopies, gusty winds shift from the west to the north, slicing through the rooted frames of the honeysuckle and jiggling loose the perfume of tiny white blossoms, adding sweet currents to the air. Soon, the sun draws her shades, dimming the light of the spring’s dewy sparkle.

My cheeks prickle from cooler breezes and a blooming memory of color and motion.

In the distance where the river halts at a road like a T, a well-rounded woman, dressed in a short black skirt hugging her curvy hips, slides into the driver’s seat of a midnight-blue Catalina that is stopped at the end of the road.Astripe of ruffled white silk peeks through her matching short jacket, where three shiny buttons strain to stay closed. The woman plucks one key from a ring of rustling others, turns it in the ignition, causing puffs of exhaust to burst from the tailpipe and then linger before disappearing into the shifting air. She pauses, leans into the rearview mirror, and studies her reflection before

dabbing with an index finger the corners of her crimsonstained lips. Her head turns this way, then that way. She gives a light touch to a chignon of champagne hair before sliding Jackie O sunglasses over eyes blackened by eyeliner, to settle on her nose.

The woman reclines, exhales, and smiles.

Her stare is affixed, as if she is watching a memory, one she made long ago, replaying on a darkened picture window of a Cape Cod.Asmile and a brushing away of the past in a single tear on her cheek returns her to the present. The woman backs out of the driveway, and I tag along, rushing with the blast of acceleration to a secluded corner where I find a tree stump and sit, eager for more telling.

Brakes squeal and gravel pops from a slow roll of car tires as the woman parks parallel to the ambling river. With a snap of the door handle and a shove from her elbow, she opens the car door, steps out, and chases her wayward ivory raincoat hems as the winds take them. Her black stiletto heels wobble when navigating the pebbly ground. She stops, inhales to expand her chest, and exhales to relax her taut shoulders, bringing her into the moment.As she waits among the weeping birches and blackberry bushes embraced by the river’s banks, tucked inside the water’s ripples is a boy’s voice. The woman giggles in anticipation, clasps her hands to her heart, then

sweeps the air with an open hand.Apontoon boat meets the softness of the grassy edge. The boy hurriedly wiggles his naked thigh over the settled boat; the rubber burps. His bare feet stomp overgrown weeds, then dance lightly on gravel before he extends his short-sleeved arms to embrace the softness of his mother’s stockinged legs. They are united in sight and soul, breathing in unison as she pushes wet hair from his moist forehead, revealing green eyes of color, of life. His dimples pop, and his cheeks rise in laughter while he holds tight.

He is of her.

I wipe trailing tears from my face and hold my clasped hands to a heavy heart, wishing for more moments, eager to pull strands of connection to him now, here. But the vision of him, the binds of longing, and the ache of loss soon fade into the dimming backdrop.

Children scamper to their waiting mothers as they fold picnic blankets and stuff empty juice boxes and nibbled remains in half-filled sandwich bags into their canvas totes. The electric wires hum, the dogs cease barking, and a curtain of rambling, misty fog rolls upon itself, tumbling silence into a faded vision. In the noise, there was the silence of a memory.

Nancy’s essays have appeared in The Magic of Memoir, Adelaide Literary Magazine, and blogs by the Chicago Writers Association Write City, Brevity, and About Write. More of her work can be found on Medium, Substack, and nancychadwickauthor.com. Under the Birch Tree (2018) and The Wisdom Of The Willow (2024) are by She Writes Press.

An Ekphrasis Moment: Good for the Soul

Mike

Coleman

Have you ever been captivated by a painting and didn't know why?

Sure, we're all drawn to the gorgeous works of the Renaissance, the vivid colors and graceful forms that retell familiar myths and Bible stories. Their beauty washes over you like golden Florentine sunlight.

But what about works that aren't so traditionally pretty? Odd works like the one here: The Piano Lesson, painted by the French artist Henri

Matisse in the summer of 1916, as World War I raged in Europe and threatened his own family.

The painting captivated me the first time I saw it some years ago at the Museum of ModernArt in New York.At 8 x 7 feet, it is enormous, but it wasn't the size as much as the colors that stopped me—that pervasive gray crowding out the iridescent green and rose.

And the poor kid with the metronome stuck in his head? What the heck was that all about it? Indeed, I don't think even Michelangelo would have known what to make of this eerie painting with its nods to cubism. Neither did I the first time I saw it.

Still, I didn't want to leave MOMAthat day. It would have been like . . . I don't know, like meeting someone interesting and then walking away from them in the middle of your first conversation. I wanted to stay. I wanted to learn more about the painting.

But we had a schedule, and my husband, Ted, was pressing us onward.

Still, I came back to The Piano Lesson before we left the museum.

What is it about this painting? I wondered.

Standing before it with my hands in the pockets of my jeans, I started a list:

First, the colors. I understood that the gray made the

other colors more striking. Made them pop.

Second, the memories. I took piano lessons when I was in grade school, when I was about the same age as this brown-haired boy appeared to be. I often practiced in the late afternoons at the upright piano in our living room while my mom fixed supper in the adjacent kitchen.

Sometimes my older sister Marsha and I played duets at that piano . . . again, usually in the late afternoon.

We were no experts by a long shot, but we could read music, and we played a mean Bring a Torch, Jeannette Isabella at Christmastime, when I’d be home from college for winter break, and Marsha would be taking a few days of vacation from her job as a stewardess with PanAm. I remembered the fun we had, the smell of supper cooking, the sound of Mom opening the ice trays for her and my dad's nightly cocktail when he got home from work, the fading afternoon light at the living room window signaling it was time to plug in the lights on the Christmas tree.

Did Matisse's gray, I wondered, represent the same time of day in the painting? It sure felt that way. It's always a slightly melancholy time, when the sun starts fading. Especially when you know how quickly the holidays will roll by, how the partings will be inevitable, how the everyday routine will begin again after January 1. How it

will likely be another year before you tickle the ivories with your sister again.

Third, the piano. Matisse's ornate music holder isn't at all like the clean-lined Everett piano we had, but something about its swirling design, mirrored in what no doubt was a Paris apartment's wrought iron balcony railing in the lower left quadrant of the painting, reminded me of playing the piano at home.

Why, I wondered? Then it hit me: The hinged lid of our piano bench opened to reveal a shallow storage space. That's where our dad kept the music he practiced at night after we had gone to bed: old hand-me-down pieces like Debussy's Clair de Lune, Dvořák's Humoresque, Felix Arndt's bouncy Nola (which drove my mother crazy). Many of those pieces had ornate curlicues on their cover designs, curlicues that looked a lot like what Matisse had included in the painting.

In fact, the sheet music for a 1938 song titled Because, one of the few items that remain from my family's sheet music collection, bears ornamentation that uncannily echoes Matisse's spiraling lines.

With the memory of the piano bench and the music inside, another thought struck me. Dad's old sheet music had a stale, sweet smell, a smell I associated with playing the piano.And didn't that smell also evoke the faded gray and soft rose colors in the painting? Isn't that the way I

might have described it if pressed to do so, say, by my creative writing professor in college. "The yellowed, crumbling paper had the gray-pink smell of old roses," I might have written. I felt certain that if Matisse's painting had an aroma, that would be it.

So, there we have memories of my sister, my mother and my father all brought to life by a single painting hanging in the MOMA.

The metronome resonates, too.

We kept a metronome on top of our piano to set the pace at which a composer wanted the music to be played.As a kid in grade school, I liked to imagine you could adjust the metronome to change the speed of time. You could slow it down over summer vacation. Speed it up the week before Christmas.All by a simple adjustment of the weight on the pendulum.

Wasn't it lovely to think about that? Like the boy in the painting, I had the metronome stuck in my head, figuratively, at least. Or, at least, a shadow of it played in my imagination. Taught me something, too: The passage of time is totally beyond our control. Here was another melancholy point this predominantly gray painting appeared to be making: Much as we'd like to, we can't stop change.

Reading more about the history of The Piano Lesson, I learned this was exactly Matisse's message.

The Piano Lesson depicts the living room of Matisse's home in Issy-les-Moulineaux, with his elder son, Pierre, at the piano.As stated on www.HenriMatisse.org, a website devoted to his work, the painting "evokes a specific moment in time—light suddenly turned on in a darkening interior—by the triangle of shadow on the boy's face and the rhyming green triangle of light falling on the garden."

There's a wealth of information online about the painting, its historic significance, its tribute to Picasso through its cubist elements, its echo of the mood in Europe during WWI. Indeed, Matisse intended to make a statement about the breaking apart of his peaceful world.

The passage of time.

The fading of light.

The transformations we all go through.

Today, more than a century after its creation, more than 50 years after I sat at our piano with the happy sounds of my boyhood home all around me, and especially now as Ted and I and our families face down the challenges that older age brings, The Piano Lesson touches me more than ever.

And fills me with gratitude for all the light there is left.

Mike Coleman is the author of The Way from Me to Us: A Memoir, published in June 2023 by Riverdale Avenue Books. The book was a finalist in Chanticleer’s 2022 Journey awards for nonfiction about overcoming adversity. Retired after a 45-year professional writing career, Coleman lives with his husband in Atlanta, Georgia.

Awake

Ashley Tunnell

Her name is Rose, and there are no thorns guarding the heart that she wears proudly on her sleeve. She has been the nurse on duty during each of my prior visits, and she is my nurse today, too. During each visit, she greets me like I am a long lost relative. She is a southern woman, perhaps old enough to have invented cornbread, grits, or placing the letter “H” in front of the letter “W” when she spoke. The room we are in is sterile, and it smells of rubbing alcohol and bleach. The dichotomy between the uncontaminated room and the thoughts that pollute my mind is palpable. I fiddle with my IV tube as I listen to Rose speak. There is something calming about her voice.

“I hate that ya’ll had to get a hotel,” she says. “I’d put ya up at my place if’n we weren’t in the middle of a pandemic.”

The unorthodox invite takes me by surprise.

“We really don’t mind,” I say. “I would have hated to put you out.”

“Not putting me out at all!” says Rose. “You’re the ones who drove all this way.”

The surgeon comes into the room. He is holding a mask in front of his nose and mouth.

“You about ready to get this show on the road, kiddo?” he says.

I am far from a child, yet in this moment, I feel like a child. I am terrified, and I cling to the thin blanket like it is a teddy bear--or a lifeline. The hospital gown is sticking to my back.

“It’s so hot in here,” I say. “Why am I shivering?”

Rose’s eyes dart to the machine monitoring my heart rate, and at that moment, it is steadily increasing.

“Let’s go ahead and push someAtivan,” says the surgeon.

“Rose,” I say. “I’m scared.”

“Nothing to be scared of, honey,” she says. “You’re just going to take a little nap, and when you wake up, this’ll all be over.”

“What if I don’t wake up,” I say. “You have to make sure I wake up. Please, Rose. I have a daughter.”

“Don’t even think like that,” says Rose. “You’re just going to count back from ten with me. I promise you’ll be video calling with her before you even get down to eight.”

“But what if-” I start to say.

“None of that,” says Rose. “Come on, now. Ten.”

Rose looks at me expectantly.

“Nine,” I say.

Eight

I am freezing. Heavy pressure is forcing me further into a snowy avalanche and burying me. Perhaps it is pushing me deeper into the darkest, coldest part of the ocean. I hear a steady beeping, and I notice it is keeping time with music. It is classical. Vivaldi, I think. Maybe, if there is music here, I can suffer this cold, wintry grave. I open my eyes and find myself not at the bottom of an ocean nor buried under an avalanche but sitting at a table in a restaurant. It is fancy--the sort of place where I would only eat on special occasions. The table is adorned with pristine white tablecloths and silver trays. The surgeon sits across from me.

“This thing is completely shredded,” he says. “Take it.” Something wispy and dark red passes by my field of vision and plops wetly onto a silver platter. I watch as our waiter vanishes with a metallic clatter.

“What is going on?” I ask.

“She’s fighting her tube,” says the surgeon.

“What tube? Where are we?” I reply.

“I got vocal cord movement,” the surgeon says. “I need her put back under, now, or I am going to end up cutting her vocal cords.”

The surgeon sounds irate. I feel guilty and intrusive—

the uninvited guest crashing a fancy dinner party.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Put her back under, now,” says the surgeon.

“Working on it, doctor,” the waiter says as he refills my wine glass.

“No,” I say. “I don’t want any more.”

I try to lift my hand to cover my glass, but I am unable to move. The steady beeping accelerates.

“Hey,” says a waitress.

It is not a waitress. It is Rose. I can see her nametag as she moves into my line of sight. The fluorescent lighting of the restaurant frames her head like a halo.

“You’re fine,” she says. “This ain’t real. You’re dreaming.”

I am fighting the heaviness in my eyelids, as a blur that smells like latex passes over my face.

“Why are you doing that to her hair, Rose?” says the surgeon. “She can’t feel it.”

“Because the poor thing looks terrified,” Rose says.

“She’ll be fine,” the surgeon says. “She won’t remember this.”

Seven Blood Mountain is alive as I navigate its sharp twists and turns. The flowers are in full bloom, and the trees are verdant green and heavy with dew. The burning in my throat and the thick layer of pollen coagulating in the

corners of my windshield make me wonder if I remembered to take my allergy medicine before leaving home this morning. My phone rings, and I take a moment to wonder how I have a signal before answering.

“Hey! Can you hear me?”

It is my husband.

“I can hear you,” I say. “What’s up?”

“Oh, wow,” he says. “She is really out of it.”

“Her vitals look good,” a voice I do not recognize says. “She’s just taking a while to wake up.”

“No, I’m awake,” I say. “I can hear you. Can you hear me?”

“Her calcium keeps dropping,” says the voice. “We need to keep her overnight.”

“Okay, what room are we staying in,” my husband says.

“I’m sorry. You won’t be able to stay with her,” says the voice. “Pandemic restrictions.”

“What do you mean, I can’t stay with her?” says my husband.

He sounds irritated and worried.

“It’s fine. It’ll be okay,” I say. “I hear a baby. Whose baby is crying?”

My husband’s next words are muffled, and my phone beeps and dies. Vivaldi plays through my car’s radio, and I reach for the bassinet beside my bed.

Six

The sun sits at the highest point in the sky and watches as the tide washes the coast with seafoam. My shoulders are stinging, and I wonder if I am wearing enough sunscreen. I can smell the barbeque from the grills at the center of the island, and Vivaldi plays softly from the speakers set up beneath the tiki torches. The sand burns my feet as I approach the waves gently lapping the shore. The water is cool and refreshing, and I can taste the salt on my lips. The sounds of the island fade as I swim farther out to sea. I am floating lazily above colorful schools of fish chasing each other. I have never seen water this clear.

Aglint on the ocean floor reflects the sunlight and catches my attention. Taking a deep breath, I dive beneath the surface.As the ocean floor rapidly rises to meet me, I hear a voice.

“Calcium levels are dropping.”

The voice is muffled by the water, and it is not one I recognize. It sounds close enough that I stop swimming for a moment. I twist my body in the water, expecting to see someone swimming nearby; however, there is no one else here. I am alone.

“Her oxygen is still low,” says the voice. “Blood pressure is holding steady.”

There are lights above and below me now, and I can no longer tell which one is the sun.

“I need to get her tube out,” says the voice.

“Hello?” I say.

Acloud of air bubbles billow in front of me. Some rise, and some fall. I do not know which to follow to the surface. My heart beats rapidly in my chest as my lungs fight against a natural urge to draw a breath. The ocean pulls me deeper into its warm embrace, and I attempt to relax my body and float. I am uneasy as I discover that I am already floating, yet I am neither rising nor sinking. My body is weightless as it moves through the still, black waters on an invisible current.

Five

The woods are weeping scarlet and orange.Appalachia is on fire this time of year, but I notice none of it. I am fifteen and feigning apathy as my English teacher introduces the class to Shakespeare. The classroom is warmer than I like, but the familiar smells of pencil shavings and books are comforting. Music is playing softly in an old CD player on the teacher’s desk at the front of the classroom. Vivaldi, again.

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow! Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time.All our yesterdays are lighted fools. The way to dusty death.”

She is theatrical, and her enthusiasm is infectious. I lean forward in my seat despite a passion for classic literature being a high school social faux pas.

“We’re such things as dreams are made of, and our little lives are rounded with a sleep,” she says.

I am too engrossed to take notes, and I wonder what part of this will be on the test. I do not like speaking in front of people, and I hope the English teacher, who has a flair for the dramatic, does not make us present a monologue in lieu of an end-of-year exam.

“But it is not time for you to sleep,” she says.

She looks at me, and I meet her gaze. I realize I am not a timid high school student falling in love with Shakespeare. I am an adult. I have a family and a career. I pay taxes and argue with insurance companies. Yet, I am unnerved as my old high school English teacher considers me with the same half smile that she would wear while she was waiting on a student to arrive at the correct answer to a question. I do not know the question, but I think I know the answer. My stomach rests uncomfortably against my desk. I have outgrown this classroom. I have outgrown this memory.

“Where am I?” I ask.

“You need to wake up,” she says.

She claps her hand together in front of her, and my eyes snap open.

Four

“Well, there she is,” says Rose. She is untangling the mess of wires beside my bed. One

of the remotes clacks against the railing on the bed. It sounds like a pair of hands clapping together.

“These dang things get all tangled—hey!” Rose says. “You need to keep that on. That’s your oxygen.”

I try to speak, but I am unable to force the words out around the oxygen mask and through the pain in my throat. Fortunately, Rose seems to understand.

“You just came through surgery,” she says. “You’re fine, but we need to keep you because of your calcium levels.”

“I heard a baby crying,” I say.

My voice sounds weak and raspy. I gratefully accept the ice pack Rose gives me and press it against my neck.

“You sure did,” says Rose. “We can’t go to the post op floor or the ICU. There are too many pandemic patients there. You get to recover in labor and delivery.”

Rose examines one of the machines I am hooked up to and taps the keys on the keyboard of her computer. She hands me a remote with a red cross prominently visible among the blue numbers and gray arrows.

“This is your call button,” she says. “Now, I want you to use your call button. No being stubborn and thinking you can do things on your own.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

Alook of understanding passes between the two of us. I understand what she is saying, and she understands that she will be picking me up from the floor later that evening

when I try to take myself to the restroom.

“Rose,” I say.

She stops, one hand resting on the doorframe of my recovery room.

“Yeah, hon,” she says.

“Did they get it all?” I ask.

“They did,” she says. “You rest, now.”

Rose leaves the room, and I try to take in the rest of my surroundings before I surrender to the exhaustion threatening to overtake me. There is a glass vase full of flowers on the table next to my bed. I reach over and touch the papery pink and orange petals. They are fake. Sometimes, I think the world is full of fake flowers. Thankfully, the glass vases make it quite easy to spot the roses. There are plenty of those, too.

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

Surf on Sunday

Margaret Pearce

The crossroads waited, dreaming in the peace of the early Sunday morning, blinking stop-go commands to the empty air.

Suddenly, the heavy station wagon hurtled through the protesting red lights, to consummate itself in a destructive passion on the small panel van starting to cross with the green light.

They rolled and slid in an obscene embrace that rended and tore and crumpled, and then the absolute hush of shocked silence spread over the crossroads. From a long way off a siren shrieked its urgency as it approached, until its wail expired to a blessed silence.

Young Joe lay on his back staring at the sky. It was a bright blue with little fleecy clouds about the same white as the waves when they struck the first reef.

He remembered how the surf schooled itself to swell

into translucent waves, marching well spaced across the sea to break white against the yellow sand.

About this time of morning, his mother put her roast in the oven and bustled around making apple pie. He closed his eyes. The sun had given him a headache.

He tried to roll his head into the shade. The tree at the edge of his vision was a flowering gum. He could just see the splotches of bright red through the haze. Funny, he thought, I don't remember it flowering any other year.

His thoughts returned to the beach. He should stir himself out of his lethargy and pack his board and wetsuit. The van with its 'P' plates tied on so bravely was his most cherished possession.

He lingered on memories of the last time he and his mates went surfing.All the long golden day, they swam and dived and fished.At dusk they collected driftwood and built a roaring fire to toast the remains of their sandwiches, discussing learnedly the best way of cooking the fish that had refused to be caught.

Joe grinned at the thought. His gentle, easy going mother teased them over their inability to catch fish. She supplied bait and fresh hooks every week and sent them on their way with mountains of sandwiches, but they never brought any fish home.

His head was aching properly now, and his legs stiff and sore as if they were sunburnt. He tried to move, a twinge

of pain went through him and a firm hand on his shoulder held him still. He raised his head and managed a disbelieving look at the ambulance, the knot of bystanders, and the two cars, tangled together in a bridal shower of glass and fractured metal.

The blue of the sky deepened to a painful brightness as he fell back, and he shut his eyes against the glare. He was linked to consciousness and full memory of the accident along the lifeline of burnt rubber and spilt petrol, the smell evoking all over again the dreadful inevitable second of impact, and the cringing thought of his mother, dragged into the monstrous depths by the undertow of grief.

Pulsing through him, the faint murmur of the surf became louder as it called, fading out his tenuous link with reality.As he sank into the darkness he remembered. He was going surfing with his mates.

To ride the roaring waves of an unknown sea.

Launched on an unsuspecting commercial world, Margaret Pearce, ended up copywriting in an advertising department and took to writing instead of drink when raising children. Margaret completed an Arts Degree at Monash University as a mature age student, and has primary and teenage novels published as listed on Amazon, Book Depository, Kindle and writers-exchange.com

Island Nightmare Nicole Irizawa

My sister could have died on a remote island because we were hungry for s’mores.

Thinking back to the overnight ferry from Tokyo, I can’t recall who organized the camping trip to Oshima Island. Likely my husband, who’s always looking for an excuse to bring random people together. In this case it was my mother, stepfather, sister and boyfriend, and kid brother. Plus, a fellow expat thrown into the mix.

I was only a year or two into my decades’long relationship with Fumi. Japan born and raised, he broke the mold of what one often hears about Japanese culture: refined, polite, quiet, conservative. Birthed with passport in hand, the man hopped a ship to Russia at the age of 19 and hasn’t stopped traveling since.

Camp was set up. Ready to embrace the cozy night, we were gathered around the fire drinking beer, roasting marshmallows, and relishing the freedom to be loud outdoors, a welcome change from cramped living spaces.

Brandon went to check on Erika in the tent, who had apparently developed a stomachache. He rejoined the group, then Mom and I had to see for ourselves. She was curled in the fetal position. “Just rest. It’s probably gas. I’m sure you’ll feel better in the morning.”And back we went to savor the nocturnal fireside chat.

The next day Erika could barely uncurl herself without wincing in pain, let alone stand up straight. This was long before the days of Googling symptoms and self-diagnosis. The day’s plans quickly derailed as we realized we had to get her to a doctor.All eight of us piled into two cabs to the nearest clinic in the small village. Fumi served as interpreter for the elderly doctor, while the rest of us waited anxiously, noting the outdated and decidedly nonmodern surroundings.

It didn’t take long for Fumi to burst forth with the diagnosis: acute appendicitis. His words to Erika as she lay on the examination table? “You will die if you don’t have surgery now.”

Not the softest of deliveries.

Yet we had Fumi to thank for his swift interpretation skills, since none of us spoke Japanese with enough fluency to navigate a medical emergency, much less order a meal in a restaurant without having to waggle a finger at a plastic food display, one of Japan’s many intricate artistries.

Ahelicopter medical evacuation back to Tokyo was in order. No surgery was to be had on this island. One person was allowed to accompany our patient, and that of course was Mom. I had never confronted this, the possibility that I could ever be in the world without my sister. I fought back tears thinking about all the stupid fighting over the years, the years of not getting along. I wanted another chance to be her sister.

Eric, my stepdad, assured me everything would be fine. While I wanted to take the first slow boat back to Tokyo, the gang rallied and decided to make the most of the weekend. So, around the time Erika was flying over Tokyo Disneyland, the rest of us were stumbling around the scenic volcanic trails on the island.

My worry didn’t cease until I knew she was on the operating table at one of Tokyo’s top hospitals. Later she regaled us with hilariously horrific stories about being able to hear the nurses and doctors joking during surgery, radio blasting, and gloveless nurses tending to her bloody wound.

This is the kind of milestone you can laugh about years later, after you know the outcome and see that, yes, it will all be okay somehow, in the end.

Nicole grew up in Ohio and has made Japan her home for over 20 years. She works as a communications professional in Tokyo and fills her weekends with hikes, yoga, paranormal podcasts, astrology, café hunting, and of course reading. She lives with her husband, daughter, and pet yorkie in Chiba Prefecture.

Ecce Homo

Donald Edwards

Ecce homo he announced as I neared the door

I could hear the droning of the conversations in the next room

The prattle of after dinner plans and tomorrow’s tasks to come Then I entered and a few of the heads turned quick towards me Then back like disrupted chickens in mid peck

Back to their world of talk and their tripartite meal

I took my distance and walked with it to a corner

There I could sit quiet without requiring any notice There I commune with my thoughts which go no further than my fingers.

To be in a room nearly frantic with the echoes of silverware scratching china

Where I might reach out and touch with my words another human life

But I am not included because like all the other times I do not know how to be

Maybe we were always communal in our feedings in our comings and our goings

Did we always know lonely or was it a learned consideration

There’s a game here with rules above the other animals and me

One must know when to make a move or retreat to lower or to raise a glass

I was never any good at it not at this or any other of our games

My ex told me I was socially retarded before she left with her friends for the evening buffet

Don Edwards has published 5 books of poetry. He lives and writes in Los Angeles.

Adroitly, brazenly, candidly, depictions euphemized fortunate gentlemen. Heartily invective journalists’ kowtowing listeners maneuvered

The News in Threes

Ken Gosse

numbingly; otherwisepersonal quotations’ resounding symphonies; tedious, unceasing, vacuous wantonness; xenophobes yodeling zealousness.

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

HELLO

WRITERS &ARTISTS

CALLFOR SUBMISSIONS IS OPEN!

*No prompts or themes - no boundaries*

WELL READ is looking for submissions from writers and artists who have stories to tell –through words and art. We combine new and established voices from diverse backgrounds and celebrate different perspectives. We want people who aren’t afraid to shake things up, speak their mind, and share their humanity.

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THE WRITER’S EYE

Watching The Classics

From A Different Point View

Recipe for a classic comedy:

1 hard-bitten newspaper editor

1 ex-wife and former reporter ready to settle down

1 insurance salesman who is boringly normal

The seasoning: the ever-suave Cary Grant as the editor determined to win back his ex-wife, Rosalind Russell as the reporter ready to marry a boring man, and Ralph Bellamy as the dull insurance salesman

This film is a 1940 remake of the 1931 film, The Front Page, which is a movie rendition of the 1928 play by Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur. Cary Grant is the editor, Rosalind Russell is his ex-wife, and perennial second banana Ralph Bellamy as the prospective groom.

Grant is desperate to stop his ex from marrying another man because he wants her back. There’s a sensational murder case that needs a seasoned journalist to cover it, and Grant convinces Russell to do one last job for him. It’s part of a plot to stop the marriage and keep Russell from retiring to dull suburbia. She agrees to do it only if Grant buys a $100K life insurance policy from her intended so he’ll get a $1K commission.

Grant employs several means to separate Russell from Bellamy, including getting him arrested twice, conveniently put in the same jail as the murderer. Russell knows what Grant is up to, but her journalistic instincts kick in, and she’s hooked on the story.

The murderer, a shy bookkeeper, killed a policeman, but he swears it was an accident. Things get even more complicated by the killer’s girlfriend, Bellamy’s mother, a couple of gangsters, and a corrupt sheriff and mayor.

The plot is complicated, and the dialogue will have your head spinning. The director, Howard Hawks, had his actors talk as fast as they could, even talking over one another to achieve a truly fast-paced effect. It’s a brilliant comedy with a stellar cast.

What can a writer learn from this?

First, it’s another masterclass in screenwriting. Charles Lederer wrote the screenplay along with Ben Hecht, though Hecht is not listed in the on-screen credits. If you want to learn how to ramp up the pace of your story using dialogue, there’s no better movie to watch.

Finally, you want to combine comedic action with suspense? Guess what, this film has it all.

Margaret: The Rose of Goodwood by Donna Meredith

The Rose of Goodwood by

“Margaret: The Rose of Goodwood” (2024), by Donna Meredith, is a lively, engaging and thoroughly enjoyable historical novel of transformation set in North Florida from 1917 to 1978. Well-written—as are all of author Meredith’s several books—“The Rose of Goodwood” is filled with crisp prose, exacting details, meticulous historical research, and engrossing plotlines, all gathered together to tell a fascinating story about Margaret Wilson Hodges Hood, who rose from poverty to become a prominent member of Tallahassee, Florida elite.Along the way, Margaret transforms not just herself but also an old plantation known as Goodwood into a showcase mansion with elegant gardens, now a renowned public museum site in the heart of Tallahassee. “The Rose of Goodwood” novel is grand, not unlike the Goodwood Museum, and the book is worthy of reading for the sheer enjoyment of a good tale as well as for its educational value. When readers first meet 18-year-old Margaret in the early chapters, she has already transformed herself from Maggie, a failed Georgia tenant farmer’s daughter, into Margaret, a friendly clerk in an upscale Tallahassee department store. But bigger transformations await, soon set into action when she models a lovely dress for a customer.As she twirls about, showing off the dress for the potential buyer, an aristocratic looking but decidedly more mature man watches. Though he enters the store in

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search of new gloves, he finds a pretty young woman who quickly charms him.

The man is William Cabot Hodges, and like Margaret, he was a real person of importance in Florida until his death in 1940.At the time he first becomes enchanted with young Margaret, he is an aspiring politician having already lost a bid to be governor in 1912. He is also, as Margaret’s father says, a “big-shot lawyer.” When she first meets him at the store, Margaret is impressed by his general appearance, his voice, and his scent—something she recognizes as sandalwood. But by the time she receives an invitation to attend an important social function with him and his mother, Margaret has tilted her thinking, seeing him as “really old” and “a blowhard besides.” She contemplates turning down the invitation because she “would feel like a weed in a flower garden at a fancy dinner.”

Still, she goes with William and thus begins their courtship. She recognizes his ambitions (“He sought power the way ordinary humans sought water.”) In turn, he recognizes Margaret’s social awkwardness and she is soon sent off to nearby Thomasville, Georgia, for an extensive, cram course at a finishing school. William intends to turn her into a socialite and a worthy companion—someone who will boost his chances at becoming governor with her charm and by becoming a

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gracious hostess of lavish parties attended by important people.And, he intends that she bear him heirs. He will never be governor, but he will become an influential state senator.

Transformed yet again by the finishing school experience, Margaret marries her William, and soon they become a popular, sought-after couple in the social scene of Tallahassee. Though their relationship begins with a seemingly happy blend of Pygmalion and Cinderella, their marriage will not have a happy-ever-after ending. Will has a cruel side to him, illustrated by the author’s adept use of some of his own postcards and belittling words. He is unfaithful to Margaret and seems to take this as his right, without any particular effort to hide his behavior. Other tragedies, loss, and abrupt turns in life will befall Margaret and threaten to derail her hard-fought efforts to remain happy. Her strength and resilience are important aspects of the story. Indeed, despite the downturns, Margaret’s character is such that she “realized I had a choice. I could choose to be happy.”

That the marriage will falter is foreseeable, especially given the age differences. Her inability to bear a child also hurts their chances of long-term happiness and is especially painful to Margaret. She finds comfort and joy, however, with her nieces and a nephew and other children in her family and circle, becoming near to a mother to one

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niece. She also enjoys a supportive, loyal friendship with Mattie Grice, a Black maid, and with her close friend CarraAdams.Asecond marriage to a dashing younger man after Will’s death offers her yet another chance at marital happiness.

Margaret’s transformation from shop girl to sought-after political hostess and influential socialite is also not the only transformation at the heart of the novel. Tallahassee, the capital city of Florida, is also transformed during the novel from a rustic, small city to an important center of politics, money, and power.And, Goodwood Plantation is also transformed by Margaret after Will bought it in 1925. In the novel, Will purchases Goodwood as “the ultimate penance,” but one Margaret “accepted with pleasure.” Will and Margaret build an aviary, expand the gardens, especially with roses which they both love, and Margaret displays exquisite, refined taste in improvements she makes to the house.

While most of the characters in the historical novel are based upon real people, author Donna Meredith invents a few, including Susannah Ross. Meredith makes good use of Ross to “show/not tell” Margaret’s innate kindness.At first Ross is a nemesis and an unlikable, vain woman with a far better social pedigree who can’t forgive Margaret for marrying well. When fortunes and roles change, and Ross needs help, Margaret has a chance to exact revenge for

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some of the nastiness Ross had tossed her way. Instead, after soul-searching, Margaret extends a hand to help the woman.

As explained in the preface, “The Rose of Goodwood” is a novel based upon the life of Margaret Wilson Hodges Hood, the last woman to live in the mansion known as Goodwood. Meredith, an award-winning author of fiction and nonfiction and with a journalistic background, stays close to documented facts, utilizing extensive, careful research and interviews to re-create Margaret’s world and life.As Meredith notes: “Actual letters, postcards and interviews written by the main characters are used in the text with spelling and grammar errors intact.” However, such “historical artifacts” are supplemented with Meredith’s own creativity and imagination.

All in all, “Margaret: the Rose of Goodwood” is an excellent, absorbing, and ultimately inspiring book. It is illustrated with photographs, many from the Goodwood archives, and is available in print and as an ebook.

Donna Meredith is Editor of SOUTHERN LITERARY REVIEW and the author of seven award-winning books, all featuring flawed women who become stronger over the course of their journeys. "One of the joys of writing--and reading--for me is learning something new," she says. "I want my writing to make a difference, however small, in the world." That means tackling issues like the challenge of balancing environmental and economic needs, women's issues, spousal abuse, race relations, and the need for better education in our country.

Women's journeys in life and in fiction have long been an interest of Donna's. Her newest title, MARGARET: THE ROSE OF GOODWOOD, is historical fiction based on the last woman to live in the Tallahassee mansion known as Goodwood. It follows Margaret's journey from a tenant farmer and seamstress's daughter to become Florida's premier hostess, entertaining governors and supreme court justices. "This book required a deep dive into the archives at Goodwood," Donna says. "I spent a couple of years working with docents, archival librarians, and descendants to pull Margaret's story together.”

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Margaret: The Rose of Goodwood by Donna Meredith

ANNIE ASKS

“I love…!”

Annie McDonnell Introduces Lauri Schoenfeld

AnnieAsks Lauri Schoenfeld, author, podcast host, teacher, artist, Mom and so much more. “Lauri often begins a sentence with ‘I Love’! It says everything about her”

Every month I choose to interview someone in our industry that I believe was born to shine.After you read this piece, please be sure to watch our podcast that will be on the Well Read’s YouTube channel to learn much more about Lauri!

Lauri Schoenfeld currently resides in Utah with her hubby, three kids, and dog Jack Wyatt Wolverine. She’s a child abuse advocate. Teaching creative writing classes to her community is one of her favorite things to do.

I had such enthusiasm waiting to interview Lauri. There were several reasons because Lauri is one-in-a-million! I knew that from the very first time I watched her podcast, THE ENLIGHTENMENT SHOW! I was blown away by how different her questions were and how truly entertaining her show is! I was mesmerized and immediately a fan. Be sure to watch her podcast: https:// www.facebook.com/theenlightenmentshow.

Her debut novel, LITTLE OWL released inAugust, 2021 is outrageously captivating! Here is the synopsis:

“Adaline Rushner is a woman in pieces. Her daughters have gone missing, and although the authorities seem to have found their bodies, something still isn’t right. Her

husband, Cache, can’t bear the pain and wants to move on, butAdaline can’t shake the feeling they’re still alive. She even starts seeing them in the house, though Cache does not.Adaline wonders whether this current tragedy has something to do with the misfortune and painful experiences she suffered in her own childhood, but her memories have gaps in them that she can’t quite close on her own.

AfterAdaline and Cache move to Salt Lake City, everything gets even stranger. Local cop OfficerAbbott thinksAdaline’s distinctive owl necklace may somehow link to his own missing daughter.Adaline’s neighbor Maggie offers assistance and comfort, butAdaline suspects her of hiding other truths from her.Adaline tries to prepare for her girls’eventual return while investigating her own past forgotten traumas, but a threatening message urges her to let the past stay forgotten. CanAdaline find the truth and save her marriage to Cache, or will the tangled web of memories from her past keep her from moving on?”

Lauri is so multi-faceted! There isn’t a lot creatively that she isn’t dabbling in. From her writing to her podcast to her teaching and beyond. She has had health challenges that she works to overcome daily, and it is inspiring to say the least. She makes magic out of her challenges!

Lauri Schoenfeld is one of the most kindhearted people I’ve ever met! To know her is to love her and all of her

talents!

To find out more about Lauri Schoenfeld:

Website: www.laurischoenfeld.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/lauri.schoenfeld

The Enlightenment Show: https://www.facebook.com/ theenlightenmentshow

I’d like to thank Mandy Haynes for this opportunity.

Sidebar: My interview is very specific. I have a love affair with The Proust Questionnaire. It began as a parlor game created by Marcel Proust, the French essayist and novelist, who believed that, in answering these questions, an individual reveals his or her true nature. The interesting part of it is not only do you get to know the author, but this is a tool that authors can use to breathe life into their characters. It is a lot of fun for various reasons!

Don’t forget to check outAnnieAsks on WELL READ's YouTube channel BETWEEN THE PAGES for more to this interview - lots of fun and interesting conversation!

"If Lauri Schoenfeld wanted us glued to our seats, then she achieved that with an A+"-SW Reviews

Little Owl

Lauri Schoenfeld

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

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

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

I am firmly into that period of my life known as the gradual decline. Don’t get me wrong; I expected the “decline” part, but this whole “gradual” thing is a real problem, because it sneaks up on you, and by the time you realize what is happening, it has already happened.As an example, I recently noticed that I was having trouble driving at night. If you talk to my wife, she will tell you that I have always had trouble driving at night, and sometimes during the day as well, but she doesn’t always know what she’s talking about. Just don’t tell her I said so. Anyway, I went to get my eyes checked, thinking perhaps I needed new glasses, and it was at this examination that my latest gradual decline was revealed.

Eye Tech: Read the letters please.

Ray: What letters?

Eye Tech: The letters on the wall.

Ray: What wall?

It turned out that I had a cataract, which these days is usually no big deal, but I also had some other things going on in there that required the expertise of a Big City Doctor (caps are intentional…), because I never do anything the

simple way when I can make it more complicated and expensive; that’s just how I roll. What I want to talk about today is not the medical care I received—which was exceptional once we actually got around to it—but rather the overall experience. Basically, the ways of city folks are strange. If this were a freshman essay, the previous sentence would be the thesis statement.

The first thing that happens in Big City Medicine is the paperwork. No, not your medical records and such. Those may come later, after the color of your coin is determined. This initial step happens about a month before you see an actual doctor, and all you need at this point is an insurance card, a credit card with some room on it, a phone, and a couple of hours to spare. Once you have established your medical need by listening to The Girl From Ipanema thirty-three times while you are on hold, a harriedsounding person comes onto the line, and if you are very insistent and won’t take no for an answer, you get to pay in advance for what you may later owe.

Man, oh man. How sweet is that?As much as I love being a writer with all of the money and fame that comes with it, I think I should have been a Big City Doctor instead, and if it hadn’t been for that whole medical school thing, I might have been, and you would be reading a column written by someone else right now, and Mandy would be sad but wouldn’t know why. By the way, if your

upcoming procedure breaks down at this preliminary monetary stage, don’t despair because you still have options. In the case of an eye procedure, for example, they have some really nice eye patches available onAmazon. I had my eye (get it?) on a nice leather one with a cubic zirconia inlay in the shape of Skinny Elvis, and I was sort of looking forward to rocking that look, but luckily my insurance carrier was in a good mood that day, so it is still available if you are in the market.

Speaking of my insurance carrier and its willful ways, I will just be honest with you and admit that I have no idea what my policy actually covers, or when, or where. I once tried to sit down with my policy in an attempt to educate myself, but after about an hour of that I ended up with a severe headache behind my left eye, one that I still suspect was the causal factor of all of my subsequent eye woes. The document was about 100 pages long and it read like it was written by Charlie Brown’s mom’s dyslexic sister. I will pause a moment while you piece that one together.

If you’re wondering which Big City had its way with me, incidentally, I am not at liberty to say here in the magazine, mostly because Mandy gets sort of fussy when I insult seven million people with one sentence.And I suppose it’s possible that some of you might actually live there, bless your hearts, and I wouldn’t want you to think I was poking fun at your place of residence. Still, I guess I

ought to give a hint, so let’s just say that William Tecumseh Sherman once burned the place down, and when it was rebuilt, the new owners decided to name half of the streets after a fruit tree. There. That’s pretty subtle, and if you figure it out, don’t tell the others.

Back to Big City Medicine. If you make it this far into your procedure, it will be time to obtain sign-offs, permissions, and releases. They like their bases covered down there in The Big City in case anything unfortunate happens, so at this stage you will have to get every doctor you have ever known to sign off on the upcoming event. In my case I had to obtain approvals from my internist, my cardiologist, my ophthalmologist, my optometrist, my otolaryngologist, and a writer friend of mine who is a retired urologist I have never actually met in person. This all seemed excessive to me since my procedure was to be performed under local anesthetic, but what do I know? I got it all taken care of, and then it was time to go to The Big City.

One of the ironies of The Big City medical experience, at least where eye care is concerned, is that all of the medical offices look kind of the same, and they all are identified with tasteful little signs that might make the zoning board happy but which are pretty much useless for a one-eyed man trying to locate a specific one in unfamiliar territory while fending off an aggressive Uber

driver whose comfort zone is about three inches off of said one-eyed man’s rear bumper. I finally found the place after consulting her at a red light.Actually I went back there to suggest to her what she could do with that horn she kept blowing at me, but she knew right where my destination was and apparently had a side-hustle going on leading one-eyed people from out of town to their appointments, so I gave her ten dollars and made it to my procedure on time.

As far as the actual procedure that all of the above led up to was concerned, I really only have one observation to share with you. Prior to beginning, I was handed a Sharpie by one of my nurses and told to use that precise medical instrument to mark the eye I was there to have worked on. Apparently that whole left eye/ right eye thing was a source of confusion in Big City Medicine, and they wanted to rule out any unintentional unhappiness. I mean, what could go wrong with having a slightly-drugged halfblind anxious old man jab at his bad eye with a sharp instrument, right?

You will be happy to hear that all of that is behind me now, and my Big City Doctor has assured me that the procedure was a success, and now after I heal a bit more I can go ahead with my cataract surgery with my local doctor. I am taking this on faith, you understand, because I am still blind as a stone in my left eye, and I have a black

circle drawn around it on top of that. They should have said that a little dot above my eyebrow was sufficient if that was what they wanted. What am I, a Big City Doctor?

Mandy Haynes, Editor-In-Chief

Mandy Haynes is the author of two short story collections, Walking the Wrong Way Home, Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth Eva and Other Stories, and a novella, Oliver. She is the editor of Encounters with Nature - a collaboration ofAmelia Island Writers andArtists, The WELL READ's Best of 2023 anthologies, and a co-editor of The Best of the Shortest: A Southern Writers Reading Reunion anthology. Mandy is the creator, designer, content editor, and publisher of WELL READ Magazine.

Raymond L.Atkins, Contributing Editor (OFF THE PAGE)

Raymond L.Atkins is a reputed and award-winningAmerican writer, who is famous for writing Southern fiction, paranormal, mystery, and humor stories. He has penned several mind-blowing standalone novels, including Sorrow Wood, Sweetwater Blues, Front Porch Prophet, Camp Redemption, etc.Atkins lives and works in the mountains of Northwest Georgia

Robert Gwaltney, Contributing Editor (INSIDE VOICES)

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

Ann Hite, Contributing Editor (MOUNTAIN MAGIC)

In September of 2011 Simon & Schuster, publishedAnn Hite’s first novel, Ghost on Black Mountain. In 2012 this novel was shortlisted for the Townsend Prize, Georgia’s oldest literary award. In the same year, Ghost on Black Mountain won Hite GeorgiaAuthor of the Year. Haints On Black Mountain:AHaunted Short Story Collection was one of ten finalist for the Townsend Prize in December 2022. It has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and won Bronze in the Forward Indie 2023. She was raised by anAppalachian Granny Woman and steeped in mountain magic. Her passion forAppalachia and history heavily influences her writing.

Meet the staff

Dean James, Contributing Editor (THE WRITER’S EYE)

Dean James is the USA Today and New York Times bestselling author of the Cat in the Stacks and Southern Ladies mystery series. Aseventh generation Mississippian, he lives and writes in the Jackson, Mississippi area with four cats and more books than he can ever count. He keeps his younger sister Carolyn Haines locked in the attic. Despite his best effort she escapes constantly and wreaks havoc on the countryside.

Claire Hamner Matturro , Contributing Editor (CLAIRE

CONSIDERS)

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

Jeffrey Dale Lofton, Contributing Editor (INSIDE VOICES)

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

Annie McDonnell, Contributing Editor (ANNIE

ASKS)

Annie McDonnell, best selling author of Annie’s Song: Dandelions, Dreams & Dogs, contributor to In Flow Magazine, NZ and founder of the Write Review, teacher, speaker, book reviewer, author consultant, co-administrator of the World of the Write Review Book Club, blogger, and author online event planner.

Something More

by Mandy Haynes

“Jewel knows the crows will come soon, then the buzzards will come to finish the job.”

Jewel slips out the back door, mindful of the squeak in the rusted spring overhead. Her bare feet dart over the well-worn path through the woods behind the house, missing sharp stones and sneaky roots by memory.

When she reaches the edge of the field that lies on the other side of the woods, she stops to pick handfuls of clover. Jewel pinches the delicate stems close to the ground between her thumbnail and pads of her fingers, choosing only ones that are tall enough for tying. She works fast, slowing only to scold the bees that buzz around her.

“You quit bein’selfish. You got a whole field here and ten more down the road. You can share this little bit with me.” Her voice so seldom used sounds strange to her ears.

She tucks the clover into the front of her cotton dress, folding the frayed hem over the green leaves and purple blossoms. The flowers appear even brighter in contrast to the faded and wellworn step-ins that peek out from underneath her threadbare dress.

When she’s sure she’s picked enough, she turns and runs back to the woods, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one is watching even though she knows no one’s there. It’s a habit that’s hard to break, like chewing the inside of her cheek until it’s raw or poking the crooked bump on her collarbone where the broken pieces fused together without the help of a sling.Certain she’s

alone, she slips between the branches of the weeping willow at the bend in the creek. Safe behind the curtain of branches she relaxes.

Jewel places the clover on the spongy green carpet of moss beside the willow that hides her most treasured items in the hollow of its trunk. Tucked away are pieces of quartz she found on the path. One perfect, turquoise- colored claw from a crawdad she found in the creek, a collection of feathers. Two books from her granny’s house and a teacup with pink and yellow roses painted around the rim. The teacup is the only piece from her granny’s set she’d been able to save. The rest were shattered against the kitchen wall, innocent victims of her stepfather’s temper.

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

*Customers say: Customers find the stories in the book very good, with powerful insights into the complexities of human and family relationships. They also appreciate the characters as completely human and real. Readers also mention the emotions as sweetness, sadness, and humor. They describe the writing style as brilliant and riveting. (*AI-generated from the text of customer reviews on Amazon)

Something More is a story from the collection, Walking the Wrong Way Home. If you’d like to read the rest of Jewel’s story, you can purchase it for .99 cents or read it for free on kindle unlimited.