WELL READ Magazine October 2023 by three dogs write press

How to Sell a Haunted House Grady Hendrix AN INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER "Wildly entertaining."-The New York Times "Ingenious."-The Washington Post New York Times bestselling author Grady Hendrix takes on the haunted house in a thrilling new novel that explores the way your past--and your family--can haunt you like nothing else. When Louise finds out her parents have died, she dreads going home. She doesn't want to leave her daughter with her ex and fly to Charleston. She doesn't want to deal with her family home, stuffed to the rafters with the remnants of her father's academic career and her mother's lifelong obsession with puppets and dolls. She doesn't want to learn how to live without the two people who knew and loved her best in the world. Most of all, she doesn't want to deal with her brother, Mark, who never left their hometown, gets fired from one job after another, and resents her success. Unfortunately, she'll need his help to get the house ready for sale because it'll take more than some new

paint on the walls and clearing out a lifetime of memories to get this place on the market. But some houses don't want to be sold, and their home has other plans for both of them... Like his novels The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires and The Final Girl Support Group, How to Sell a Haunted House is classic Hendrix: equal parts heartfelt and terrifying--a gripping new read from "the horror master" (USA Today).

“What follows is classic Grady Hendrix: an authentically frightening, genuinely funny reconfiguration of what a haunted house can be.” — Esquire “Warm up the VCR and fire up the air popper for a most bitchin’ horror story by a gifted practitioner of these dark arts.” — Kirkus “With strong connections to twenty-first century classics [...] Hendrix's book sets the high watermark for horror in 2023.” — Booklist “Hendrix is a best-seller for a reason, and this new novel shows he is only getting better with age." — Library Journal

The Darkling by Carolyn Haines Berta and Bob Henderson have plenty of love for their children—and enough even for a foster child. When Annie, a young amnesiac found wandering the streets of a nearby city, comes into their home, bad things begin to happen. Mimi Bosarge, the live-in tutor, has a deep love for Coden, Alabama, which in the 1940s was a hideaway for movie stars and the wealthy. By 1976, Coden has been long forgotten. Bob’s plans to renovate the old hotel on the Mississippi Sound would bring new life—and returned glamour—to the small, isolated community. As Mimi prepares lessons, she begins to see another child on the grounds. One that looks eerily like Annie at times—but at other times mimics the physical traits of the other children. It becomes clear, this creature, whatever it is, is stalking the Henderson family. Annie begins to display a sophistication beyond her years, and as tragedy strikes the family one by one, Mimi carries the burden of protecting the children. Mimi believes Annie’s innocent beauty is a sham, but how reliable is Mimi? For the children, the truth is the only thing that can save them.

#6 on the list of 10 best horror novels of the year-"But it's Haines' knack for good, old-fashioned storytelling that truly sets The Darkling apart. The scares are parceled out sparingly, but assuredly. After the first few chapters, I found myself saving the novel for late nights, when I could pour a cup

of coffee, light a lamp in a dark room, and allow the hypereerie visuals to seep into my bones. While Haines has found previous success with crime and romance, The Darkling may be proof of her true calling." --Ryan Daley, www.bloodydisgusting.com "[A] spellbinding tale . . . eloquent evidence that Southern storytelling is indeed a very special art form." --The New York Times Book Review Originally published March 2013 in eBook, April 2013 in hardcover and April 2014 in trade paperback, writing as R. B. Chesterton by Pegasus Books. Carolyn Haines is the USA Today bestselling author of over 80 books who recently passed the one million mark in copies sold. In 2020, she was inducted into the Alabama Writers Hall of Fame. She is a recipient of the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Alabama Library Association, the Harper Lee Award for Distinguished Writing, the Richard Wright Award for Literary Excellence, as well as the "Best Amateur Sleuth" award by Romantic Times. Born and raised in Mississippi, she now lives in Alabama on Good Fortune Farm Refuge with more dogs, cats, and horses than she can possibly keep track of.

WELL READ MAGAZINE

HELLO READERS! LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Gobble-uns…

WATCH THIS

THE DARK TOURIST by Dawn Major

WHAT ARE YOU READING? BOOKS TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

HOMEBOUND - Real-life characters in our hometowns

WELL DONE! PROSE, POETRY, AND ART

BEST FRIENDS FOREVER by Mark Braught

DESERT RAIN by Robb Grindstaff

BUZZARDS by David Malone

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HEARTACHE AND WIND by Will Maguire

131

RAIN CROW by Ramey Channell

137

TEMPORAL by Ashley Tunnell

141

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ANXIETY by Angela Patera

145

RETURNING TOMORROW by John M. Williams

159

MY SISTER’S HOUSE IS HAUNTED by J. B. Hogan

165

ENEMY’S EMBRACE by Mike Turner

168

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

173

INSIDE VOICES

174

ANNIE ASKS DAVID BELL & M. HENDRIX

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AUTHORS INTERVIEWING AUTHORS

196

WHAT’S YOUR STORY?

211

OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

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LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

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HELLO READERS!

Join WELL READ MAGAZINE’S good news group on Facebook to find out more about the authors and contributors you see here. Lots of great extras like reviews, events, personal stories, things to celebrate, and opportunities to win free books directly from the authors inside the pages!

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Gobble-uns…

Well readers, I had Grady all lined up - he was there but by the time I sent the questions - he was gone. I’m afeard the Gobble-uns got him. (For those of you who haven’t been terrified by this reference, I’m adding the explanation below.) Actually, I’m afraid I was too late in responding and I missed the opportunity. Grady Hendrix is a busy guy. Word on the street is that The Southern Book Club’s Guide to Slaying Vampires, is being turned into a TV series by Amazon, and Horrorstör which was set up initially to be a TV series in 2015, has now been upgraded to a feature film. He’s also working on his next novel which I can’t wait to get my hands on. Grady talks about it (and more) in this interview for Poured Over, hosted by Kat Sarfas. I’ve never met Kat, but I loved how excited she was to talk to Grady and I really enjoyed it. Do yourself a favor and check it out. I was recently held hostage by a virus and felt too crappy to do anything except sleep and read. I used the time to catch up on Grady’s work and reread an old favorite. He is a brilliant writer who is able to make you laugh and gasp at the same time. You will cringe and cheer while you sit on the edge of your seat turning the pages as fast as you can to see what happens next. His protagonists are perfect - imperfect - people who never give up. If you have teenagers who are stuck to their phones and you can’t get them to read - put one of Grady’s books in their hands.

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Gobble-uns…

If you are looking for strong female protagonists, read Grady’s work. If you aren’t necessarily a fan of horror, but love great writing, stories that make you think, finding little hidden gems in between the pages that make you laugh out loud, read Grady’s work. I had too much fun and spent way too much time working on the cover of this issue. If you’ve read his newest novel, How to Sell a Haunted House, you’ll understand. I hope it made you smile and sent some chillbumps up your arms. If you haven’t - I hope it makes you purchase a copy as soon as possible. Click on the Hit Play tabs in the WATCH THIS section to see some of Grady’s work on film, check out the book descriptions on the pages, then go to his website and learn more about him. I can’t say it enough, he’s a fantastic writer. Don’t take my word for it, read some Grady Hendrix and see for yourself. Or the Gobble-uns might gits you Ef you Don’t Watch Out!

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Gobble-uns…

Little Orphant Annie James Whitcomb Riley 1849 – 1916

Little Orphant Annie’s come to our house to stay, An’ wash the cups an’ saucers up, an’ brush the crumbs away, An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, an’ dust the hearth, an’ sweep, An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread, an’ earn her boardan’-keep; An’ all us other childern, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun A-list’nin’ to the witch-tales ‘at Annie tells about, An’ the Gobble-uns ‘at gits you Ef you Don’t Watch Out! Onc’t they was a little boy wouldn’t say his prayers,—

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Gobble-uns…

So when he went to bed at night, away up stairs, His Mammy heerd him holler, an’ his Daddy heerd him bawl, An’ when they turn’t the kivvers down, he wasn’t there at all! An’ they seeked him in the rafter-room, an’ cubby-hole, an’ press, An’ seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an’ ever’wheres, I guess; But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundaboutAn’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you Ef you Don’t Watch Out! An’ one time a little girl ‘ud allus laugh an’ grin, An’ make fun of ever’one, an’ all her blood an’ kin; An’ onc’t, when they was “company,” an’ ole folks was there, She mocked ‘em an’ shocked ‘em, an’ said she didn’t care! An’ thist as she kicked her heels, an’ turn’t to run an’ hide,

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Gobble-uns…

They was two great big Black Things a-standin’ by her side, An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’ ‘fore she knowed what she’s about! An’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you Ef you Don’t Watch Out! An’ little Orphant Annie says when the blaze is blue, An’ the lamp-wick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo! An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray, An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is all squenched away,-You better mind yer parents, an’ yer teachers fond an’ dear, An’ churish them ‘at loves you, an’ dry the orphant’s tear, An’ he’p the pore an’ needy ones ‘at clusters all about, Er the Gobble-uns’ll git you Ef you Don’t Watch Out!

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Gobble-uns…

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WATCH THIS

HIT PLAY

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WATCH THIS

HIT PLAY

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Mohawk is a 2017 American survival action-horror film directed by Ted Geoghegan, co-written by Geoghegan and novelist Grady Hendrix, and starring Kaniehtiio Horn, Ezra Buzzington, Noah Segan, and professional wrestler Jonathan "Brodie Lee" Huber. Mohawk was shot in Upstate New York in June 2016, and filmed two days at Syracuse's Skä•noñh Great Law of Peace Center. Actress Kaniehtiio Horn, who plays the film's lead, Oak, is a native Mohawk.

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"This funny and fresh take on a classic tale manages to comment on gender roles, racial disparities, and white privilege all while creeping me all the way out. So good."-Zakiya Dalila Harris, author of The Other Black Girl

The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires Grady Hendrix

"Wildly inventive...Hendrix delivers both a palmsweating horror story and a laugh-out-loud satire of retail."-Esquire

Horrorstor Grady Hendrix

"Enthralling and intense...The plot goes 0 to 100 real quick, and once it does, you won't want to put the book down."--Sean Curry, UC San Diego Bookstore bookseller, in the San Diego Union-Tribune

We Sold Our Souls Grady Hendrix

"Think Mean Girls with demonic possession, set in 1988 Charleston. It's funny, it's heartwrenching, it's even a little spiritual, in a very strange way."--Southern Living magazine

My Best Friend's Exorcism Grady Hendrix

Think about it. When the families die off so do the people who tend the graves. Dark tourism (and even perceivably darker interests) is not only about tragedy. It may support the maintenance and repair of beautiful places in your own city.

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THE DARK TOURIST by Dawn Major

When you fantasize about your next vacation, does it include images of white powdery beaches overlooking the Caribbean Sea while sipping on the Cocktail of the Day— let’s call it Crouching Tiger— and the only item marked on your schedule is afternoon Salsa dance lessons? Or do your holiday travels have more of a macabre flavor? Oh sure, you’re game for the cocktail but it’s likely to be called Zombie Juice or Black Widow Venom and while planning your “Must See” list, it includes a visit to a cemetery or possibly a ghost tour. If that strikes your fancy you may be what is called a DARK TOURIST, and I wrote this just for you. So, what is dark tourism anyway? Generally, it’s described as visiting locations associated with death, tragedy, and suffering. I’ve seen it referred to as black tourism as well as grief tourism. Subcategories include disaster tourism, slum tourism, and war tourism. The fancy name for it is Thanatourism, and naturally there’s some Greek myth associated with that term. Thanatos, the personification of death, is a minor Greek deity or daimon. He gets a bit of a bad rap, though. He doesn’t have nearly the fame and accolades that the ruler of the underworld, Hades, gets. He does serve a vital role—escorting souls from the realm of the living to their afterlife. Mortals were constantly trying to bribe and/or deceive Thanatos, to cheat death, and sometimes, it

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worked. As you can imagine, he wasn’t a popular bloke, which is one reason he wasn’t depicted in art or literature as often as some of his counterparts, because hey, no one wants to talk about death. Or do we? Netflix released a series called “Dark Tourist,” and I recently watched an episode where people visited Fukushima, Japan. In 2011, an earthquake and a tsunami caused the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear plant to explode and leak, causing 20,000 deaths and a massive environmental disaster that’s still being cleaned up today. It’s very off-limits. You can get arrested for trespassing, but one thing I’ve learned about humans is if you tell them “NO,” then they will want to do it even more. So, these dark tourists snuck in anyway, walked around oohing and aahing when their personal handheld nuclear radiation detectors were going wild oftentimes reporting levels higher than Chernobyl. You’re thinking: “Why would anyone want to expose themselves to radiation?” And then there’s the tragedy of all those people who died and poor Mother Earth! I think there may be an upside to dark tourism, however. The Japanese government released the evacuation order for the city of Miyakoj giving the go ahead for people to start moving back. Miyakoj is approximately twelve miles from the nuclear plant. Bet you can get some cheap real estate there! In addition, Japan has run out of storage

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THE DARK TOURIST by Dawn Major

space for the treated wastewater. Guess where it’s being dumped? If you answered the Pacific Ocean, I’VE GOT A WINNER! According to a U.S. News and World Report, “The International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA), the U.N. nuclear watchdog, gave the plan a green light in July, saying it met international standards and the impact on people and the environment would be “negligible.” Well, then. Gosh, shucks if some governmental body tells me it’s okay, well surely it is. So environmental groups and Japan’s big neighbor, China, are demanding more transparency and claiming that there hasn’t been enough research to fully understand the impact releasing treated water will have on marine life and people. Mmmm… I realize why dark tourism may appear to be commodifying tragedy and that these people visiting Fukushima are doing it to get a thrill by trespassing in dangerous areas. Hey, I wouldn’t do a Ted Bundy tour for the same reason I don’t watch some of these documentaries glorifying murderers at the victim’s expense. Fukushima is also not for me—radiation contamination isn’t my thing. But seeing is believing and I hope the people who are being told it’s safe to move back, get a chance to watch this episode of “Dark Tourist.” If we can draw a positive from visiting the Fukushima disaster site, it would be the exposure of Japan’s government’s secret less radiation contamination.

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My foray into dark tourism began the summer when I backpacked through Europe with my sisters. I officially became addicted to cemeteries. We visited Jim Morrison’s grave in Pere Lachaise Cemetery. It was everything I expected and more. It was overcast that day like walking into sepia. His grave was adorned with lit candles, flowers, and notes from admirers in a variety of languages. Typically, I’ll visit cemeteries where writers are buried, and Morrison was first a poet/songwriter and then a singer in my humble opinion. I live in Atlanta and volunteer at Oakland Cemetery, another stunning cemetery, with super cool events, like Capturing the Spirit and Sunday in the Park. I had the pleasure of writing scripts for some of their residents (Behind the Scenes: Sunday in the Park at Oakland Cemetery – Oakland Cemetery). Of course, I’ve left an ink pen on Margaret Mitchell’s grave. I’ve also left pens on the graves of Louisa M. Alcott’s and Henry David Thoreau’s at the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Concord, ME. It’s a writer thing, kind of similar to Catholics and their saints. After we left Paris, we headed to Amsterdam where we visited the Anne Frank House. Like many teenagers, I read the American translation of Annelies Marie Frank’s diary, Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl, when I was thirteen which happens to be the same age Anne was when

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THE DARK TOURIST by Dawn Major

she lived in the secret annex with her family and another family. The book had such an impact on me that visiting her house was on my “Must See” list. And yes, there was something that piqued my darker interest; I am a believer in ghosts, and I wondered if I might see the ghost of Anne. However, my real fascination came from my desire to have a deeper biographical view into the life she described in her diary. Reading her diary entries and touring her last home will never convey her experience of living in German occupied Holland or her daily fear the Nazis would discover them. I don’t think it was a presence per se, but upon entering the house, I felt a heaviness. I think it’s because their lives, like so many, were lamentably truncated by evil. If any residual energy remains yet, I believe it came from the house absorbing fear and then the terror of being discovered. Their worst fears came true; they were found by the Nazis, arrested, and sent to Death Camps. Even though my sister and I left in tears, I would highly recommend visiting the museum. If anything, it’s historically relevant. And I don’t believe for a second that Anne haunts the secret annex. In fact, I like to imagine she is free to laugh and sing out loud without the worry of being heard, to be a silly teenager, to find love, and live a long and happy life, the life she was denied. If any of the house’s former residents still linger,

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then it is echoed by the visitors themselves in whispers and their muffled crying. Since my entry into dark tourism, I’ve gone on several ghost tours and even visited abandoned cemeteries in ghost towns. In Savannah, GA my sister and I went on a pub ghost tour (we probably scared off the dead!) and me and my family went on another ghost tour of the city in a hearse. I figured it would serve as my test drive for, well you know, when I’m being piloted to my final destination. I have stayed at haunted hotels: The Marshall House in Savannah, GA and the Menger Hotel in San Antonio, TX. The Marshall House functioned as a hospital twice: a Union hospital during the Civil War and again during the Spanish Flu. Workers unearthed human remains under floorboards that are said to be the amputated limbs of solders. A ghost kept hiding my sister’s stuff. I swear half the time we stayed there, she was searching for jewelry and she’ s extremely OCD and super organized. I never

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THE DARK TOURIST by Dawn Major

slept in the room. Sometime during the witching hour I’d leave our room, travel down the stairs to the lobby and sleep on a sapphire blue velvet couch. I don’t know why, and the hotel staff didn’t mind. I probably wasn’t the first person to do this. People claim the ghost of Teddy Roosevelt will belly up to the Menger Bar and recruit people to join his Rough Riders. I didn’t see Teddy, but I will say the carpeted long halls reminded me of the halls of the Overlook Hotel from the movie, The Shining. Very creepy. Speaking of one October my husband and I booked The Shining experience at Hotel Clermont in Atlanta. It comes with a bottle of Jack, a typewriter with pages and pages of “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” typed on them. “REDRUM” in red lipstick is written across the mirror.

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There’s something that really freaked me out during our stay, but I won’t ruin it in case you decide to book it. I was hoping they would chop the hotel room down with an axe, but when I requested it the front desk folks gave me a strange look. Hey, if you’re going there, I say go full throttle. While I’m on the subject of the horror genre, I must share one of my favorite tours that was in Bangor, ME. You got it, the Stephen King Tour! While some of the locations may not be considered fall exactly under the realm of dark tourism, my interest as extended to horrorgenre related tours or places. King was greatly influenced by the real town of Bangor; the town inspired many of his

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settings in his fictional town of Derry, ME. It felt like I was walking into one of his books or movies. Well, obviously we visited Mount Hope Cemetery and Crematory where the original Pet Sematary was filmed. Remember? Stephen King was the minister at Gage’s funeral (to this day I still can’t leave my Achilles tendon exposed to the underneath of any bed). There’s a

tombstone in the same cemetery, CARRIE M., that is speculated to have inspired the novel and movie, Carrie, but it hasn’t been confirmed by King. My pal Raymond Adkins hunts for character names in cemeteries. This not an uncommon practice

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for writers, by the way. Shoutout, Adkins has written a collection of poetry all inspired by tombstones and cemeteries, but, sorry, you’ll have to wait for that little treat until Fall of 2024. We visited the Thomas Hill Standpipe, a gorgeous water tower and a national historical landmark. The character of Stan Uris from It first encounters Pennywise on the stairs in the Derry water tower. When King still lived in Bangor, he would write sitting on a bench in a small park shadowed by the Standpipe. Naturally, I took a seat. It’s called talent osmosis which is what I’m trying to achieve when I visit author graves.

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Here’s a sad, but true story I heard on the tour. A homophobic hate crime occurred in the 1980s in Bangor that resulted in the drowning of Charles O. Howard. We passed over the bridge where Howard was thrown over. There’s a memorial there today. The crime really unsettled the town (as it should) and affected King’s writing of It. The misfit kid characters in the Loser’s group are constantly harassed; bullying is a central theme in It. Ironically, the one place on the SK Tour that was the scariest to me was based on reality and not King’s fiction. Of course, we visited King’s famous blood red Victorian home (just the outside). The Kings don’t reside there anymore. It now serves as the location for the Stephen and Tabitha King Foundation which supports social and environmental causes in the communities of Maine,

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particularly in art, literacy, and community services. The Kings also bought the house next door, restored it, and turned it into a guest house. If Stephen and Tabitha King happen upon this essay, I’m free whenever! A wrought iron fence decorated with cobwebs, dragons, and spiders decorate the wrought iron fence that surrounds the house. There’s a dead ash tree in the yard, but rather than remove it, Tabitha commissioned a woodcarver to turn it into a bookshelf ornamented with animals and books. It was done with a chainsaw! There are two kitties. Perhaps, one represents Leo the cat from Pet Sematary

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THE DARK TOURIST by Dawn Major

and the other the cat, General, from Cat’s Eye. A dragon emerges from the back of tree, memorializing King’s high fantasy, The Eyes of the Dragon. There are also crows, a giant owl, a squirrel, and a corgi (a favorite pet of the Kings I later learned) Our tour guide, who knows the Kings, took us by the sewage drain where Pennywise resides. We lined up to get photos next to the manhole cover and we were visited by Pennywise. He grew up with King’s children and he told us that when he was walking to school one day noticed Mr. King standing over the manhole lid studying it. Things that only occur if Stephen King is your neighbor, right! I could go on and on about all the cool places we visited on that tour—the Paul

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Bunyan statute (another It film and literary reference. Go find it!), the Bangor Waterworks Plant (think enormous mutant rats from Graveyard Shift) Carrie’s high school (keep in mind, Carrie is a character and a work of fiction)—but I don’t want to give too much more away. The SK Tour (SKtour.com) is a must for King junkies and was incredibly fun. I hope WELL READ readers who may have been unfamiliar with dark tourism or didn’t understand why some of us seem a little morbid, now have a better concept. Cemeteries like Oakland Cemetery host concerts and a there’s also a 5K on or near Halloween. You can dress up in costume and run through the cemetery. I’m a member of the Atlanta Chapter of Horror Writers Association and we’ve adopted a cemetery that had become overgrown. Think about it. When the families die off so do the people who tend the graves. Dark tourism (and even perceivably darker interests) is not only about tragedy. It may support the maintenance and repair of beautiful places in your own city. You might learn something, too. So, I leave readers with an assignment: Stay away from manhole covers and HAVE A SAFE AND SPOOKY HALLOWEEN!

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THE DARK TOURIST by Dawn Major

Abandoned cemetery in Dalamar, NV

Delamar Ghost Town in Dalamar, NV

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THE DARK TOURIST by Dawn Major

“The Last Supper” sculptures by Albert Szukalski at the Goldwell Open-air Museum in Rhyolite, NV

Dawn Major is an associate editor at Southern Literary Review and graduate of the Etowah Valley Creative Writing MFA Program. In 2019, she was awarded the Dr. Robert Driscoll Excellence in Writing Award, as well as Reinhardt University’s Faculty Choice Award. She was a recipient of the James Dickey Review Literary Editor Fellowship in 2018. Her publications may be found in: Well Read Magazine, Heavy Feather Review, Southern Literary Review, Georgia Gothic Anthology, Springer Mountain Press, Elder Mountain: A Journal of Ozark Studies, Five Points, amongst many others. Major is a member of the William Gay Archive and has helped edit and publish the late author’s works. She also advocates for southern authors on her blog SouthernRead. She lives in Atlanta, GA with her family. The Bystanders is Major’s debut novel. Visit www.dawnmajor.com for more about Major.

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WHAT ARE YO

OU READING?

WHAT ARE YOU READING?

Roads by Daren Dean "Dean deftly creates an atmosphere of claustrophobia and desperation that practically seeps out of the pages. Dannie's attempts to make sense of both her past and present . . . with this grim, twisty tale providing its own cast of memorable characters. And perhaps most impressively of all, every bit of the story's tension manages to implode in a jaw-dropping final act. A gripping tale of brutal murder, betrayal, and redemption that will challenge readers' assumptions."—Kirkus Reviews "From the opening page, Daren Dean propels the reader into his story and never taps the brakes as his characters move toward an inevitable reckoning. Dannie Gail Posey is the novel's young heroine, and we cheer her on as she navigates a violent world that seeks to entrap her even as she dreams of escaping it. Roads confirms Daren Dean as an important new voice in rural noir."—Ron Rash, Author of In The Valley, Serena, The Risen, The World Made Straight, One Foot in Eden “…His command of prose is so strong that I feel some of his sentences are just like that old one-two punch; they send me reeling and then stay with me for days."—Jon Boilard, author of Junk City, Settright Road, The Castaway Lounge, A River Closely Watched

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BOOKS TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

Perfectly Normal by Zachary Steele For sixteen-year-old Nate Alexander, music is more than sound. It's a symphony of color, vibrant and beautiful, a blessing and a curse. For all that he may love about living with Chromesthesia, however, the added weight of undiagnosed autism clutters his life daily, turning school into a trial of his oddness, social encounters into a jumble of confusion, and leaving him on uneven footing with a father determined to make him more "normal." The arrival of Julian Mack, an openly gay new student quickly gaining the attention of bullies, draws Nate into a friendship that tests the limits of what he can endure. Absorbed by the need to please Julian, Nate is quickly at odds with his best friend Michelle and her efforts to protect him. As Nate struggles to find what meaning music has in his life, rumors about him swirl around school, leaving him to decide between defending Julian and his reputation or the safety and comfort of his haven of music and color. “Perfectly Normal is a full sensory experience, a symphony of character, voice, and music. With rare sensitivity, Steele brings us into a boy’s life that is as uncommon as it is misunderstood — when music comes alive in color. Steele asks the important question — what is normal and who is privileged to define it? Fascinating, heartfelt, and deeply moving, Perfectly Normal will open you to new ways of being in the world.”—Patti Callahan Henry, New York Times bestselling author of The Secret Book of Flora Lea

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WHAT ARE YOU READING?

The Brisling Code by J. L. Oakley An experienced intelligence agent at 22, Tore Haugland faces certain danger when he accepts an assignment in occupied Norway knowing that his predecessor was killed by the Gestapo only a week before. The dying agent left a mysterious message in his interruption code that London calls the “Brisling Code.” London wants Haugland to find out what it means as well as to gather information on the expansion of the U boat base in Bergen. Haugland is sent to work at a drafting office in a shipyard. His mission is jeopardized when a ruthless SS officer, Hans Becker, with his own secrets, is alerted to his presence by a traitor at the Verks. Becker will do anything to find him. If Haugland can’t discover the meaning of the Brisling Code in time, it could cost him his life and expose the members of the local resistance he works with. If he does, it could hurt the people he has grown to care about. But what if the message was written down wrong?

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BOOKS TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

The Witches of Moonlight Ridge by Ramey Channell "Erskine grabbed hold of our hands in an exuberant grip, me on one side and Willie T. on the other, took a deep breath and broke out singing the end of the Highwayman song in a strong and surprisingly pleasant voice. ‘And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees …’ And that's the last sound we heard before the ground disappeared from beneath our feet." This is the second book in the Moonlight Ridge Series follows the adventures of Lily Claire Nash and her cousin, Willie T. Nock, two precocious children in the woods of 1950s Alabama. Ghosts, hauntings, scary tales told 'round the evening fire, witches, and famous legends weave a story of mystery, romance, and tragedy.

OCTOBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 15

WHAT ARE YOU READING?

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

Featuring stories by: Marlin Barton + Rick Bragg + Sonny Brewer + Doug Crandell + Pia Z. Ehrhardt + David Wright Falade’ + Beth Ann Fennelly + Joe Formichella + Patricia Foster + Tom Franklin + Robert Gatewood + Jason Headley + Jim Gilbert + Frank Turner Hollon + Suzanne Hudson + Joshilyn Jackson + Bret Anthony Johnston + Abbott Kahler + Doug Kelley + Cassandra King + Suzanne Kingsbury + Bev Marshall + Michael Morris + Janet Nodar + Jennifer Paddock + Theodore Pitsios + Lynn Pruett + Ron Rash + Michelle Richmond + Dayne Sherman + George Singleton + Robert St. John + Sidney Thompson + Daniel Wallace + Daren Wang + James Whorton, Jr. + Mac Walcott + Karen Spears Zacharias 54

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BOOKS TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

“This collection is quite positively on fire with humor and heartache, darkness and light, and countless blazing turns of phrase. An essential addition to every Southern reader’s collection. I have known and admired a fair number of writers in these pages for a long time but seeing their work all together like this fills me up with love, love, love.” —Michael Knight, Eveningland, winner of a Truman Capote Award, a NYTimes editor’s pick, and a Southern Book of the Year (Southern Living Magazine) Bookshelf: 3 new books from small Southern presses

PUBLICATION: NOVEMBER 18, 2023

OCTOBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 15

WHAT ARE YOU READING?

On Boneyard Island, Georgia, where everyone’s weirdly kin, 13-year-old Lucille is marooned when her mother goes AWOL with an old flame, leaving Lucille with only her father’s ashes, two half-siblings, and Will, the misanthropic manager of the island’s only motel. The abandonment kills hope of Lucille’s promised snorkeling trip to the Florida Reef before ocean heat kills the coral and illusions she’s harbored about her mother’s sanity. Everybody Here Is Kin explores the lives of this sinking family, the island community, and fears of exposing wounds, old and new, when natural disaster forces them to trust, and depend on, strangers.

Humankind confronts its fraught relationship with the natural world in the stories of Ring of Earth, where William Woolfitt traces the history of survival and resistance in his home region of Appalachia. Woolfitt’s characters find ways to reclaim, repossess, and re-sacralize what’s been taken from them, to reckon with the destruction of their environments, cultures, homes, and bodies. “The Sinks of Gandy” is based on historical accounts of a woman who shot one of the last eastern elks near Spruce Knob in the 1830s; in “Fire Season,” a dying father watches through his window the red spruce forests burning. Clay eaters, orphans, child miners, immigrant laborers, and the victims of illegal sterilizations are among the survivors in Ring of Earth who bear witness to our broken land as they search for the hope and the mystery that might still be “running and running beneath the shell of the earth.”

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BOOKS TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

This summer Sam Pickering and his wife Vicki attended a pro-fessional wrestling match in a small arena in Nova Scotia. They sat in folding chairs on the front row. They ate “Montreal Sausages” drowning in ketchup and awash with onions. They cheered heroes and laughed at villains. In the middle of one match, a naughty wrestler leaned over the ropes and staring at Sam, said, “If you keep laughing that hard, oldtimer, you’ll have a heart attack.” “What?” Sam said to Vicki. “Old-timer? Not me. That poor man had better see an eye doctor before

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

OCTOBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 15

“A sharp thriller . . . . and Moore deftly explores and develops relationships, both familial and romantic, and what someone is willing to do and forgive for the people we care about.” —Publisher’s Weekly/Booklife

A Woman's Guide to Search & Rescue Mary Carroll Moore

WHAT ARE YOU READING?

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

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BOOKS TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

man doesn’t respond, she opens the car door only to have the man slide out onto the ground. Startled, Josiah searches for a pulse, but it’s too late. The man is dead. Josiah Reynolds Mysteries: Death By A HoneyBee Death By Drowning Death By Bridle Death By Bourbon Death By Lotto Death By Chocolate Death By Haunting Death By Derby Death By Design Death By Malice Death By Drama Death By Stalking Death By Deceit Death By Magic Death By Shock Death By Chance Death By Poison Death By Greed Death By Theft

OCTOBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 15

WHAT ARE YOU READING?

Pa’l Otro Lado, a prequel to Mariguano, spans five generations of violence and tragedy in the Cortina family while narrating their forced migration to the United States from Northern Mexico. It is the tale of every working-class family who has come to realize that “you just can’t win.” Hunger and poverty drive the characters in this novel to abandon all hopes of attaining the American Dream and to resign themselves simply to survive. P’al Otro Lado is full of the baddest hombres and the nastiest women we all know, love, and call family.

No Evil Is Wide is the violent story of an unnamed narrator, the prostitute he is tasked to “find,” and Carpenter Wells, a man who has lost his soul and wanders, empty, unable to quench his desire. The remembrances of the narrator revolve around sexual awakening, family distance, and dissolution—how they crumble to common and inevitable animalism. It is filled with philosophical epistles to the reader that concretize the themes of the work. The narrative that allows the reader purchase within the text begins with the narrator locating the unnamed girl while the world devolves into a chaotic madness of bombings and destruction not dissimilar to contemporary existence. This chaos serves as an uncanny reminder of the everyday violence we overlook.

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BOOKS TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

Ell, a millennial of European and Mexican heritage, has one humorous children’s book published, but her more serious writing projects are stalled, her boyfriend has dumped her, and she is deeply frightened by a recurring dream. To solve her problems, she delves into family mysteries—Civil Warera slaveholding, madness, and theft of artifacts. The key to all, previously unknown to Ell but remarkable, is a female Confederate warrior ancestor whose nightmare echoes her own. By tracing both of their dreams to ancient times, and by using insights from modern genetic theory, Ell solves the mysteries and enables herself to move forward.

OCTOBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 15

WHAT ARE YOU READING?

The Bystanders by Dawn Major "Without a doubt, Dawn Major is thoroughly schooled in the full-blown existence of jealousy, lust, love, confusion, pettiness, mystery, violence, hope, et al, exhibited by smalltown denizens..The Bystanders stands tall in the world of coming-ofage novels"-George Singleton, author of You Want More: Selected Stories "Intelligent, humorous, and sublimely original...a master tapestry of rural Missouri life in the 1980s..."-Robert Gwaltney, award winning author of The Cicada Tree "Flannery O'Connor and Eudora Welty move over, there is a new voice on the stage, Dawn Major's first novel, The Bystanders, is about to enter the ranks of Southern Literature."-J.M. White, Author of Pulling Down The Sun and The Beyond Within

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BOOKS TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

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

OCTOBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 15

WHAT ARE YOU READING?

Privilege by Claire Matturro WHEN BEAUTIFUL, JADED ATTORNEY RUBY RANDOLPH IS ARRESTED FOR KILLING HER SNAKE OF A LAWYER HUSBAND, NOBODY BLAMES HER—EXCEPT THE COP WHO LOVES HER. “Claire Matturro’s twisted, intense mystery layers one deception over another in rapid-fire delivery that will keep you reading until the wee hours. Forget sleep—this sizzling, sexy story will leave you breathless.”—Donna Meredith, awardwinning author and associate editor of Southern Literary Review “Only a lawyer [like Claire Matturro] would know the inner workings of a law firm. Only a great writer can make it so thrilling. Privilege is a great read.”—James O. Born, NYT best-selling author of crime and thriller novels. “Welcome to a read that is as steamy as a Florida swamp on a hot August night. …Secrets and secret lovers make it a riveting page turner as each layer of this captivating mystery is slowly revealed.”—Andrew Nance, author of All the Lovely Children.

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BOOKS TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

The Seeker by Carolyn Haines Aine Cahill has escaped her troubled past through her studies. A graduate student researching Henry David Thoreau, Aine has a secret. One that may bring her fame and a guaranteed job. The notoriously reclusive Thoreau had a companion at his Walden Pond retreat. Aine’s aunt Bonnie, a woman ahead of her time in many regards, lived with Thoreau in his small cabin—and Aine has her aunt’s diary to prove it. Aine’s dissertation will blow a hole in the legend of Thoreau, but as Aine wanders the wooded Massachusetts land near Walden, she discovers a much darker, and far more dangerous secret. Someone is following her. A young girl who disappears without leaving a trace. Who is this child and what does she want? The Cahill family, with a long and bloody past of piracy and whaling, has left Aine a legacy. One she doesn’t want. When tragedy strikes the town and Aine becomes the prime suspect, she must discover the truth of her “gift,” the young girl, and the diary. Is any of it real, or is Aine losing her mind?

OCTOBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 15

WHAT ARE YOU READING?

Walking The Wrong Way Home by Mandy Haynes "It may be fiction but it's all true. Mandy writes razor-sharp, downto-the bone southern tales about total strangers that you've known your whole life. She knows us better than we know ourselves. This is the good stuff." Mike Henderson, singer/songwriter, musician, and all around badass

Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth: Eva and other stories by Mandy Haynes “Sharp as a Serpent’s Tooth is the best collection of short stories I have ever read. The characters, like June Bug and Eva, are delightful, quirky, and engaging. The plots are mesmerizing, unique, and page-turning. The southern country setting adds texture and delight with its Pentecostal Preachers, snakes, and speaking in tongues. Mandy Haynes has put together a beautiful collection with a southern voice that drawls off the page.” Five Star Reader Review

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BOOKS TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

Oliver by Mandy Haynes “What a sweet Southern yarn. Make no mistake: the narrator has plenty of spitfire and sass, which keeps the tale lively, but it's the sweet brother most of the town has bullied and dismissed who carries the story to its heartwarming conclusion. The author has a good ear for Southern dialogue and prose rhythms, but this is a tale that calls upon the Yiddish and Eastern European tradition of the wise fool. Think Isaac Bashevis Singer, "Gimpel, The Fool," for example. Think Aristotle and peripitas, or reversals, in which the weak become mighty and the mighty weak, and then just enjoy a good, colloquial Southern read.” Five Star Reader Review

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 collection and a novella. She is a co-editor of the Southern Writers Reading reunion anthology, The Best of the Shortest. Mandy is also the editor-in-chief of WELL READ Magazine, an online literary journal created to give authors affordable advertising options, fun publishing opportunities, and create a community 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.

OCTOBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 15

WHY YOU SHOULD ADVERTISE IN WELL READ

When you purchase an “ad” for $50, you get a full page slot in WELL READ’s What Are You Reading? section with a live link to your website and a live purchase link of your choice. Readers asked for full page, easy to read, “book recommendations” in place of traditional looking advertisements and I was happy to oblige. As a bonus, there are personalized individual graphics made of your book image and author photo (if you choose to purchase a two page spread or more) with your book description and/or blurbs, bio, etc., shared to eight additional FB bookish accounts and to WELL READ Magazine’s Instagram, Pinterest, and Facebook sites – (that’s 39K potential views of your book when you combine all the sites). WELL READ is distributed through ISSUU (the world’s largest digital publishing and discovery platform available). WELL READ Magazine receives an average of 7,000 views each month from readers all over the world. Past issues are available and easily discovered on Issuu’s site. *All PAST issues, including the article and visual stories, remain active and are linked to the current issue. You can continue to share them for as long as you like. There is strength in numbers. Your “ad” will be included with the featured authors, great interviews, submissions, and the other fantastic books readers look for to add to their reading lists.

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OCTOBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 15

HOMEBOUND - Real-life characters in our hometowns

HOMEBOUND Real-life characters in our hometowns

Special Halloween Edition

“…The fact that the plants seem to know exactly what they’re doing and how to catch their prey so efficiently just baffles me. To watch the tendril slowly creep down until it reaches the ground and then inflates a beautiful pitcher that rivals many of the world’s most beautiful flowers… that is what I find so fascinating.”

Carolyn Haines takes us for a walk on the wild side of Mobile County with The Bog Father - Stephen Randy Davis 72

WELL READ MAGAZINE

Meet The Bog Father, Stephen Randy Davis

Stephen R. Davis, owner of Bog Father Plants, denies that any of his “children” are named Aubrey II. But it might not be wise to completely believe the disclaimers of such an articulate owner of a carnivorous plant company. All of his plants are flesh eating. And they are ready for Halloween! (Ignore the fact that they eat mostly insects. Think of the possibility if they could eat, say, a body!) The local Mobile County businessman, assisted with the plant and critter care by Kyle Colson, has curated one of the largest collections of carnivorous plants in the region, and his affection for the beautiful—and deadly—flora is clear. Many of the plants are worth hundreds of dollars, some so rare that he has a waiting list of those who want cuttings, buds, or tendrils. A visit to the garden is the perfect prelude to Halloween and the creation of talks and tales from the dark side of…gardening. In LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS, the protagonist

OCTOBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 15

HOMEWARD ANGLE - Real-life characters in our hometowns

Seymore finds an unusual plant in his garden. He names the Plant Audrey II, a tribute to the human Audrey he has a crush on. But Audrey II is an alien with plans for world domination. Audrey II has many talents, among them gobbling down Seymore’s enemies. Until, of course, Aubrey II gets big and strong enough to want to gobble Seymore! Randy, as his family and friends call Stephen R., is not worried a bit about an Aubrey II takeover. Many of the plants in his excellent care are local to the region, but he also has a number of exotic plants from around the globe. None from outer space, as of yet. So far, none of his friends, family—or enemies— have disappeared in the humidified, climate controlled “grow” room where most of the plants reside. Randy has self-labeled as a so-called “plant freak.” “Many years ago when I came in contact with my first Nepenthes, the Asian pitcher plants sometimes called “monkey cups”, I quickly became totally enamored at

WELL READ MAGAZINE

Meet The Bog Father, Stephen Randy Davis

their bizarre morphology and the rarity of some of the most desired species in the Nepenthes trade.”

Randy has some 200 Nepenthes consisting of mostly species, some natural hybrids and a few non-naturally occurring man-made hybrids! (If the horror references must continue, can I use Dr. Frankenstein? Is Randy playing evil doctor to create a man-eater?) Naw. He cares too much about his insect-eating babies. “Each and every one of my Nepenthes plants are extremely special to me. I spend hours cutting and watering and fertilizing in the grow room each day. They can be quite needy with their environmental requirements, and I love providing them with that so that I can watch them grow and thrive.” Randy isn’t alone in his love of these beautiful and

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HOMEWARD ANGLE - Real-life characters in our hometowns

environmentally helpful plants. “I’m very excited to be a part of the Nepenthes community. Though a relatively small community, there are others out there like me all around the world with extensive, very rare collections. They propagate and trade with other members to grow and add to our collections. I mostly keep in contact with members via Instagram as many famous collectors are not in the United States. I sometimes get requests for seeds and pollen from outside the US. “Alabama and many areas of the United States are home to several different species of carnivorous plants. Although I specialize in Nepenthes, I do grow the native Sarracenia pitcher plants and several species of native sundews.” Like any good plant daddy, Randy loves his “children.”

WELL READ MAGAZINE

Meet The Bog Father, Stephen Randy Davis

“I find the pitchers to be absolutely stunning works of art and nature. The very slow growing nature of Nepenthes makes the wait even more worthwhile when you get to see mature, vining specimens in your collection that took many years to grow from seed or cuttings. The fact that

OCTOBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 15

HOMEWARD ANGLE - Real-life characters in our hometowns

the plants seem to know exactly what they’re doing and how to catch their prey so efficiently just baffles me. To watch the tendril slowly creep down until it reaches the ground and then inflates a beautiful pitcher that rivals many of the world’s most beautiful flowers… that is what I find so fascinating.” While the

WELL READ MAGAZINE

Meet The Bog Father, Stephen Randy Davis

plants are the focus of this article, there are many interesting creatures at Casa Randy. “Yes! I do tend to like the more unusual plants and creatures. I have a few reptiles as well: a Savannah monitor, leopard geckos, a Russian tortoise, and a Chinese cave gecko. “I’ve always been a bird person and so I have an aviary with an extensive collection of many exotic birds ranging from peacocks to the beautiful mandarin wood duck and pigeons of every color and pattern imaginable. My baby though is a large, white Chinese goose. Her name is Jennifer and she’s one of the sweetest birds I’ve ever had the pleasure of owning. I rescued her from a home where all of her mates were killed by dogs. She was the only survivor and now she lives

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HOMEWARD ANGLE - Real-life characters in our hometowns

a life of luxury in the aviary with her favorite pals. Jennifer can be a bit jealous, though, and will sometimes hiss at guests if they get between her and me.” Jennifer and the other birds are easier to feed than the many plants Randy and Kyle tend every single day. The plant room has a lot of expensive equipment which keeps the climate regulated and the plants at the proper temperature. Randy only recently had to replace the whole humidifying and water system, which was a near crisis, since the plants are so sensitive they must have pure water. Insects and other small creatures inevitably make their way into the grow room where most of the time they are devoured. “I sometimes feed insects to my plants but mostly I put fertilizer pellets or sometimes fish food in the pitchers. I also spray a weak foliar fertilizer on the leaves every couple of weeks to help with overall growth. Generally, it isn’t recommended to feed the plant via its roots as carnivorous plants are native to areas with relatively pure water and very little minerals or nutrients in their media and therefore their roots are not designed to absorb those nutrients. The plant does photosynthesize but mainly the plant feeds via its many pitchers.” While Randy loves his plants, he also has a sense of humor. “I think many of my plants could take the lead role in a horror film! If I had to choose one, I’d say Nepenthes Lingulata would be my number one creepy plant. Mine are

WELL READ MAGAZINE

Meet The Bog Father, Stephen Randy Davis

quite small still but more mature specimens produce long, dark pitchers with a hook at the bottom of the lid that secretes nectar over the rim of the pitcher. So beautiful but so deadly!” As a self-labeled “plant freak”, Randy has interests outside the carnivores. “I do grow some plants other than carnivores. I’m quite fond of many of the more rare, largeleafed orchids like those in the genus Bulbophyllum. B. Beccarii has to be one of my favorite plants besides my Nepenthes. I usually sell one to two leaf cuttings at around $200 each.” For Randy, the plants and creatures who share his home are a labor of love. They are rare and valuable, but more important is his connection to all the many beings he takes care of, regardless of monetary concerns. After touring Randy’s terrific set up, I’m only a tiny bit disappointed that none of the plants are yet big enough to take care of the dead body in my trunk! I guess I’m on the lookout for a hog farm now.

OCTOBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 15

HOMEWARD ANGLE - Real-life characters in our hometowns

WELL READ MAGAZINE

Meet The Bog Father, Stephen Randy Davis

If you’d like to talk to The Bog Father about his interesting collection of plants, you can connect with him here.

Carolyn Haines is the USA Today bestselling author of over 80 books. In 2020, she was inducted into the Alabama Writers Hall of Fame. She is a recipient of the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Alabama Library Association, the Harper Lee Award for Distinguished Writing, the Richard Wright Award for Literary Excellence, as well as the "Best Amateur Sleuth" award by Romantic Times. Born and raised in Mississippi, she now lives in Alabama on Good Fortune Farm Refuge with more dogs, cats, and horses than she can possibly keep track of.

OCTOBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 15

WELL DONE! Flash Fiction

WELL READ MAGAZINE

ACCOMPANIED by Diane Lefer

Accompanied Diane Lefer

Do dead people know when you’re thinking of them? There was a certain feel to the air, to the hum and quiet if she happened to be out walking on a Sunday morning. The streets weren’t dead. There were people, cars, but few, and she noticed them more because she felt accompanied but not imposed on. The song he used to sing, the title at least, always came back to her just then. Somewhere in her many moves she’d lost the record and she couldn’t remember the lyrics, down-and-out they were, she’s sure of that much, nothing like the peace and quiet of her morning walk. She feels peaceful most days. She’s got past it all. So many years ago, one night in the rain she walked out in traffic hoping to be hit. She’s embarrassed now to think she could ever have been so despondent. Ashamed now too, because she hadn’t cared how running her down

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WELL DONE! Flash Fiction

would have blighted a stranger’s life. Of course that didn’t happen. Horns honking, headlights, people shouting and she was back on the sidewalk. Standing outside a club. No cover charge so she went in. You were singing to me, she thinks. The desolation in your voice, that was like my own. But then you laughed at yourself, gently, and what I heard next was defiance. Something shifted that night. I may not want to live, she thought, but I will resist. On a napkin she wrote You saved my life. She gave it to a waiter, Give this to him, please, and left. Years later, they crossed paths, briefly, and she dared tell him. That note, he said. That was you. And that was it, the one time they met. Years later, she heard he had died. She doesn’t believe in an afterlife. But on the Sunday street, she wonders if he knows she thinks of him. It’s strange how she never thinks of the men who once drove her to despair. She says their names now, one by one, on the street, testing. There were days she thought she’d give her life at one time or another for each of them, would hold her hands in fire to ease their pain. Now she says their names aloud and feels nothing. There is something very cold inside her. Maybe she’s reached a perfect Buddha state of detachment. Maybe there’s something

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ACCOMPANIED by Diane Lefer

wrong with her. But when she says his name, her body responds with a tender unfurling. While he? Does he stir, confused, wondering what has troubled his rest? Do the dead know? His peace disturbed with a flicker of recognition, Oh, that was you!

Diane Lefer’s most recent novels feature scientists who become terrorism suspects (Out of Place) and baboons with broken hearts (Confessions of a Carnivore). She is the author of three story collections, including California Transit which received the Mary McCarthy Prize. Diane has worked with asylum-seekers, men on parole, youth affected by the criminal in/justice system, and vulnerable children in Colombia and Bolivia. She lives in Los Angeles where her only phone is a landline.

OCTOBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 15

WELL DONE! Fiction!

WELL READ MAGAZINE

BEST FRIENDS FOREVER by Mark Braught

Best Friends Forever Mark Braught

October in Georgia is the welcome reward we enjoy for surviving the unbearable heat and humidity of summer. We celebrate this annual event with the sacred southern traditions of football and festivals. Our rural county had a number of covered bridges that were a good excuse as any to create one of those festivals. These century-old structures, off the beaten paths of progress and paved, laned roads, were evidence that connected us to a much slower time as well as both sides of the creek it spanned. It was a wonderful opportunity for family and friends to gather and people to wander out of the city limits a few days to pick-up some homemade knick-knacks and collectibles of yesteryear. One bridge in particular captured the young imaginations of the area and loomed large in our curiosity and darkest dreams. The Concord bridge over Nickajack Creek.

OCTOBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 15

WELL DONE! Fiction

Originally built in 1848 . . . was burned down by Sherman’s troops on their march to Savannah in 1864 . . . and rebuilt on the very same footings in 1872. Every year Teri K. Holbrook, my childhood friend, and I meet on this bridge at midnight on Halloween to catchup, eat candy and most importantly, retell the local legend that has been passed on from generation to generation, to see who would lose their courage and retreat. This is our tradition. It is my job to bring the candy bars and her duty to supply the courage. Inevitably, no matter how much she brought, there was never enough courage to help me outlast her. This legend has it that at some time, long ago, there was an asylum, a place for unwanted children, now long gone, somewhere in the woods around Nickajack Creek. The tale goes on to describe that these unfortunate children were left pretty much to themselves with little or no care, and many of them died of starvation and neglect. The institution was closed, but it is widely believed that those unfortunate lost souls as well as all the others that passed away testing this legend, coming empty-handed, reside under the bridge still looking for sweet treats to eat. Every year, and there have been many now, I return to the stomping grounds of my childhood to visit family, see how the town has not really changed all that much and most importantly, see Teri, my best friend again. How is

WELL READ MAGAZINE

BEST FRIENDS FOREVER by Mark Braught

she? Has she changed any? I remember her as that curious, courageous, force-of-nature that I looked up to and felt that if I were around her enough I might become brave too. Maybe she needed to lead someone as much as I needed to be that someone to follow. We were a duo, facing challenges and adventures, mostly of her creation, together. Climbing trees, running farther, jumping higher, and exploring the unknown nooks and crannies of our little town and the curiosities waiting there to be discovered. These are my memories of our friendship and why she is still my dearest friend. It’s why I come back here every year to see her again. It’s getting darker, and the anxiety to get ready for our annual reunion is growing. There’s not really that much to do, but I do have to make sure I have enough Snickers bars for both of us. A full moon lights my solitary hike to the bridge along the dirt road edged by the looming white oaks and a growing fog. Only a whispering breeze and pesky insects interrupt my thoughts and the evertightening knot in my stomach wondering how she will surprise me this year. She seems to take way-too-much pleasure scaring the be-gezzes out of me. I know it’s coming. Don’t know when. I know it will be quick, of course it will be painless, but it has become our weird sort of “hello” and reminder to us both that I am still the Robin to her Batman. Some things can’t change.

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WELL DONE! Fiction

My footsteps create an echo as I step onto the wooden floor of the enclosed bridge and move a few steps in. I stop, look around and bark into the dark, “HELLO! . . . Teri?” Teri was not to be seen. Venturing forward, I inspected every inch of the walls, left and right and right to left until I stood in the center of the bridge. There is no sound and my eyes have adjusted this darkness. Inside my head I reassured myself, “Strategically, I’ve got this covered. I can see you coming from any direction and finally avoid being scared out of my wits. This is my year!” Silence, me, and the darkness stood waiting, occasionally asking the obvious question. “Teri?” Eventually, too much time had passed and it had to be admitted she wasn’t coming this year. “I hope she’s OK.” I thought, but between us I figured my friend had evolved to a point where there were other things more important and she was moving on. Feeling a bit rejected and a little hurt; I dropped my head, slid my hands into my pockets and turned to leave. As I lifted my eyes to get a bearing on the road, “DAMN IT TERI!” Who knows how long she had been standing there patiently, quietly behind me waiting for that inevitable

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BEST FRIENDS FOREVER by Mark Braught

moment I would turn around and jump out of my skin. After gathering my wits and composure I offer her a reluctant concession of, “Well done”. Standing there was Teri. Still the same with that friendly, crooked little grin and twinkling eyes that we both know is proclaiming her obvious victory. I couldn’t stop thinking how good it is to see her again. Quickly, I produce from my pocket candy bars for each of us, and together we unwrap and nibble our treats. We just stood there looking into each other fondly, chewing away. Finally, it couldn’t be contained any longer. “It’s so good to see you. How have you been?” I whispered. She lowered the chocolate from her lips and beamed, grinning from ear-to-ear and nodded happily. With that, she began to become transparent, thinning herself to the point she became part of the night fog and she was gone. Who knows why Teri shows up every year. The doubters in the group will believe it’s all about the candy, and she can’t resist the temptation of a free-sweet treat. I prefer to believe it is her way of letting me know she is doing well on the other side and my best friend forever.

OCTOBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 15

WELL DONE! Fiction

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BEST FRIENDS FOREVER by Mark Braught

Originally from Iowa, Mark Braught studied graphic design at the Minneapolis College of Art & Design, and graduated with a BFA from Indiana State University. The first ten years of his career were spent on the other side of the table as an art director and creative director. In 1984, he struck out on his own and created Mark Braught Studios to focus primarily on graphic design and illustration. He has created numerous award-winning visual solutions for various corporations, design firms, advertising agencies and publishers in the United States and locations world-wide. There have been lectures and presentations at schools, institutions, conferences, events, festivals, and organizations across the country and has taught as an adjunct faculty member at the University of Georgia, Portfolio Center, IvyTech, Hollins University, and the Creative Circus. Currently, Mark does his scribbling in Commerce, Georgia with words of encouragement and guidance from Figlette and Buddy.

*Art by Mark Braught

OCTOBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 15

WELL DONE! Fiction

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DESERT RAIN by Robb Grindstaff

Desert Rain Robb Grindstaff

Nothing smells quite like a desert rain. The drops fall on sand and dirt and dried scrub brush, releasing the odors of life from blossoms and fruit, from the dry, cracked earth and the brittle, brown branches of mesquite and juniper, of saltbush and creosote. Cordelia can count the number of rainstorms each year on her fingers, even with the missing index of her right hand. She’d learned to shoot left-handed after he’d removed her trigger finger with a pair of pliers. The pungent but pleasing aroma reaches her front porch on the breeze before the rain; sometimes the rain never arrives, but the sweet air provides evidence that it has indeed fallen somewhere in the Sonoran. The grackles and doves flutter about in anticipation, locating the nearest cover from the rare precipitation as a precaution. But even they don’t believe it. They will only take cover after the first fat dollops of water hit them and turn to glass beads

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hanging on wing or tail feathers, like something a roadside vendor would imitate with clear glue and sell to Midwestern tourists in their RVs. Cordelia always follows the birds’ lead. She sits on the porch, ready to move inside if needed and inhales deep through her nose, holding in the scent before releasing. The ragged porch roof provides no quarter when the sky erupts, but she’s never bothered to fix it. She has no neighbors on this northern slope of a gentle rise, capped by an outcrop of boulders and wind-hewn stone which keeps her ramshackle two rooms in at least partial shade during the hottest part of the year. If she had neighbors, she didn’t know quite how she would explain her relationship with Raymond. Not truly an ex, as he’d never consummated the marriage, and it didn’t feel right to call herself a widow either. Her eyes track the thunderhead as it moves north, off to her west. Jagged and angry sparks crackle across the horizon. A few reach down and assault the earth with violent jabs. The juvenile breeze matures into a wind, and nomadic shrubs rush ahead to escape or to warn the others of the coming storm. Cordelia sits in the rocking chair she built with her own two hands, her own nine fingers, rough pieces of twisted wood for arm and crest rails, planks from a fruit crate for a seat and back slats. It wobbles a bit from left to right, and

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one runner holds a knobby lump which thump-kathumpthumps with each pass, but it serves as a small bit of comfort in this inhospitable land. She prides herself in the workmanship, imperfect as it is, because it was the first rocker she ever made. The first piece of furniture, in fact. All from scrap lumber and pieces of sun-dried desert flotsam gathered from the wash at the bottom of her hill. When rains come, her ’73 Ford pickup can’t make it across the wash. Rain would also dampen the lone road that stretches along the distance, cutting a straight line at an angle from the southwest to the northeast. This twolane dirt road once served the noble purpose to deliver supplies to, and ore from, a mining camp that had gone dry in the 1920s. Now it serves only Cordelia, and the occasional mule or coyote who use the abandoned claim as a way station in the underground transportation system. A far cry, Cordelia thinks, from anything Miss Tubman would recognize, then she thinks it perhaps not so different after all. Once the rains come, the rooster tails of dust won’t signal the approach of vehicles, but the wash will deter any would-be visitors. Thump-kathump. She plants her feet on the floorboards of the porch and holds the rocker still. She shoulders her Winchester 88 and eyes the sights to a stand of cholla a hundred yards away. Picking a single tubercle, Cordelia squeezes and watches it

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explode in a puff of silvery needles. She levers the next round without taking her eye from the sight, then sweeps to her left. The road is out of range, but the wash just inside. In a dozen years, she’s become a better marksman southpaw than she’d been as a righty, but the lever action still feels awkward. When Raymond comes to visit, she’ll be a better shot than before but she won’t be able to get off as many rounds. She’ll need to make the first one count. Before, right-handed, she could’ve squeezed and levered three times. Now she must drop him in one. She can’t miss. Between the eyes. At worst, in the eye. His one remaining. Raymond had been there when Cordelia’s mother screamed in labor and brought her into the world. He always likes to joke that he’ll be there when she leaves this world. She, of course, doesn’t remember meeting him then. Her mother had continued screaming after Raymond cut the umbilical cord with his teeth. She screamed until he kicked her in the mouth. Then she lay on the floor and whimpered, blood trickling from both ends. Cordelia’s mother had told her the story from the time she was old enough to remember. The state eventually removed the mother from her parental responsibilities and assigned her a bed at the Phoenix Hospital for the Mentally Ill. Raymond didn’t show up again until Cordelia’s twelfth

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birthday. He managed to get past the security desk at Durango Juvenile Detention Facility For Girls without notice, well after visiting hours. “I’m sure you don’t remember me,” he whispered in her ear as he slid his hand under her nightshirt. The ward held fifteen girls in a single large room, lined nearly wall-to-wall by single beds no larger than cots with hard thin mattresses. His breath smelled of the girls’ bathroom when the toilets backed up. If she’d screamed, the bare fluorescent tubes would have flickered on and Miss Fulton would have demanded to know who was causing a ruckus after lights out. But by the time Cordelia realized she wasn’t asleep—it wasn’t a nightmare this time, he really was there, groping her, scraping her most tender flesh with his dry fingers—she could no longer scream. His hand clamped on the back of her neck as his thumb pressed into her throat and blocked any sound she tried to make, any breath she tried to take. She did remember him. From her mother’s stories, certainly, but she recalled the smell. It was not a smell she could ever completely purge from her nostrils. Only in a desert rain would this foulest of odors dissipate. “I’m glad to see you’re still a virgin,” he whispered. Even as she faded from consciousness, unable to breathe, succumbing to the darkness, his scent permeated her soul.

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She felt, more than smelled, his stench. Her eyes burned, a thick heat pressed against the side of her face. It wasn’t his breath, but a steam that came from inside him, escaped through his pores, through his eyes, through every orifice of his body. She awoke at lights on. Miss Fulton made her shower after the other girls complained of her body odor even though it wasn’t a shower day. “Make her douche too,” one tough girl suggested. “I think her pussy is rotten.” Miss Fulton didn’t make her douche, but Cordelia scrubbed herself raw from head to toe, twice, even between her legs where the skin was already red and painful from Raymond’s brutal probing. That’s when she knew for certain it had been no nightmare. She recalled his visit, his final words as he took his leave. “Make sure you stay a virgin until I return for you, my bride. You’ll want your wedding night to be special.” He visited every night for weeks, but only in her dreams. In her dreams, he raped her, his ‘thing,’ as she knew it by, larger than probability and covered in cedar bark or dried moss. In her dreams, his odor clamped around her throat until she could no longer breathe. Awake, while his scent gradually faded from her body to the point no one else noticed, it never left her nasal passages. Only a desert rain chases his essence from her. Cordelia

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sits on her front porch, sighting her Winchester at distant clumps of prickly pear or a jackrabbit venturing forth before the rains come. Normally she welcomes the rain, the relief from him, the momentary absence of him before the clouds depart, night falls, and his putrescence returns to torment her sleep. “Why does it have to rain today, of all days?” she asks herself out loud before putting a single round through the left ear of the jackrabbit at thirty yards in full run. Thunder tumbles in the distance, merging with the rifle’s report in an ominous drumbeat. She adds two more cartridges to the magazine even though she’d only have one shot. If that. If the rain doesn’t mask his arrival. After three years in Durango, they let her live with a foster family who specialized in emotionally disturbed children until she turned eighteen. After a failed six-week stint at junior college, and an abysmal six-day attempt at waiting tables, Cordelia joined the Army, a most successful move. Made expert marksman back when she had all ten fingers. On the eve of her twenty-fourth birthday, the day most brides would be partying with their bridesmaids or having one last fling or rearranging the seating chart for the reception dinner, Cordelia sat in her barracks room alone, cleaning and piecing together her M16. Stationed in

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Germany at the height of the Cold War, she was unsure if Raymond had the means to travel overseas, but she took no chances. Nothing masked his arrival on their planned wedding night – his planned wedding night. The scent of him, ever-present, grew immense and choked the air from her lungs several minutes before he turned the locked doorknob and walked in. “My lovely bride,” he said as the door closed behind him. Her vision blurred at the stench, but she blinked back tears and fired one round through his left eye, removing a goodly portion of the back and side of his skull and tossing them, along with bits of red and gray, against the cinder block wall. “Not tonight, dear,” Raymond said as he gathered skull fragments and studied them like pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. “I have a headache.” He shook from laughing at his own joke. He left before she could gather her senses and squeeze the trigger a second time. She sat immobile, weapon trained on the door, until his scent faded to the normal faint trace she carried with her. She cleaned up the wall and the floor, flushing his greasy hair and scalp and brain remnants down the commode, rinsing bloody towels in the sink, scrubbing until no trace of him remained.

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The bullet hole in the wall and the unauthorized weapon in her room brought an inglorious end to her military career. An honorable discharge for medical reasons, they allowed. She begins rocking again, thump-kathump-thump, and watches the barely visible tire tracks that lead from her cabin down to the wash and beyond to the mining road. At least the rain has yet to arrive, so she might see the dust his boots would kick up even while he is still too far away to see. He’d always entered through the front door, never sneaking around back or through a side window. He never made an effort to surprise as long as she was awake. Even though her bullets didn’t destroy him, they always sent him away. A shotgun blast on her thirty-sixth birthday removed his right cheek, part of his jaw, and a piece of his tongue. She had hoped to remove his entire head. “’ow do ’ou espeth me to kith ’ou now?” he said as he picked up the side of his face and tried to put it back in place. Cordelia has never been kissed. She remains a virgin, but not for Raymond. In spite of Raymond. She assumed that if she were no longer pure, his interest in her might wane. But all her efforts, even surrounded by horny young men and boys in the Army, had proved for naught. She was not an unattractive woman, but most men were quite

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frightened of her. She intimidated them. Cordelia wasn’t the friendliest, most approachable face in the room. The few who’d gotten close enough for her to nearly succeed in her quest had sudden changes of heart. Or turns of stomach. One threw up in her face and hair just as he grabbed himself to guide his entry—which at Cordelia’s insistence was about to occur without the formality of a precoital kiss. “Sorry, way too much to drink,” the soldier mumbled before he fled. She knew he’d only had two beers. But the hint of Raymond that drifts into her sinuses with every breath had floated around her room in nearly visible waves. Not as strong as when it heralds his impending visits, but enough so the young, nearly sober man caught a whiff and assumed it emanated from her. Once a couple stories of that nature wended their way through the barracks, no soldier ever again dared invade her captured territory. Perhaps, she thinks, thump-kathump, she should follow in her mother’s footsteps and remove herself from this life before Raymond succeeds in taking her virginity for himself. Why he would want to at this point, Cordelia doesn’t know. Surely she can no longer bear him a child destined to become his next bride. Perhaps by now it is the thrill of the chase for him, the conquest, the principle of the matter.

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When she was forty-eight and premenopausal, she thought she might no longer be fertile and therefore of no use or attraction to Raymond. If not, she wondered, will he leave me alone? It was this, his third planned night of consummation, that her hollow-point metal jacket penetrated his chest and exploded out his back in a hole so large she could see the kitchen light shining behind him. “Bith. Thith ith not funny anymore.” He was on her in a flash, so fast she never saw him move across the room. He sat on her chest and punched her in the face. When she came to, the crunch and grind of steel against bone threatened to send her back to the hidden place in her mind. She fought against the darkness, against the suffocating stench of rotting flesh and fecal matter so vivid it coated her tongue. She forced her eyes open to defy him no matter what hideous torments he might inflict. “Thith will be the lath time I’ll put up with thith nonthenthe,” he said, his face a mere inch from hers, his spittle dripping onto her lips. He stood and waved a finger at her. Her finger. Her trigger finger. “Nekt time, I ekpect a little warmer welcome.” Cordelia gazes out at the dirt road, the wash, the truck path to her front porch. No scent of him gets through the

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rain-softened desert air. A dark cloud bank on her left grows denser and closer. She counts the time between flash and boom on one hand. Her right hand. If the rain comes, she’ll never see his footsteps kick up the dust. She sets the rifle across her lap and visually measures how it compares to the length of her arm. Could she place the barrel in her mouth and still reach the trigger? Would she have the balls to follow through? Or would Raymond show up in the nick of time to save her from herself, only to shove something else down her throat when she is no longer in a position to shoot first? The first sounds are like approaching footsteps, huge round blops of rain that bounce from the hardpack every few feet. They grow faster and smaller and closer together. She moves her rocker a foot to the left to avoid the biggest leak in the porch roof. She cranks a round into the chamber and lays the rifle across her lap. Thump-kathumpthump-thump she rocks. “You’re looking ath lovely ath ever, my bride.” He stands in the rain not twenty feet from her porch. His wounds never heal, but dry over in scabby crusts. Thump-kathump-thump she rocks. “What do you want with me, Raymond? I’m sixty years old.” “Thikty? Why, that’th barely legal where I come from.”

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“Why don’t you go back where you came from and leave me alone?” “Aren’t you going to try to thoot me again, love?” He moves about ten feet to his right in a blur. “Think you’re quick enough thith time?” Before he finishes speaking he stands on the first of three wooden steps. Before he can speak again, she fires from where she sits, never raising the repeater from her lap. Levers and fires again. Levers, rocks forward kathump and fires again. Cordelia stands and walks to the edge of the porch. On the ground below her, Raymond grumbles and tries to stand. She pumps the lever and squeezes the trigger repeatedly until his head no longer exists. When his arms push up from the ground, she removes them with a quick shot to each shoulder. One final round explodes in his groin. Even if he does come back, he won’t have anything left to threaten her with. Cordelia sits down and watches while leg bones shattered by repeated gunfire push his torso across the desert floor. It takes him nearly an hour, and darkness falls as he hits the wash, now a raging creek. He slides down the bank into the water neck first and it sweeps him away to the Gulf of Mexico or perhaps a water treatment facility somewhere near Carefree. Or perhaps he’s gone back to where he comes from and would scrape and crawl across

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her porch in a dozen years and gurgle sweet nothings to her. The sky lightens as pale moonlight reflects around the trailing edge of the thunderhead. Soon, pinpricks of stars join in. Nothing smells quite like a desert rain. Even in the scorching furnace of the next afternoon’s severe clear skies, Cordelia smells only the sweet cactus blossoms and hardy blooms of ironwood and palo verde. ~~~ Desert Rain was originally published by Horror Bound magazine, and later selected by the magazine’s readers and editors as one of the top five short stories they’d ever published. The story is also included in Robb’s collection, June Bug Gothic: Tales from the South, published in 2022.

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DESERT RAIN by Robb Grindstaff

Robb Grindstaff’s career as a journalist and media executive took him from Texas, North Carolina, and Arizona to Washington DC, five years in Asia, and nine years in Wisconsin. He has four novels (including the award-winning SLADE) and a short story collection published with Evolved Publishing. Robb has been a fiction editor, book coach, and writing instructor for more than fifteen years. He has also taught writing courses for Novel-inProgress Writer Retreat and Workshop, Romance Writers of America (even though he’s not a romance writer) and Romance Writers of Australia (even though he’s not Australian). Robb’s writing is usually classified as contemporary southern lit, although he experiments a bit to keep things interesting. Robb currently lives in the Lake of the Ozarks of Missouri with his wife and his neurotic dog.

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BUZZARDS by David Malone

Buzzards David Malone

They say the evil twists beneath the house, with a rotten root that rears upward through the cratered fireplace. After all, how do you explain the murder in ’79, the kitchen fire in ’86, and the kidnapped boys back in ’55 when nothing like that ever happened? The Monday morning after Halloween proves it again: in the street an opossum rests mostly tail and head though she tried to drag herself back home into the pines. A breeze delivers the scent of death mixed with the mealy smell of fallen leaves, and the buzzards feast on what remains.

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Spooked when a lanky jogger passes, the vultures lift up as one— synchronized swimmers in the blue sky. They float into the five-story pines, dive into the dark skyward branches, and wait together at the edge.

“Buzzards” originally appeared in The Heartland Review as the 2nd place award winner in the 2022 Joy Bale Boone Prize. The poem is also included in Bypass (Aldrich Press 2023).

Dave Malone holds degrees from Ottawa University and Indiana State. He is a poet and screenwriter who lives in the Missouri Ozarks, and his most recent poetry book is Bypass (Aldrich Press, 2023). He can be found online at davemalone.net or on Instagram @dave.malone.

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I KNOW YOU by Mandy Haynes

I Know You Mandy Haynes

I know you. No, really, I know what you had for breakfast - steel cut oats with cinnamon, they’re not only good, but good for you! And what brand of soap is in your shower; it’s Irish Spring; fresh, invigorating - and which toothpaste you prefer - good old Crest Regular Paste of course. See? Told you. Listen to this; I know the name of your first pet. It was Bandit, a cute little black and tan dachshund. He was a good friend wasn’t he? The best little dog in the world. I also know which neighbor poisoned him. I saw it happen; I was with you when you found him. Oh, what a terrible day that was. I heard you crying as you buried him out by the oak tree in your parent’s backyard. I was there, standing right behind you; watching. I wanted to tell you it was Mr. Pritchard who killed him but you weren’t ready to handle something like that back then. You were too young, too nice, too naïve; it would have crushed you. But you’re stronger now aren’t you? You aren’t that

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sweet, innocent little boy who still believes in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. No, you’ve grown up a lot in the last year. We can thank you father’s suicide for that, huh? Sara? Yeah, I know all about your girlfriend. Like the shade of polish she’s wearing on her cute little toes. It’s called Cajun Shrimp by the way. She just had another pedicure, second one this month. Of course she tells you that she only has three or four a year, but I see her going into the salon at least once a week. What, you didn’t know? Seriously? She spends a fortune there; she’s got to keep herself looking great. It’s hard work, looking that good, but it’s worth it. I mean, that is how she gets by, ugly girls have to pay their own bills... Oh, I’m sorry, that was terribly rude of me. You know, I’ve been trying to tell you about Sara for a while. A little whisper here, nudge there–but you ignored me. Thought you were being a jealous boyfriend. No, son you were just starting to see the signs. You loved her, I understand. It’s hard to hear that the ones we love are lying, sneaky cheating…. There, there; don’t beat yourself up too bad, because by the time we’re through with Sara, everyone will change their minds about you. Trust me. No, you’re not going crazy, you’re just starting to pay attention. I mean, really pay attention; finally seeing the signs. Those no good bastards at the office, they think you’re stupid and weak. I know they do, and if you listen

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close enough, you’ll know they do too. I’ve been listening to them for years–putting you down. Talking about you behind your back. All those times you walked in on them when they were laughing–did you really think they were laughing at the previous night’s episode of South Park? No, son, they were laughing at you. Big old belly laughs at your expense. You didn’t really believe them when they said they were happy about your promotion, did you? No? Good, because none of them thought you deserved it. Not a single one, trust me. Listen to me; I know. And while we are on the subject of people thinking you’re stupid, people laughing at you and degrading you, how about that father of yours? What a piece of work, huh? Oh, now don’t get so upset. I’m sorry. I’ll change the subject. But it doesn’t really matter now does it? He’s gone. That old son of a bitch took himself out good, didn’t he? Blew his brains out with one of his precious guns. What a shame, the only thing you two did together was spend time at the shooting range—really the only good memories you have of him—and that’s how he decided to check out. What a mess he left behind for you….but at least he left you his gun collection. Well, enough about him. Let’s get back to Sara. How long has it been going on, you ask? Well, let’s see.

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This little fling has been going on for about a month? What? I’m sorry? Oh, I thought you were ready to hear this. You didn’t know about the others? You thought this was the first time she cheated on you? Well, maybe we should talk about this later. You seem to be getting very upset. I don’t want you to get so distraught. Not yet. I’m sorry, what? Me? Oh, well–I would rather be heard and not seen. It works best this way, trust me. I’ll let you see me soon enough. What? Oh, well long story. See, most people don’t like the look of me, I make them uncomfortable. Yes, it is very hard for me; how kind of you to notice. I just want to be loved like everyone else. Oh, the cross I have to bear – ha! But seriously, I don’t know why it is so hard for most people, maybe because I remind them of themselves….. They usually turn back into the sniveling, whining babies that they were when I first met them. Why? I have no idea, really. It’s not like I’m a horrible monster, I’m actually a nice looking guy even if I do say so myself—no cloven hooves or anything crude like that! Ha! I crack myself up. I am a pretty funny guy. What, you think so? Thanks. Maybe it’s time to take my act out on the road, give stand up another try. Now there are some funny stories I’ll tell you. Nothing like being on the road with those selfdestructive, strung out big boys, it was as easy as taking candy from a baby. What? Oh, never mind, I’ll tell you

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about that later. What about Sara? Well, she was sleeping with your neighbor. No way–have you not been listening? No, I’m not kidding. Stan. Yes, Stan Goodman. Well, his wife got suspicious and nipped that in the bud. I know, I know. It’s hard to imagine, but think back to last summer. Remember the cookout? How Sara was bragging on his cooking, how she kept on going on and on about the landscaping? Yes, it was subtle but If you had been paying more attention you would have noticed. Sara is no rooky; she knows what she’s doing. She couldn’t care less about his stupid lawn. Trust me, she was just letting him know that she was his if he wanted her. Did you think those hamburgers were all that great? They weren’t anything special; think about it. I thought they looked like pieces of charcoal. Way overcooked. I always liked my hamburgers rare myself. Then it was Mark in the mailroom at your office. Mark, you know–the guy with the dreadlocks who is always wasted. YES! Sara and Mark. He was just a one night fling. Just for fun–she likes to mix things up a little bit. She’s a freak. I know, I was surprised at first, too but it is always the quiet ones, isn’t it? Then Brian. Brian Fulmer. Yeah, that makes a little more sense, you’re right. When? Right before your promotion. Well, of course she dumped Brian when you got the promotion over him. That was the whole point—she thought that he was going to make

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partner before you. Boy was she surprised! Ha! The look on her face when he told her you beat him out of it! If you could have heard her… oh, I’m sorry. That was pretty insensitive of me. I don’t know what I was thinking. Please, forgive me. Let’s talk about something else. Something happy. Are you going to see your mother this weekend? Yes? Good, good. I know she’s been missing you. No, really—she has been! Just the other night she got out the old family albums. How she cried and cried. Well, yeah—she cried over your brother’s pictures, but she did look at yours too. I promise. No, she didn’t cry over your baby pictures, but she did cry when she thought of your birthday. It’s coming up; I know how you dread it. This year will be different, though, just you wait and see. What? Your mother? Oh, she is such a sentimental little thing, isn’t she? Especially when she’s been drinking, and by the way, she’s been drinking a lot lately. A lot. Almost as bad as before. Well, I had hoped this time was going to stick, too; but when you think about it this would be a hard time for her to stay sober, wouldn’t it? The anniversary of your brother’s death so close, and now your father’s suicide. Poor thing. No wonder she cried when she realized that you will be thirty seven on your next birthday! Well, hell—she thought she’d have a least one grand-baby by now. She doesn’t know that Sara is a lying,

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I KNOW YOU by Mandy Haynes

cheating whore. It’s not her fault that she blames you for not getting married and giving her what she wants, what she needs. You mother is so hoping that you will have a son; one you will name after her first born, her favorite. What? Oh, what am I doing! Talk about kicking a guy when he’s down. I don’t know what’s come over me. Please, please forgive me for being so inconsiderate. Please accept my apology. Thanks, I’m glad you don’t blame me. After all, none of this is my fault. I would never, ever, want you to feel bad. I love you. Trust me; I just want you to be happy. As a matter of fact, that is what I wanted to talk to you about tonight. I think it is time you took charge. Time you showed everyone your true colors, made everyone sorry for treating you so bad. Like a fool. Like a stupid, blubbering, coward. That is not the man I know. That is not the man I’m talking to right now, is it? No sir. How do I know? Why am I so sure that you aren’t a fool? Because, son, I know you. I’ve been watching you since the day you were born. I knew then that you were special, someone with guts, the first time I laid eyes on you. Seriously, I did. Don’t act so surprised. Remember the time your cousin, what was his name? Darrin, Darryl—whatever, it’s not important; he’s gone now. But remember the time he tried to touch you? He wouldn’t stop would he? He made you so uncomfortable

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that you cried. He just laughed and laughed. He was a big bully, wasn’t he? What a jerk. But you took care of him, didn’t you? I was so proud of you that day. Everyone thought he tripped over his shoe lace, remember? He never tied his shoes, I think that he was too stupid to know how. But I saw you, and he did too. He saw the look in your eyes and he knew. He knew like I knew that you were someone special. Someone to be taken seriously. When you pushed him down those stairs, I saw you. It could’ve killed him, but you didn’t care. He deserved it. It was a long way down to the concrete floor of the basement and he could have easily broken his neck, but luck was on his side, wasn’t it? He ended up with both of his arms in a cast instead. Ha! No swimming for him that summer! No whacking off either—that was the best part; I think that just about killed him. He was a perverted little bugger, wasn’t he? That’s what did him in, thanks to those brave little boys and girls for turning him in. If you had spoken out, it would have stopped years sooner, but hey, you can only do so much. Anyway, back to our conversation. What I am trying to say is that you have control of your destiny. Trust me, you can take charge. It is your right. It is only proper; only fair that you show these people that you are not a coward. You are not a coward, are you son? I didn’t think so. You poor guy, you’ve had so much on your mind lately.

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What, with a lying whore for a girlfriend, backstabbing coworkers laughing at you behind your back, your neighbors all lying to you, a drunk, pathetic mother blaming you for everything that has gone wrong in her life —well, what can I say? You’ve had a lot to think about. I don’t blame you for your shortcomings, they do, but not me. Trust me. I think it’s time to take back your life. You could start tonight, with your neighbors. Stan and his wife. Why his wife? Well, she’s been laughing at you, too—late at night when she and Stan are fucking, they are laughing at you. Laughing at your expense. She never really blamed Stan or Sara; I mean who could blame them? They all think you’re such a wimp. Believe it or not Stan’s wife actually felt sorry for Sara. Pisser, isn’t it? But you’ll show them, won’t you? Then I was thinking it would be time to take care of Sara. You could go by there about midnight tonight. It’s the perfect time, dontcha think? My favorite time of all— the old day passing and the new one about to start. The perfect time for reflection, for a gathering of souls, so to speak. I’ve found that most people can be led around by the nose at midnight; that’s when they do most of their self-doubting, bringing all of their insecurities to the surface and just ask to be led astray—but not me, no sir. It’s my strongest time, and you’re like me, son, strong.

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You don’t have anything to be insecure about, you are not a wallower. Midnight tonight will be the perfect beginning to a new day–a new you. Don’t you agree? Sara should’ve just sent Marshall home by then. Marshall? Yeah, she’s been fucking your boss. Let’s see, she’s been fucking him for about a month now. Fucking like there is no tomorrow. Fucking like a bitch in heat. Just fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Well, I didn’t really want to tell you—I thought that might be too much for you, to hear that Sara will just fuck anybody that comes along but I can see that you’re ready. Ready to hear it all and take care of business. I’m proud of you, son. Once you’ve taken care of Sara, you’ll go in to work early. Start in the mail room. Get Dreadlocks first. He’ll be so wasted he’ll never even know what’s hit him. Once you’ve taken care of him, work your way up to the top. Save the best for Marshall. That’s when you’ll finally get to use that automatic rifle they way it was intended. Hey! Maybe they’ll all be in the conference room! Wouldn’t that be great? You could call a meeting…what a way to go! What? You want to see me? All in good time, no need to rush anything now, son. You want to show me that you’re ready? Oh, I know you do. I have faith in you, I believe in you. I am so proud of you, I couldn’t be any more proud if you were my own flesh and blood. Yes, I mean that from

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the bottom of my heart. I know you’re ready. You are going to prove that to me later tonight, aren’t you? What is that? Don’t worry son, you will see me soon enough. Oh, you’ll be seeing a lot of me once you’re through. After tonight we’ll practically be one and the same. I know that for sure.

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's the editor of the anthology, Work In Progress, and a co-editor of collection, The Best of the Shortest: A Southern Writers Reading Reunion. Mandy is also the creator and Editor-In-Chief of WELL READ Magazine. *This story was previously published in the Nashville Writer’s Horror Anthology. Comfort Foods. The idea for the story came to me after another senseless shooting claimed innocent lives at the shooter’s place of employment. Interviews of the survivors claimed that no one had any idea that the shooter was unhappy, much less violent. He was labeled as mentally ill, but what if there was more to the story? What if the devil made him do it…

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HEARTACHE AND WIND by Will Maguire

Heartache and Wind Will Maguire

They tore down an old heartache on Cahal Avenue this morning. The bulldozer worked carefully, gently toppling the deserted two story brick building. But heartache, especially old heartache, is nearly impossible to demolish. Its rubble becomes dust and the dust gets up into the wind and whatever is left is hauled away and buried in memory. The building had been empty since 2007 when a fourteen year old boy wanted cigarettes he could not afford. He wanted to be older and tugging on a Camel, he thought, could make him feel like a man. Like most young boys, there was a lot he did not have. He didn't have a lick of sense or any idea how quickly life can change. He had no understanding of how fragile a future is or how unforgiving the world can be. And he had no care for life, an old woman's or even, as it turns out, his own.

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Still there were other things he had. Things most boys carry. He had a first job waiting on him, a first kiss too, and that first kind of youthful hope still unsullied by experience and loss. He still had a future and time to grow into it and his mama’s devotion. And he had his daddy’s gun that he found unlocked at home. Classie Wilson looked after her East Nashville neighborhood like it was a garden. She pulled everyday at the weeds of worry and hunger. Before Dollar Trees sprang up like kudzu across the South there was Classie Wilson, offering mercy by the bite to the eyes and bellies of Cahal Avenue. When anyone came in hungry she would listen and nod, smile sadly then offer store credit. A cup of coffee. A baloney sandwich. But a fourteen year old boy trying to become older, wanting to ruin his lungs, was not mercy. And so Ms. Wilson shooed the boy away. “Don’t be in such a hurry. Go on home and be fourteen,” she said. “Being a man’s got a weight in it you don’t understand.” But the boy wasn’t having it. His daddy’s gun, he thought, could make up for too much of not enough. It could put a hole in most anything that got in enough’s way. Even an old woman’s mercy.

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That day Classie fell and died alone on the first floor market of that small dark house. And the boy, suddenly older, ran away with the most expensive pack of cigarettes the world has ever seen. It cost thirty five years at Brushy Mountain. It cost an ocean of his mama's tears and every bit of light he ever would have in his eyes. The neighbors cried and watched the city padlock heartache inside the dark store. Then they took their hunger to Dollar Trees and waited for Time to cover the wound with months and years. The boy was arrested the following day at his middle school where he confessed to wanting to be older and not knowing a blessed thing about life or death. He was found guilty of wanting things he could not afford and sentenced to what he would never become. And now, a grown man, he sits paying off the debt of a fourteen year old boy. Paying in time for the smoke that his life has become. On Cahal Avenue a woman stood and watched the bulldozer try to demolish heartache. She talked to a stranger trying to explain why she had come. “My mother was shot dead there,” she said. “My daddy lived another ten years, but he was never right. Stroke that finally took him but I think it was the grief.” She looked away.

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“My brother died three weeks ago. I’m all that’s left now. I decided it’s time.” "What will you do?" the stranger asked. “I think maybe a coffee shop,” she said. “My mama would have liked that.” There is too much and not enough in America now. Both have found their way down into streets like Cahal Avenue. There is not enough memory of what this small sophisticated Southern city used to be. There is not enough decency and not enough space. Cranes loom and the city goes vertical because sky is cheaper than dirt. And there are boys with not enough good sense or time to grow or perhaps love. But there is also too much. Too much anger and innocence and bad judgment. And there are far too many guns in the wrong hands. In the right hands a gun is a fine tool. Guns have put more food in bellies than Dollar Tree ever will. But it’s getting harder to see which hands are right. And sometimes even right hands go wrong. Here in Nashville an unstable young woman bought some guns and broke a city’s heart. First responders, drilled to expect a war on the most innocent among us, ended the threat. The city padlocked the school doors trying to keep heartache from spreading, but too late, it

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was already in the wind. You can see it in most eyes here, if you know how to look. This week, the last responders, our lawmakers, once again tried to draw the border between right and responsibility. And once again they told us there is nothing to be done. They hand out specious rationales, a different kind of baloney, to those hungry for change. And so before long there will be another school massacre and another boy with too much of not enough. And then another and another. Up and down East Nashville streets like Cahal Avenue the spacious past is being torn down. The future feels smaller now. And like all those new houses, the future is always bright and shining and crowded. It tries, like a bulldozer, day after day to demolish old heartbreak. But heartbreak is hard to bury. Its rubble becomes dust. The dust gets up into the wind. And just keeps circling around us all. Will Maguire is a writer and songwriter living in Nashville, Tennessee. His most recent short stories, “Higher Power” and “Unisphere,” have appeared in The Saturday Evening Post.

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RAIN CROW by Ramey Channell

Rain Crow Ramey Channell

At times she wondered how it all would end, even after she must have known it was ended. Sometimes when the wind blew, bringing rain again, she cast her dreams aside and flew herself away. Some say she lived alone against the dark side of the mountain; some say her madness came from what she knew of flying. But she always cried before the rain began, from the darkness and the broken heart and the fever of dying.

I heard the rain crow just before a cold rain swept down from shadows and across the cold gray morning. A chill was in the air and the rain crow’s song sailed, lost and lonely and full of old dreams, like a bird’s wings

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touched by mist and magic and dark dreams folding. Some say she kept her secrets, alone across the forest unforgiving. Some say she calls the rain, she calls the rain, from her own soul to cool the madness and the fever of living.

Ramey Channell, award winning Alabama author, poet, and artist, is the author of three novels: Sweet Music on Moonlight Ridge (2010) The Witches of Moonlight Ridge (2016) and The Treasure of Moonlight Ridge (2021). Her children’s picture book, written and illustrated by Ramey, is Mice from the Planet Zimlac (2021), also available in a French edition, Les Souriceaux de la Planete Zimlac (2022), translated by Alexandrine Duteil Stebach. Ramey’s poems and stories have been published by Aura Literary Arts Review, Alabama State Poetry Society, Birmingham Arts Journal, Alalitcom, Ordinary and Sacred as Blood: Alabama Women Speak (1999), Belles Letters 2: Contemporary Stories by Alabama Women (2017) Stormy Pieces: A Mobile Writers Guild Anthology (2021), and many other journals and collections. She is currently working on her fourth southern fiction novel in the Moonlight Ridge Series.

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RAIN CROW by Ramey Channell

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TEMPORAL by Ashley Tunnell

Temporal Ashley Tunnell

Time Is the heaviest burden to carry We cram it into some messy side pocket Of our already congested hearts And compare it to sand Falling through an hourglass Truthfully, Time falls like raindrops On hot concrete And by the time we realize it Our shadows have run out of breath From trying to keep up We are trying so hard to grasp What lies ahead of us But, it is like trying to grasp The thin whisps of yesterday’s fog And they’re too heavy to carry anyway

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

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TEMPORAL by Ashley Tunnell

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ANXIETY by Angela Patera

Anxiety Angela Patera

I wake up drenched in sweat, paralyzed by a sense of impending doom. I struggle to pry open my eyelids and look over at Jasmine’s bed. She is still asleep, her long wavy hair splayed out like the tendrils of a doll-sized Medusa. It is all so quiet. For a moment I wonder if I have gone deaf, like that morning after a sludge metal gig in my late teens when I woke up to two broken eardrums, blood leaking through my ears and absolute silence. I shake off the haunting memory, realizing that my hearing is intact. When I manage to focus, the faint a-symphony of my neighborhood emerges. The distant hum of cicadas, the sound of neighbors arguing about a misplaced rubbish bin and the low murmur of the nearby highway. These familiar morning sounds offer reassurance that nothing of cosmic significance has taken place during the night. I can hear Nico singing Sunday Morning in my head. No work for me, no school for Jasmine. OCTOBER 2023 ISSUE NO. 15

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As I reach for my phone, the news websites inform me of a world teetering on the verge of chaos. News stories of calamity, tragedy, violence, suffering and fear flash before my eyes. I feel the familiar grip of panic. The horrors of the world outside seem irrelevant within the confines of my daughter’s bedroom. The walls are painted a soft shade of baby blue. The shelves of the bookcases are overflowing with books, stuffed toys, dolls, materials for arts and crafts. It smells of lavender, strawberry lip balm and the kitten-ish smell of children. I remind myself I have to stay alive to protect her from the malevolence that lurks beyond the room's haven: Accidents; Disease; Trauma; Emotional and physical abuse; Natural phenomena; Pedophiles; Poverty; Famine; War. No matter how much I struggle to shield her from life's uncertainties, I know deep inside that I can’t wield the power to protect her. Life is pretty random and elusive. Life is wildly improbable, as Margarita Karapanou used to say. This realization has woven its way into the fabric of my being from a very young age. Of course, this is no extraordinary morning. In fact, this morning is like countless others that have come before it, unremarkable and yet laden with possibilities. Every night I struggle to sleep, tossing and turning until the early morning hours. Every night, I find myself caught in the familiar embrace of half-sleep, a realm that straddles the

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line between wakefulness and dreams. It is as though I am trapped in a twilight state, where reality and imagination intertwine. The sounds of the neighborhood filter into my consciousness. I realize I am asleep but I am awake at the same time, half-listening, keeping my good eye open. The streets come alive with the distant hum of traffic from the highway, the faint chatter and giggles of teenagers smoking dope in the neighborhood playground, and the occasional barks of neighboring dogs. Sometimes I listen to the sounds of the neighborhood or I smell the pungent aroma of dope and at the same time I become a character in a movie I have seen countless times before, an extra in the background, observing the familiar storyline unfold. Other times, I am an observer in a book I’ve read, suggesting ways to alter the plot. Most of the time, I listen to music in my sleep, whole albums playing on my mind’s media player, albums that I’ve recently listened to or albums that have stayed with me since my adolescence. Jasmine says I often sing in my sleep, a testament to the peculiarities of our family’s nocturnal creativity. Jasmine is a nocturnal pianist; every now and then she sleepwalks towards the living room, sits carefully on the stool by the piano, her fingers gracefully dancing across the keys, her eyes fixed on the Van Gogh poster right above the piano. Sleep has always been problematic in this family.

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Perhaps it's a hereditary trait, passed down through generations like a family heirloom, like my great grandmother’s diamond ring. My mother, the matriarch of this peculiar lineage, never seemed to sleep when I was a child. In the dark of night, I would find her moving about like a nocturnal wanderer, like the opossum of the household. In those odd hours, I would stumble upon her engaged in a myriad of perplexing activities. She would be in the kitchen, making an American-style cheesecake; or she would be sitting on the balcony crafting delicate jewelry and smoking a cigar. Sometimes she would be in her study, reading a book or she would sit on her rocking chair, knitting a never-ending blanket. Every morning she would wake up like clockwork at seven, brew some super strong coffee, get me ready for school and go to work. Sometimes, I wonder whether coffee is to blame for our familial sleep-related woes. I entered the realm of daily coffee consumption at the tender age of four. My parents never questioned the wisdom of fuelling a preschooler with caffeine before heading to nursery school. And so it goes: my coffee obsession blossomed with each passing year. By eight, I was no stranger to the art of enjoying another cup of coffee after my supper. The increasing responsibilities and demands that come with adolescence added another two cups of coffee to my daily intake. By the time I graduated from university, I was on

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at least ten cups of coffee per day. Impossible though it may sound, at some point I had to quit coffee for a good five months after more than two decades of daily consumption. Half way through my pregnancy, hyperemesis gravidarum reached a peak, making the consumption of coffee impossible. I was exhausted, nauseous, and dehydrated and so I decided to go cold turkey. The withdrawal symptoms I experienced looked like something out of Trainspotting and led me to the emergency room. There, the stern-looking doctors issued a grave warning about early contractions. "If you want to reach that 36-week mark, kick the habit," they admonished. I had a difficult pregnancy including mandatory bed rest but wrestling with the beast of caffeine withdrawal made it exhausting. A mere four hours after giving birth, still dizzy from the profuse blood loss and the pain medication, I asked for a cup of the best cappuccino they could offer. Holding my baby in my arms, I sipped the hot cappuccino and decided that life was good. I had to live and fight for this baby. During the first completely sleepless nights with a newborn, it occurred to me that insomnia and anxiety were woven into the fabric of my family for many generations. An elusive anxiety disorder must have plagued my parents

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and grandparents throughout their lives. My grandparents were both afflicted with the worst case of PTSD because of World War Two. My mother was the sole survivor of a horrific train wreck when she was a teenager. This intergenerational anxiety was passed from one generation to the next, along with other traits like pale skin and high cholesterol. Yet, a strange aversion towards seeking help of any kind –therapy, counseling or medication-was a common trait among them all. It’s not that I haven’t tried. In the depths of my turmoil, I tried therapy. Cognitive- behavioral therapy. Gestalt therapy. Dialectical behavior therapy. I tried them all despite being frowned upon by my parents. I spent a full day’s pay on 45 minutes with a therapist. It was a complete disaster. I found sitting on an armchair baring my soul, bawling my eyes out or spilling my secrets to a complete stranger utterly absurd. Their advice sounded painfully obvious and simplistic. I was never told something I hadn’t already known. Of course I am stuck in a dead-end job. Of course I have trusted people that shouldn’t have been trusted. Of course I have neurotic tendencies. Of course I am obsessive. Of course I have low self-esteem. Of course my phobias won’t let me explore my full potential. Of course I have taken a wrong turn at some point. Of course my migraines are essentially psychosomatic. Of course I have postnatal depression. Of

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course I have some sort of anxiety disorder. Of course I have self-medicated myself to treat my migraines and of course I have abused pain medication. The therapists seemed to be able to scratch the surface and suggest the obvious. Leaving my job or taking a sabbatical break to travel around the world or breaking up with my partner to deeply explore my options were easier said than done. I wanted to scream. How would I support myself –and later on my family- financially without a job? How would I explain the conspicuous gap (taken-to-travel-the-world) in my CV to a prospective future employer? How would hurting my partner’s feelings to date other men and women improve our relationship? Who would look after my kid if I decided to focus on myself and reach my potential? When I was working on my master’s thesis, I found out I had a complex endocrinal condition involving my adrenal glands and my thyroid that played havoc on my body. It would make me bloat and shrink; it would keep me awake for days on end; but it also endowed me with a superhuman ability to work at an extremely fast pace, as if I was on amphetamines. It prevented deep sleep but it made me very efficient and productive. I was on a neverending adrenaline rush. It would make my eyes look bulging and my skin look pallid and sweaty but it would also help me get my dissertation finished. I got a straight

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A. However, my grotesque appearance and my manic temperament did not go unnoticed, and one kind-hearted professor voiced his concern. Bluntly, he inquired if I had a drug problem. I remember feeling so annoyed that I burst into a loud, paranoid laughter that made my ribs hurt. I tried to explain my medical condition, but the professor, looking sad, suggested rehab. I scoffed at the notion, explaining that, in truth, drugs rendered me incapable of functioning. Drugs left me on the verge of a panic attack, paranoid and over stimulated. Determined to prove my point, I showed him a scan of my poor thyroid. Finally, he appeared convinced, and he recommended psychoanalysis. He had a friend who could help me. During my university years, I had taken numerous courses on psychoanalysis and literature and I had written many essays on psychoanalytic readings of Sylvia Plath’s poems and Virginia Woolf’s novels and even Ernest Hemingway’s short stories. I felt flattered. Someone would dissect me! My parents rolled their eyes and laughed at the absurdity of my new endeavor. They said that what I needed was a few days off work and maybe a holiday someplace sunny. Psychoanalysis was nothing like breaking down a poem, though. In fact, it was like breaking down a person. Dissecting my own psyche was immensely painful and deeply terrifying and I always felt that the analyst was

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trying to scratch something that shouldn’t be scratched. In my state of semi-sleep, my dreams mirrored this unease, envisioning myself wearing a dog's cone to prevent myself from licking my wounds raw. If I had mustered the courage to persevere, perhaps psychoanalysis would have helped me in the long run. But each visit became a portal to revelations I didn't want to face. My pool of worries expanded tremendously. I found myself worrying about numerous other things I had never worried about. That was not what I needed. Moreover, the financial burden was unbearable. At some point I found myself having to decide between paying the bills of my endocrinologist and paying the bills of the analyst’s sessions. I dropped psychoanalysis altogether and breathed a sigh of relief. On the peak of my baby blues, a fog had settled on my chest so I decided to consult a psychiatrist. My financial constraints limited my choices, leading me to the only doctor my insurance would cover. As I was leafing through a guns and artillery magazine at the waiting room, failing to take the hint, I managed to get a glimpse of him. He resembled a younger, more Mediterranean version of Anthony Bourdain. I had read Kitchen Confidential a couple of times; I had watched all of his shows. My faith in humanity was foolishly restored for a few minutes. Entering his examination room, my hope crumbled when, to my terror, I realized that all of the walls were adorned

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with images of Jesus in agony, a stark reminder of my traumatic experiences at the religious school I had attended as a child. I have been an ardent atheist since the age of 9. My parents were never religious. I was never made to attend service. However, this school was across my house which meant that my caffeine-fueled self could easily walk back and forth alone, from a very young age. Also, the fact that it was run by priests and nuns gave my poor parents a false sense of security that I would be well educated, I wouldn’t join a gang and I wouldn’t end up shooting heroin within the school district. Anxiety bubbled inside of me just staring at the pictures and statues of Jesus hanging on the cross, the crown of thorns hurting his beautiful face and the blood leaking all the way to his feet. I realized I had made a terrible mistake and I started fussing around my chair, trying to come up with a good excuse to leave this place. That’s when the Anthony Bourdain lookalike dashed into the room and asked me straight away what was wrong with me. I was at a loss for words. Unable to find the right words, I started crying. Looking completely unsympathetic, the fake-ass Anthony Bourdain asked me if I felt like killing myself. I replied firmly “no, I can’t, I have a baby daughter”. He grinned and preached about suicide being the utmost sin. I thought about Kurt Cobain and Ian Curtis and Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf but I couldn’t utter a word. He asked me if

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I had thought about harming anyone. I shook my head. He gave me a lecture on hysteria. I wondered what Hélène Cixous would say to him had she been in my shoes. More tears started streaming down my face. He gave me a prescription for some uppers and told me to come and see him again in two months’ time. I complained “no uppers please, I am so hyper, I feel like a grind core band or a freight train, I need something to sleep and stay calm”. He looked at me in a spiteful way and hissed “then drink some chamomile tea”. Leaving the psychiatrist's office, I felt even more ashamed and bitterly disappointed than before. The encounter had shattered my faith in the public medical system's ability to help me. The psychiatrist’s sexist and devaluing remarks had diminished me and the therapists’ crappy pieces of advice echoed the inspirational quotes that any teenager could find on Instagram. In my late teens and twenties I tried all the easy alternatives: herbal remedies; Ayurveda; Bach’s flower essences; homeopathy; acupuncture; yoga; meditation; swimming; hitting the gym for hours; cycling; recreational drugs; pot; alcohol; a combination of two, three or even all the above. I just couldn’t relax, I couldn’t let go. It’s just that I am terrified all the time. I have turned into a grotesque middle aged version of Piglet from Winnie the Pooh. I have been terrified ever since I remember myself. Fear has been my most loyal friend. My fears have

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evolved, shifting from one dread to another and altogether constructing my Great Wall of Terror. At first I was terrified of dogs. I was terrified of nuclear assault and the cold war, and then the Gulf war and oil tanks set ablaze. Then I was terrified of allergic reactions, then I was terrified of earthquakes, then I was terrified of disease and death, then I was terrified of terrorism and public places, then I was terrified of being date raped, then I was terrified of police brutality, then I was terrified of dying during childbirth, then I was terrified of SIDS and meningitis. I am currently terrified of all the above mentioned amplified by the thought of something bad happening to my daughter. Ι am terrified of myself too. How could I have been so immature? Riding on bikes without a helmet! I could have crashed into a tree and died on the spot. Crowd surfing in concerts! I could have been squashed like a spider. Getting intimate with strangers! I could have been raped and murdered. Doing drugs! I could have had a heart attack. Diving off cliffs! Maybe that’s the worst. I could have snapped my spine like Javier Bardem in the Sea Inside. How can I trust that Jasmine will make the right choices when I have been so foolish myself? How can I discourage her from repeating my stupid mistakes but at the same time help her become a strong, independent, fearless Amazon? One of these days my Great Wall of

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ANXIETY by Angela Patera

Terror will be visible from space. In the midst of my contemplation, engulfed by the suffocating state of terror and helplessness, I hear a small, yet familiar voice singing out cheerfully "MAMA, GOOD MORNING!" In that single moment, the shadows dissipate. The voice belongs to my precious daughter who is wide awake and fearless. Her innocent greeting washes over me like a warm embrace, like a glorious ray of sunlight, soothing my anxious soul. Ι turn my beaming face towards her, put on my brightest smile and give her an enormous hug. Life is good after all.

Angela Patera was born in Athens, Greece in 1986. She still lives there with her husband and her daughter. She is an ESL teacher. Having studied English Language and Literature at the National Kapodistrian University of Athens, she pursued a Master's Degree in Cultural Administration and Communication, delving into the representations of womanhood, race, and disease in culture (mostly literature and music).

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RETURNING TOMORROW by John M. Williams

Returning Tomorrow John M. Williams

For a while there was only Sven, his wife Rana, and his dog Argos. When Rana died, Sven experienced a new depth of loneliness no mortal could have suspected existed. Then came the period of going about life with only Argos, and Sven understood better than anyone ever has, except perhaps Odysseus, the perfection of a dog’s validation of one’s existence. One day he realized it had been a long time since he had seen another human being, and that’s when the idea that he was the last survivor wormed its way into his head. Then as Argos began to grow unsteady on his legs and lose his appetite, Sven looked around hard in all directions without seeing a soul, and his suspicion began to harden into fact. Then Argos died and that’s when Sven noticed that there didn’t seem to be anything left but today, and something in him knew that, in spite of the thieving nature of tomorrow, actually having no tomorrow was not to be borne. Live in

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the moment—yeah, yeah, that’s great as long as more moments are coming. And that convinced him: he knew he was the last. No one to recognize him. No one to polish the feasting cup. No meaning to what we used to think of as treasure. Is it really treasure if no one knows you have it? No meaning to joy. No meaning even to meaning. And so he understood the task that had befallen him, and set out towards the baths of all the western stars to return tomorrow. The only treasure left, and he couldn’t spend it. Like diamonds raining on a desert planet. Asteroids of gold. *** First he pulled the battered suitcase from under the bed and carefully packed his regrets, his trophies, and tomorrow itself, neatly wrapped in felt. Then into another small carrying crate he coaxed the Bane of His Existence—ill-tempered, of course, but strangely compliant. The feeling of there being nothing but today didn’t play well anywhere, he concluded. And took the first step of his last journey.

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RETURNING TOMORROW by John M. Williams

During his long schlep across the exhausted landscape, not a living thing to be seen, he felt some pride at the importance of his mission. Even if you’re the last survivor, and your purpose is returning tomorrow, it’s still a purpose. Any journey, really, would be unthinkable without one. His thoughts meandered as he trudged along. He already knew that if you felt no pain you got no story, so along with having a purpose there was something to be said for that. Because how much more painful can you get than returning tomorrow? Whether there’s somebody to hear it or not. He also tried remembering everything, but quickly realized that, as always, he could only remember what he had already remembered, and like the whispered phrase going around the circle, it metamorphosed as it pleased. His memories were static scenes and images, and there was no one to incite the discovery of any new ones in him. What was the difference between him and those people who had frequented the memory boutiques in town, where the technicians could implant any memory you wanted? Like them, for whom the point was not whether the memories were real or not, only how good, Sven knew that there really is no such thing as memory, no way of knowing if you could trust anything your brain kept on file—no way to tell the fabricated from the real—no way of knowing that there was, indeed, a distinction. As for

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hopes, well, with no tomorrow you could forget those. Sven’s arms were aching from his baggage when at last he reached the desk at the end of the road, where he was at first delighted to see the bureaucrat manning it—another soul!—except he didn’t seem to have a soul, and bore the same relationship to souled creatures as Sven’s memories did to reality. There just wasn’t a lot of future for “real.” Sven unpacked—laid down his trophies, then disburdened himself of his regrets, which no longer meant anything, and finally in a rather sentimental moment let the Bane of His Existence out of his crate, and the creature just stood there with a forlorn look on his aging features. An ambivalent moment. “So long,” said Sven. The Bane shrugged, held up a hand, turned and disappeared into the gray. The only burden left was tomorrow, which Sven dutifully handed over to the indifferent bureaucrat, who stamped it, filed it, then disappeared into the gray himself, Sven looked behind him at the wasteland of today. That was clearly Hell, so he turned back and faced the gray, where either nothing is left, or nothing has been imagined yet. And that, but for a curious wave of relief, would reign as his last thought.

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RETURNING TOMORROW by John M. Williams

John M. Williams is a mentor in the Reinhardt University MFA Creative Writing program. He was named Georgia Author of the Year for First Novel in 2002 for Lake Moon (Mercer UP). He has written and co-written numerous plays, with several local productions, and published a variety of stories, essays, and reviews through the years. His and co-author Rheta Grimsley Johnson’s play Hiram: Becoming Hank, about the formative years of singer Hank Williams, has enjoyed several productions. His most recent books are Village People: Sketches of Auburn (Solomon and George 2016), and Atlanta Pop in the 50s, 60s, and 70s: The Magic of Bill Lowery (with Andy Lee White) (The History Press 2019), Monroeville and the Stage Production of “To Kill a Mockingbird” (The History Press 2023), and his justreleased novel End Times (Sartoris Literary Group 2023). Other publications can be found on his website at johnmwilliams.net , which hosts his blog, johnmwilliams.net/blog . He lives in LaGrange, Georgia.

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MY SISTER’S HOUSE IS HAUNTED by J. B. Hogan

My Sister’s House Is Haunted J. B. Hogan

I don’t believe in ghosts or UFOs or anything supernatural, but my sister’s house is haunted. Her voice spoke clearly on the upper landing when she was at work twenty-five miles away – clear as a bell. Theory – sound bubbles exist and that one burst just at the right moment. I was swinging at the back of the house when the swing suddenly stopped with me in it – just made a full stop. It was my grandfather beside me who had spoiled me rotten as a child who took his own life when I was seven. A cat went missing after my mother died and I stood on the upper deck and asked her if it was possible could she return the cat because we were worried about him.

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Two hours later I heard a meow and the cat came traipsing out of the woods tired, hungry and glad to be back home. And then upstairs, alone, I heard a solid thump downstairs, I went below to check it out, nothing was there – then the thump repeated loud right back upstairs from where I had just come. I certainly do not believe in ghosts, or UFOs or anything supernatural, but my sister’s house is haunted.

J. B. Hogan has been published in a number of journals including the Blue Lake Review, Crack the Spine, Copperfield Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Well Read Magazine, and Aphelion. His eleven books include Bar Harbor, Mexican Skies, Living Behind Time, Losing Cotton, and The Apostate. He lives in Fayetteville, Arkansas.

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MY SISTER’S HOUSE IS HAUNTED by J. B. Hogan

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ENEMY’S EMBRACE by Mike Turner

Enemy’s Embrace Mike Turner

‘Tis not the thief in the night Which is the enemy Nor even night itself But time Rising as a mist on the bayou Deep, chilling, relentless Oozing in through chinks and cracks Of what is left of the present Subsuming all Swallowing the last rays of sunshine Dimming to hazy twilight Until the final mote of day is winked out Leaving only blackness And eternity itself becomes without meaning Because when no more change is to come No more future beckons When light and hope and memory are all taken from us Even “now” becomes without form

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Ceasing relevance And time bares the menace of the infinite As we sink in its embrace Entombed In an instant

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

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ENEMY’S EMBRACE by Mike Turner

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CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

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INSIDE VOICES

“…We don't do a great job of teaching Black history or LGBTQ+ history in schools, so I couldn't take it for granted that every reader would know who Larry Kramer or Dorothy Cotton were, much less references to Blueboy magazine or clubs like The Anvil.”

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Rasheed Newson, television writer, producer, and author of My Government Means to Kill Me 174

WELL READ MAGAZINE

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Rasheed Newson

Rasheed Newson is a graduate of Georgetown University, where he wrote movie reviews for the school newspaper, The Hoya. During his time in Washington, D.C., he also worked in the communication and media departments for several non-profit organizations, including the Coalition for Juvenile Justice. For five years, he volunteered with friends as a tutor/playmate at Grandma’s House, a group home for foster care children who were HIV+ or living with AIDS. In 2002, Rasheed moved to Los Angeles and joined the entertainment industry. He worked as a production assistant; an executive assistant; an assistant to a showrunner; and the second assistant to a network president. He has an ID badge from every studio lot. Rasheed’s writing career began when he partnered up with T.J. Brady, and together they were hired as staff writers on the Fox drama Lie to Me. As a writing team, Rasheed and T.J. have worked on Narcos, The Chi, and Shooter, among other drama series. They are currently executive producers on Bel-Air. Over the course of roughly two years, Rasheed wrote the novel My Government Means to Kill Me. It was a passion project that he wasn’t sure would attract a publisher. However, his literary agent, Jim McCarthy of Dystel, Goderich & Bourret, saw potential in the manuscript. So did his literary editor, Nadxieli Nieto of Flatiron Books. Rasheed is grateful to both of them. Rasheed lives with his husband and their two children in Pasadena, California.

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Rasheed Newson

Jeffrey: Rasheed, this cover! What was the concept for the cover of My Government Means to Kill Me? That profile and the archway? Rasheed: The novel is unapologetically and vibrantly Black and gay -- so the cover needed to convey that from across the bookstore. The archway speaks to the bathhouse that Trey (the main character) frequents and to the idea that he is entering a new world for him: New York City in the 1980s. Robert: Trey comes across as so real, so authentic and specific . . . as if this were his memoir. Is Trey based on a person in your life? And if so, tell us a bit about his backstory. Rasheed: Trey isn't based on a specific person. What I wanted to capture in him was the energy, the hunger for new experiences, the fearlessness and the recklessness that comes with youth. He's someone who is burning very brightly during those years when you are first entering adulthood. Jeffrey: My Government Means to Kill Me has footnotes. What was the idea behind this format?

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Rasheed: I used footnotes because I wanted to pack my book with real cultural touchstones and history, but I didn't want to clog up the prose for people who might already know that information. We don't do a great job of teaching Black history or LGBTQ+ history in schools, so I couldn't take it for granted that every reader would know who Larry Kramer or Dorothy Cotton were, much less references to Blueboy magazine or clubs like The Anvil. Robert: My Government Means to Kill Me is populated with historical figures. How did you manage to create dialogue that seems so right for them? Did you read or listen to interviews to become familiar with their habitual word choice and vocal cadences? Rasheed: First of all, thank you for saying the dialogue hits the mark. I did work very hard on capturing speech patterns for the historical figures. Fortunately, there are a lot of video and audio recordings of the historical figures that I brought into the novel. I listened to hours and hours of Dorothy Cotton, for instance, talking about her life and the Civil Rights movement. I didn't quote her verbatim, but I did get familiar with her rhythms and her phrasing. It was intense but fun. Jeffrey: Rasheed, about three months ago, you and I spent the better part of a day on a picket line focusing attention

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Rasheed Newson

on the writers strike, which as we are recording this interview, is ongoing. Tell us about your non-novelist career—the work you do in Hollywood that you’ve stepped away from during the strike. Rasheed: It was great that you came to join us on the picket line. Anyone supporting the writers' and actors' strikes should feel free to show their support: make a taxdeductible donation to the Entertainment Community Fund; bring food and water to the picket lines; join us and walk the picket lines; or honk your car horn when you drive by our picket lines. All of it helps. Now, as for my work in Hollywood, I'm a television drama writer and producer. I work with a writing partner, T.J. Brady, and we have written for Narcos, Animal Kingdom, The 100, Shooter, and The Chi. We also co-developed BelAir. I love working in television, and the strike has been quite painful. It feels more like a lockout than a strike because our side is willing to stay at the negotiating table until a fair deal is reached. The syndicate representing the studios refuses to make the same commitment towards a solution. They think if we go long enough without work we will cave and sign whatever garbage deal they put in front of us. Robert: Are you afraid that AI will ever take the place of human beings alone or in a group creating television

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content? I have to say up front that the thought terrifies me. Rasheed: I don't think the technology is there for AI to take over tomorrow, but several of the studios want to open the door to that possibility years from now. I'm quite afraid, although I'm not convinced that AI will ever do as good a job as the human imagination. I am certain, however, that AI will create mediocre scripts that some studios will deem acceptable. That spells doom for writers and viewers. Jeffrey: Your social media presence is nothing short of inspired. How have you so effectively translated your book to TikTok? You could have a cottage industry just doing that for other authors! Rasheed: My secret is that I married well. My husband, Jonathan, is a documentary/reality producer. He edits and creates my TikTok videos and oversees my social media posts on all platforms. When I post, I'm doing the things he's taught me. I've enjoyed creating this part together, and I can see the impact in book sales. Robert: What's next for you Rasheed? What’s on your horizon?

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Rasheed Newson

Rasheed: I'm busy writing my next novel, which follows the lives of gay Black men in Hollywood during the 1950s and 60s. It is full of glamour, sex, a murder, and pockets of queer and cinematic histories.

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Rasheed Newson

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

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

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"Full of joy and righteous anger, sex and straight talk, brilliant storytelling and humor... A spectacularly researched Dickensian tale with vibrant characters and dozens of famous cameos, it is precisely the book we've needed for a long time." -Andrew Sean Greer, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Less

My Government Means to Kill Me Rasheed Newson

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

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“What exciting things transpire when two thriller authors are married for 25 years”

ANNIE MCDONNELL INTRODUCES THE INCREDIBLY TALENTED DAVID BELL AND M HENDRIX 186

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ANNIE ASKS DAVID BELL & M. HENDRIX

David Bell is the New York Times-bestselling author of sixteen novels including his most recents: TRY NOT TO BREATHE and SHE’S GONE. His work has been translated into numerous foreign languages, included on several bestseller lists, nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and, in 2013, won the prestigious Prix Polar International de Cognac for best crime novel by an international author. KILL ALL YOUR DARLINGS was also nominated for a 2022 Edgar Award. He is a professor of English at Western Kentucky University where he co-founded the MFA program in creative writing. A native of Cincinnati, Ohio, he spends his free time rooting for the Reds and Bengals, watching movies, and walking in the cemetery near his house. He lives in Bowling Green, Kentucky, with his wife, young adult author M Hendrix. M Hendrix is the Pushcart-Prize nominated author of two previous books. THE CHAPERONE is her first novel. It was a #1 new release at Parnassus Books, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon and also earned a starred review from Booklist. M holds a PhD in creative writing from the University of Cincinnati, where she was a Taft Fellow. Born in Baltimore and raised in New Jersey, she has lived in twelve states and now makes her home in Bowling Green, Kentucky.

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ANNIE ASKS DAVID BELL & M. HENDRIX

This incredibly talented duo got us through the pandemic with their super fun podcast about a couple surviving a podcast together as authors and more. They included reviews of movies and TV shows and they are both always very funny. It’s quite shocking they write about death and murder and missing people! They are the perfect pair for “Annie’s Asks” October interview. It was so much fun I couldn’t capture the interview in words - you must watch the podcast to hear all of the questions and their answers. Mandy agreed and she put the interview up on the Between The Pages Podcast early - enjoy!

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ANNIE ASKS DAVID BELL & M. HENDRIX

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

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"This thrilling and evenly paced, dialogue-driven tale by Hendrix deftly explores issues of women's rights, class privilege, and oppression" -- Publishers Weekly

The Chaperone M. Hendrix

"Bell delivers a perfect beach read with compelling characters and baffling circumstances....even the savviest suspense readers will be shocked by the final pages. Bell is truly at the top of his game with this psychological thriller. Fans of Lisa Gardner and Mary Kubica will want to add this to the top of their reading pile."--Library Journal

Try Not to Breathe David Bell

SUBSCRIBE TO WELL READ’S NEW YOUTUBE CHANNEL!

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BETWEEN THE PAGES - INTERVIEWS, READINGS, AND MORE

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AUTHORS INTERVIEWING AUTHORS

Claire Hamner Matturro interviews Kelly Stone Gamble 196

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Claire Hamner Matturro interviews Kelly Stone Gamble

Kelly Stone Gamble is the USA Today Best Selling author of four novels, including her most recent, Ragtown. She is also a faculty member at Southeastern Oklahoma State University, where she shares her passion for literature, the humanities, and writing with students. Her best-selling novels include a connected trio of wickedly sharp, yet tender, stories about a woman named Cass Adams, who may or may not be crazy and who may or may not have killed her husband, but who can see things others cannot. These books include the USA Today bestseller They Call Me Crazy, plus Call Me Daddy, and Call Me Cass. I was thoroughly delighted by each of these novels, which focus not only on Cass but on a small town filled with quirky, fascinating characters. While serious— and not without drama and suspense—these stories also have a wry humor in them. Ragtown, a historical novel set in the Great Depression, represents a sharp turn away from the contemporary era in those early books, yet the young female main character shares some of the same spirit, spunk, and determination as Cass. Kelly and I will discuss why she took this leap from modern to historical. But first let me tell you a bit about Ragtown. The protagonist, seventeen-year-old Helen Carter, has dreams of being a photographer, but unfortunately these aspirations are inconsistent with her

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sparse and challenging life. She is living in the back seat of her father’s Model T in the harsh Nevada desert, trapped with thousands of others enduring the harsh, hungry times of the Great Depression. Her father works on constructing the Hoover Dam diversion tunnels, but when he dies, she finds herself alone without protection or income. She quickly becomes desperate. Actual starvation raises its ugly, frightening head and her limited options go from bad to worse. It will take all her resourcefulness, and the help of a few other weary folks, to survive, let alone achieve anything like her dream. The novel, while fictional, incorporates actual dramatic events Kelly learned from studying the oral histories of the dam workers, and highlights a difficult time when ordinary men and women struggled to overcome the cruel circumstances of the Great Depression.

Claire Hamner Matturro: Thank you, Kelly, for taking the time out to do this interview. With teaching, writing, and that precious new grandchild, your time is valuable, and I appreciate your willingness to let Well Read Magazine and me intrude. My first question is perhaps the most obvious. Why Ragtown? Why the jump from our contemporary era in the Cass Adams stories, where you found such success, to a historical novel? And

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why the era of the Great Depression? And why the location and set-up of building Hoover dam? What intrigued you the most about the Hoover Dam that you would write a novel about it? Kelly Stone Gamble: Ragtown was actually started before the Cass Adams series. I began writing it in 2010 and over the course of twelve years, it went through at least ten rewrites. I lived in Nevada for twenty-five years and while working on my bachelor’s degree, had to find a subject for my senior project which would incorporate history and business. The dam intrigued me, and it seemed like the obvious choice. After visiting the Hoover Dam museum in Boulder City, I ended up volunteering for the oral history project they were conducting about the Hoover Dam. The stories told by not only the workers but the family members who lived and survived the building of the dam were absolutely fascinating to me, and I found myself down the rabbit hole of research to learn as much as I could about the dam. I wanted to tell others everything I’d learned, and creating characters and dropping them in that environment seemed like a good way to do that. CHM: Where does the title, Ragtown, come from?

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KSG: When the Hoover Dam project was announced, thousands of men converged on the Nevada desert hoping to gain employment. There weren’t nearly enough jobs for all of them, and although Six Companies, the company building the dam, had some housing available for workers, they were only available for single men, not families. They would eventually provide housing for all the workers, by building the town of Boulder City, but at first, many were forced to live in squatter’s camps around the dam area. Williamsville, named for the Federal Marshall who oversaw it, was the official name of the camp in Hemenway Wash along the Colorado River. To the residents and others in the area, Williamsville was known as “the hellhole” or “Ragtown.” CHM: I’ve read Ragtown, and greatly admire the story, the research, and the poignant social issues raised in the novel. You avoid preaching—nothing in the novel approaches the didactic tones found in some novels with a message. Yet you show your readers the harshness of life without any safety nets. The protagonist Helen is left desperate when her father—her sole support and protector—dies while working on the Hoover Dam. What little she owns is mostly stolen from her after his death. The workers on the Hoover Dam had no workers compensation survivor benefits. If they didn’t work, they

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didn’t get paid. Their families received no help. Social Security, SNAP, and Aid to Dependent Families and other social programs simply did not exist. Helen, at being orphaned as a teen, finds herself with bleak, harsh choices—marriage to someone she does not love, prostitution, or starvation. How did you feel writing about such a time and such a situation? You convey Helen’s emotions and thoughts so very well, I wonder if her character might have been based upon or inspired by anyone in your own genealogy. KSG: This may sound cliché, but Helen is every woman. I think, at some point in our lives, we’ve all had to make a choice when our options weren’t at all what we really wanted. Granted, my life choices have never been as bleak as marriage, prostitution, or starvation, but I’ve done things I didn’t really want to do, especially forty years ago, because of society’s expectations for me as a woman. Now things are a lot different, but women still feel that pressure. I’ve known a lot of Helen’s in my life, women who refused to do as society dictated, but I wasn’t one of them, at least when I was her age. For example, I have always liked to build things, and I remember in high school telling my mom I wanted to one day do construction work. She laughed at me, told me I should be more serious about life, etc. Of course, I caved, and never

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pursued that. But even now, there’s nothing more satisfying to me than to have a stack of 2x4’s and an idea, and I often wonder how different my life would be had I just pulled a Helen. So it was easy to draw on experiences and emotions and allow Helen to be the fighter I wish I had been. CHM: One of the things I enjoy about quality historical fiction—and Ragtown is definitely high quality—is the way it makes me, and presumably most readers, want to learn more about the history in the story. Intrigued as I was about your story of Helen and the building of Hoover Dam, I did some of my own reading into the building of the dam. Your historical facts are accurate, so you obviously did your homework with research. Might you tell us a bit about the process and the research? And how long did it take for you to research and write Ragtown? KSG: It was 2006 when I started working with the museum for the oral history project, and I finished the first draft of Ragtown in 2011 as part of my thesis for my Master of Fine Arts in Writing. I read every book I could find about the dam, read documents and looked at photos not only in Boulder City but at UNLV special collections library, read newspaper articles from the time at Nevada State Museum, even found a Las Vegas phone book from

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1931 which helped me construct a mental map of downtown Las Vegas. But the oral histories were key. Oral histories are like no other form of research. They are individual stories, from one persons perspective, and based on their memory of that time or event. Although the interviewee is asked questions, they are encouraged to expand and talk about things that aren’t always verified or that others may not have experienced. And like any story, they are sometimes embellished, sometimes incomplete, but most definitely fascinating. Several of the scenes in Ragtown were constructed from bits I read in the oral histories. For example, one scene, I’ll call it the fire ant scene, really happened in Ragtown. So for one person, at least, that horrible scene stayed with them, long into old age, and once she included that in her history, it forever became a part of the Hoover Dam construction story. CHM: You created such a wonderful, complex, sympathetic, and ultimately strong character in Helen. Will we get to read more about her in a subsequent novel? I know I want to know what comes next for her. KSG: I don’t know. Of course, Ragtown takes place during the first phase of the project, the river diversion. The actual building of the dam doesn’t start until the day after my readers see THE END. So there’s a whole other

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story just waiting to be told about the dam, and there are a lot of things that Helen has yet to experience and learn. If one day, she starts whispering in my ear again, I gladly tell her story. CHM: Ragtown came out first as a Vella book on Amazon. Many of the readers of Well Read Magazine are authors themselves, so I wonder if you’d share what that experience with Vella was like and if you recommend it. KSG: When the Vella platform was announced, my publisher, Red Adept Publishing, wanted to try it and asked if any of the authors had something they would like to put out and basically, experiment with. I thought the idea of having author’s notes was perfect for Ragtown, so I submitted it. Ragtown debuted on the Vella platform in the top 5, reached the number 1 spot for three days, and remained in the top 20 for quite some time. In 53 weeks, it never left the top 100. So Vella was good for me! But, it’s like anything else; it’s a different form of publishing and authors have to determine for themselves if it’s good for them and their work. I had so many comments and reactions to the author notes that Red Adept included them in the print version of Ragtown, which is something quite different that most readers are used to. The great thing is, if a reader finds them distracting, they can just skip them

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Claire Hamner Matturro interviews Kelly Stone Gamble

and read the story. But if they want to know a little more, the author notes are there. CHM: On a final note, you obviously lead a full and demanding life between writing novels, teaching college, your family, and other pursuits. On the website for your publisher, Red Adept Publishing, you mention building projects and travel too. So, when do you write? Where do you write? Do you set routines in your fiction writing? KSG: I tried routines, and I’m not very good at following a schedule when it comes to writing. It seemed every time I’d set aside time to write, that time would come and I’d sit and look at the screen with nothing to say. So I write when a story starts developing in my mind, and once one does, I’ll be up all hours of the night writing. And I usually have an idea of where it’s going, but don’t really figure it out until I’m at the end. I have a book currently with an agent, Nobody’s Hero, which I wrote a few years ago. After I finished writing the novel, I went back and started over and rewrote the entire thing. Which was fine-it took me 80,000 words to figure out where I really wanted it to go. That’s a lot of “pre-writing” for some people, but, it works for me. And yes, I love to travel, spend time with my family, work around my house, but I also love to write, and when a story is there, I find time. I don’t sleep much.

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AUTHORS INTERVIEWING AUTHORS

CHM: Thank you, Kelly, for sharing your time and answers with Well Read Magazine readers. All the best to you with Ragtown and subsequent books. KSG: Thank you for having me.

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Claire Hamner Matturro interviews Kelly Stone Gamble

Claire Hamner Matturro has been a journalist, lawyer, organic blueberry farmer, and college instructor. She is the author of eight novels, including a series published by HarperCollins. She’s an associate editor at Southern Literary Review and lives in Florida. Her poetry appears in various publications.

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"Gamble creates a compelling saga made all the more riveting for its foundations in historical fact. The astute reflections of each character cement a sense of the times which includes not just a taste of place and history, but the life lessons and conundrums which transfer between generations as well as between individuals...hard to put down, complex in its associations and changing milieus, and attractive in its psychological depth and sense of place and purpose."--D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

Ragtown Kelly Stone Gamble

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

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BETWEEN THE PAGES - INTERVIEWS, READINGS, AND MORE

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

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Authors’ Networking Group

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OFF THE PAGE

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

Raymond Atkins 222

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OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

I went to my wife’s 50th high school reunion the other night. I didn’t want to go because to do so would involve me putting on some long pants and driving after dark, not to mention talking to people and dancing, but she and I had made a deal many long years ago, and deals should be honored, unless, of course, you are rich and powerful, in which case you can apparently just do whatever the hell you want to. Since I have never been either of these and have had to settle instead for wildly talented and ruggedly handsome, well, I willingly made the compact with her all those years ago and have abided by it ever since. This deal-making came about during our child-getting years, which were admittedly much more trouble for her than they were for me, and which culminated in her pointing out to me that obvious fact after delivering baby number four. She then observed that since she had produced the wee bairns, I could look forward to teaching them to drive, taking them camping, and selling fundraising candy on their behalf at work, among other things. These were very reasonable requests on her part, and I did not mind any of these duties in the least, mostly because I was younger then and did not fully understand the absolute horror to come of teaching two girls and two boys to drive. But you know me, and since you do, you know that I always have to go for the laugh. It’s a genetic thing, really,

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OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

like high cholesterol, pattern baldness, and hauntingly blue eyes, and I can’t help it. So I unwisely pointed out that perhaps Eve, of Adam and Eve fame, should teach the kids to drive, since if certain ancient and notoriously unreliable texts were to be believed, she was the root cause of the whole child-bearing issue. Hey, I was kidding, y’all. I am a card-carrying member of The Darwin Society, a strict evolutionist who firmly believes that someday humans might evolve into something a bit more humane. But my wife took it amiss anyway—perhaps cracking wise right there in the delivery room wasn’t the optimal time—and before I knew it, she had added weddings, funerals, and reunions to the list of activities I could expect to be participating in, just before asking me if I had any more commentaries of the “supposedly funny” variety to make. I did not, and thus I retired from the field before she added taking the kids to the opera to the list. If you are wondering, let me put your mind at ease. There is actually a document that spells all of this out, signed and notarized, with various changes and updates initialed by both parties over the years, and with penalties for failure to comply spelled out in specific and unpleasant detail. It begins with “Now Therefore,” and concludes with “Fail Not,” and packed in between those two phrases are three pages, single spaced, of my end of the deal,

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OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

because my wife and her attorney are nothing if not thorough. I have often wondered what he was doing there in the delivery room, with his mask and gown and legal pad, but I decided long ago to just let that be one of life’s great mysteries. The official copy of the contract is at his office along with our wills and other important papers, but the working copy is in her pocketbook, ready to be whipped out and consulted at a moment’s notice. Ask me how many additional Eve jokes I have made during the past 40 years. Go ahead. Ask me. Anyway, off to the 50th reunion we went. It is one of the truths of the human condition that we tend to measure the passing of our lives in terms of milestones, and any milestone containing the number 50 is considered extra special, as it should be. When you consider that the

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OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

average American lifespan is 76 years, 50 years is a big deal. It is also worthy of note that just a few years ago the average American lifespan was a couple of years longer. This loss of longevity has been attributed to both covid and to the chronic apoplexy caused by Hunter Biden’s laptop, and while these factors certainly had an impact, my theory is that a large number of perfectly-healthy-but-nowdeceased people made the mistake of watching the news just before going to bed, and as a result of this simply decided to not wake up the next morning. When we got to the reunion, we drove through the parking lot outside of the high school gym, ostensibly looking for a spot while also checking to see who had driven nicer cars to the event. Oh, like you’ve never. It turned out that we were in good shape on the vehicle front—thank you Enterprise for that, and no I don’t want the coverage—so we parked and entered the building. There were about 200 people in there, 100 former graduates and their plus-ones, and my first impression was that they were all so…old. I know what you’re thinking. This shouldn’t have surprised me in the least. I mean, I am a sixty-eight-yearold man married to a woman attending her 50th high school reunion. What did I expect, right? The thing is, in my heart and in my head, I am still that same eighteenyear-old kid who drove a ragged Chevy over the state line

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OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

from Alabama to Georgia looking for a job, a female who would actually date me, and the meaning of life. Okay, I just threw that last one in there to class up the list a bit, but the first two were real. I found a job at Riegel Textile Corporation, and I found a lovely young woman who became my partner in life, and I met a balding, wormy-looking young man with the nickname of Rat who would eventually become her lawyer, and the rest was, as they say, history. My second impression at the reunion, and it has only taken me about 1000 words to get to this crucial point, and I’m really quite proud of that, was that even though I was in a room full of strangers, I felt like I knew them all. True, the specifics of all of our lives over the past 50 years

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OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

were different, yet we had all done the same things. We had all met and partnered up with the loves of our lives, and some had done this more than once. We had all set up homes. Some of us had gone to college and some had gone to work, but we had all had careers. We had all known great happiness at times, and we had all survived great sorrows. Most had had children and had spent a big chunk of that 76-year lifespan and a whole lot of cash seeing that they were off to a good start and doing fine. And now we were all on the other side of all of that, in a room full of people more or less just like us, choosing between the chicken and the brisket, passing on the slaw because it was sweet, and listening to Mustang Sally while wondering where all the time had gone. Sniff. Excuse me a moment. Okay, I’m better now. Just got a bit maudlin there for a minute. Lucky for me I have some chores to do. Yes, they are all specified in the contract, although now that I’m an older guy, rearranging the furniture might give me some problems. Maybe I’ll get her lawyer to help.

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OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

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

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The Final Girl Support Group by Grady Hendrix THE INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER VOTED GOODREADS CHOICE AWARD BEST HORROR NOVEL OF 2021 A Good Morning America Buzz Pick “The horror master…puts his unique spin on slasher movie tropes.”-USA Today In horror movies, the final girls are the ones left standing when the credits roll. They made it through the worst night of their lives…but what happens after? Like his bestselling novel The Southern Book Club’s Guide to Slaying Vampires, Grady Hendrix’s latest is a fast-paced, frightening, and wickedly humorous thriller. From chain saws to summer camp slayers, The Final Girl Support Group pays tribute to and slyly subverts our most popular horror films—movies like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, A Nightmare on Elm Street, and Scream. Lynnette Tarkington is a real-life final girl who survived a massacre. For more than a decade, she’s been meeting with five

other final girls and their therapist in a support group for those who survived the unthinkable, working to put their lives back together. Then one woman misses a meeting, and their worst fears are realized—someone knows about the group and is determined to rip their lives apart again, piece by piece. But the thing about final girls is that no matter how bad the odds, how dark the night, how sharp the knife, they will never, ever give up.

“The Final Girl Support Group sizzles with action, originality, and a gleaming concept sharp as a scalpel.”—Charlaine Harris, #1 New York Times bestselling author "Pray for morning, wish for speed, and be as quiet as you can, it doesn't matter—Grady Hendrix's The Final Girl Support Group already knows where you live and breathe."—Stephen Graham Jones, New York Times bestselling author of The Only Good Indians "Equal parts thrilling and darkly funny." - Time “It’s not necessary to be a fan of slasher movies to enjoy this very clever, gleefully violent, self-aware deconstruction of the genre.” - The Guardian

WELL READ Magazine October 2023

Articles inside

OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

AUTHORS INTERVIEWING AUTHORS

ANNIE ASKS DAVID BELL & M. HENDRIX

INSIDE VOICES with Rasheed Newson

WHAT ARE YOU READING?

THE DARK TOURIST by Dawn Major

WELL DONE! Poetry ENEMY’S EMBRACE by Mike Turner

WELL DONE! WELL DONE! Poetry MY SISTER’S HOUSE IS HAUNTED by J. B. Hogan

WELL DONE! Flash Fiction RETURNING TOMORROW by John M. Williams

WELL DONE! Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories ANXIETY by Angela Patera

WELL DONE! Poetry TEMPORAL by Ashley Tunnell

WELL DONE! Poetry RAIN CROW by Ramey Channell

WELL DONE! Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories HEARTACHE AND WIND by Will Maguire

WELL DONE! Fiction I KNOW YOU by Mandy Haynes

WELL DONE! Poetry BUZZARDS by David Malone

WELL DONE! Fiction DESERT RAIN by Robb Grindstaff

WELL DONE! Fiction BEST FRIENDS FOREVER by Mark Braught

WELL DONE! Flash Fiction ACCOMPANIED by Diane Lefer

Carolyn Haines takes us for a walk on the wild side of Mobile County with The Bog Father - Stephen R