Toni Morrison and Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., were late to the party. The whole gang in our creative writing class knew Suzanne Hudson had a gift. No amount of writing practice or study or efforts at imitation could bring a new writer to that level of art and skill.Our professor, John Craig Stewart, required a writing sample from any student who wanted into his program at the University of SouthAlabama. I can see him now as he removed pages from his faculty mailbox and went into his office on the second floor of the Humanities Building. Sitting heavily in his swivel chair, propping up his feet for a read of this latest sample. He sighed. How many timid submissions for a chair at his table? How many manuscripts from students who’d get a handwritten note, “I’m sorry . . .” Mr. Stewart was a kind man.
Walker Percy, in his introduction to A Confederacy of Dunces, confessed that reading a bad manuscript was the last thing he wanted to waste his time doing. And, further, he simply would stop, and sometimes with a single sentence. Writers would cringe knowing their blood and sweat to bring a story to life could be so grossly and easily rejected. But, like being offered a taste, say, of seafood gumbo for the very first time, you know immediately whether you like it. You don’t need to keep chewing. It would only get worse. With John Kennedy Toole’s manuscript, he knew in that first sentence as an author and editor of Louisiana State University Press, he was in the company of something good. He didn’t know it would win the Pulitzer Prize for the deceased writer.
Mr. Stewart’s eyes would have brightened with that first line of Suzanne Hudson’s sample story. A tilt of his head slightly forward, as if to get closer to the story, the words. With the last sentence, he’d keep holding the page. Maybe stare out the window, trying to picture the author. Bookish like Flannery O’Connor? She wrote that well.Tennessee writerWilliam Gay, who Stephen King said, was “anAmerican treasure laboring in obscurity in the hills of east Tennessee,” would many years later tell her he found her writing like that of Flannery O’Connor minus God.
I was also similarly arrested when I first heard Suzanne read a story in his class.
We showed up on Wednesday afternoons for the three-hour, seminar-style class. Mr. Stewart sat at the head of a long rectangular table, something like you’d see in a corporate board room. His gaggle of hopefuls, these emerging authors, sat five on either side and two brave souls at the other end of the table facing him. At the start of class, Mr. Stewart might say, “Today we’ll start with stories from Kenny Hall and John Hoodless and Erin Kellen. After the break, we’ll come back in for the second half of our class and hear Blake Savell and Sonny Brewer and Suzanne Hudson.”
Then he’d remind the class, as usual, when each reader finishes, “We will pause after each reading for ten seconds, and then offer comments and suggestions.”
He’d lift his hands from the table in front of him and slap them down, but lightly.
“Let’s get started.Are you ready Mr. Hall?”
“Mr. Stewart?”
“Yes, Mr. Brewer.”
“There’s this short story contest, for new writers only, sponsored by Penthouse.”
After the initial and not unexpected snark about the magazine, I listed some of the authors who’d been published in its pages: “James Baldwin, Philip Roth, Gore Vidal, Paul Theroux, Isaac Asimov, T. C. Boyle, Harry Crews, Don DeLillo . . .”
And then I added, “The first prize is $5,000, plus a purchase fee of $500. And the winning story will be published in the magazine, so your name can be added to that list of literary lions.”
Still, Erin Kellen protested, “There’re no women on that list.”
“So be the first,” I told her.
Mr. Stewart took over. “What have you got to lose? Everyone should send in a story. Get with Brewer during the break or after class for the mailing address.”
I got my story back within two weeks.Whichever of theteam of freelance editors hired to read 7,500 submissions from all over the world read mine had a hangover, I’m sure, and didn’t give my story a fair shake. But it was comforting to learn from my peers that their work, too, had been tossed aside.
All except for Suzanne Hudson.
Already that quarter, she’d won a contest sponsored by a New York-based literary magazine eponymously titled New Writers. Still, we were all shocked and maybe a little jealous
when she brought in a letter from the Penthouse fiction editor, Paul Bresnick, saying her story “LaPrade” was one of a dozen semi-finalists. The letter also said that Toni Morrison had been one of the judges, and, further, that those twelve stories would be passed to Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., who would choose the overall winner.
“LaPrade” won. Suzanne was notified by a telegram she keeps to this day.
All in, she was paid $5,500 prize money and publication rights fee for “LaPrade,” which appeared in the December, 1977, issue of Penthouse. It was our senior year. And we demanded she take the class and Mr. Stewart to Thirstie’s Bar and Grill on Old Shell Road, just off campus, and treat us all to gallons of beer. She first bought a new washer and dryer. Then she bought rounds for whoever showed up that Wednesday night after class.
Our friend William Gay, that same writer, whose novel Twilight was selected by Stephen King as his favorite book of the year 2006, and who had two of his short stories made into movies, and who won a MacArthur Fellows Genius Grant, also entered the Penthouse magazine contest. He told Suzanne he was upset about losing. “Until I saw your picture,” he confessed.
“Yeah, she might be pretty,” I said toWilliam, “but she didn’t shave her legs or under her arms.” Which didn’t bother him. They became dear friends. And he showed up for her, joining Suzanne and Frank Turner Hollon and me for a reading panel at Agnes Scott College. He never passed up a chance to boast
about her writing, nor to confessing that Toni Morrison and Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., favored her writing over his.
Suzanne and I both wish William were with us still, for he would likely join her when she accepts the Truman Capote Prize from the Monroeville Literary Festival in the spring of 2025. This collection of stories, Deep Water, Dark Horizons, commemorates that event. It gives strong testimony to the power of Suzanne Hudson’s writing art and the literary career that I had the pleasure to watch grow from its bright beginning into her shining legacy of Alabama letters, as conveyed in her bibliography following the stories in this collection.
The crush I had on Suzanne during our days seated around Mr. Stewart’s table is none of your business.
Sonny Brewer, Waterhole Branch,Alabama
A native of Columbus, Georgia, with roots in southwest Georgia, Suzanne Hudson (rps.hudson@gmail.com) grew up in Brewton, Alabama, and has been a resident of Fairhope, Alabama, for nearly forty years.Aretired public school teacher and guidance counselor, she is also the internationally prizewinning author of three novels, a “fictional” memoir, and her short stories and essays have been widely anthologized. Hudson lives near Fairhope, Alabama, at Waterhole Branch Productions, with her husband, author Joe Formichella (joe_ formichella@yahoo.com) and the other denizens of the Branch. She is the 2025 Truman Capote Prize winner.
WELL
Best of 2024 Volume One
Available March 4th
Contributors in Volume One include: Carolyn Haines, Doug Gray, Angela Patera, Kimberly Parish Davis, Michael Spake, Jennifer Smith, Ashley Tunnell, Ken Gosse, Dr. Elizabeth V. Koshy, Ann Hite, Ellen Notbohm, Micah Ward, Malcolm Glass, Katie Crow, Lorraine Cregar, Patricia Feinberg Stoner, John M. Williams, Michael Lee Johnson, J.D. Isip, Casie Bazay, Jacob Strunk, Ann Christine Tabaka, Joan McNerney, Fhen M., Steven Kent, Peter Magliocco, Mark Braught, Rita Welty Bourke, Loretta Fairley, Barbara Anna Gaiardoni, S. Dodge, DeLane Phillips, Candice Marley Conner,Arvilla Fee, J. B. Hogan, Ramey Channell, Hope Kostedt, John Grey, Martha Ellen Johnson, Nancy Chadwick-Burke, Mike Coleman, Margaret Pearce, Nicole Irizawa, Donald Edwards, Janet Lynn Oakley, Mandy Jones, Phyllis Gobbell, and Suzanne Kamata
Cover art by Lindsay Carraway
WELL READ Magazine’s Best of 2024 Volume Two
Available March 4th!
Contributors in Volume Two include: Candice Marley Conner, Kaye Wilkinson Barley, Mike Ross, Will Maguire, AJ Concannon, Patricia Feinberg Stoner, Gregg Norman, Robin Prince Monroe, Ramey Channell, April Mae M. Berza, Anne Leigh Parrish, B. A. Brittingham, Mike Austin, Sara Evelyne, Jennifer Smith, Loretta Fairley, J.L. Oakley, Celia Miles, Kris Faatz, Ed Nichols, Linda Imbler, Annie McDonnell, Mike Turner, Micah Ward, James Wade, Ashley Tunnell, John M. Williams, Robb Grindstaff, Stevie Lyon, Laura McHale Holland, Saeed Ibrahim, Nancy Julien Kopp, Julie Green, DeLane Phillips, Shayla Dodge, Edilson Afonso Ferreira, Chris Wood, Jasna Gugić, Fhen M., Hubert Blair Bonds, Ellen Birkett Morris, Margaret Pearce, Ellen Notbohm, Kimberly Parish Davis, J. B. Hogan, and Royal Rhodes
Cover art by Lindsay Carraway
In January of 2023, WELL READ Magazine began accepting submissions for prose, poetry, and visual art. I was blown away by all of the talented poets, authors, and artists that first year.I can’texplain thethrillI feltsharing them with readers every month through the online journal, and the excitement of opening up another new submission.
That feeling is still strong today and I’m just as excited to share the submissions from 2024 with you. They are too good not to share again – in print – to give readers another chance to find them. There are no prompts or themes for the submissions so I never know what I’m getting into until I dive in. Every submission is a surprise and each one hits you in a different way. I love the emotional rollercoaster each new entry takes me on, so I’ve broken the traditional rules for publishing collections and
kept the anthologies in the same format as what you find in the online journal. You never know what’s coming next so get ready for a fun ride!
In Best of 2024 Volume One, you’ll find fiftyone submissions. Three were nominated for a Pushcart Prize: The Hanging by Doug Gray, Sandy Tells Me About Dead Pine Trees by J.D. Isip, and Wilma by Phyllis Gobbell.
In Best of 2024 Volume Two, you’ll find fiftytwo submissions. Three submissions in this volume were nominated for a Pushcart Prize: Hanging Pictures by Micah Ward, The Lone and Level Sands by James Wade, and American Chestnut by Candace Connor. The cover art is by artist, Lindsay Carraway, who had several pieces published in February of 2023.
Did you miss last month’s issue? No worries! Click here to find it as well as all the past issues.
River of Dolls and Other Stories by
Suzanne Kamata
These stories, many of which riff on traditional Japanese folk tales and lore, explore the lives of individuals caught between desire and duty, as well as the conflicting expectations of different cultures. For example, in 'Day Pass,' a college student in South Carolina befriends a female prisoner on a work release program, thinking that she will be a good influence, but then realizes that she has gotten in over her head. In 'Blue Murder,' a Japanese farmer troubled by the crows eating his pears becomes besotted with a kingfisher. The narrator of 'Down the Mountain,' a descendant of the Heike clan, recounts the tragic life and death of her beloved sister as she urges her own daughter to leave their secluded mountain village and go out into the world, and in the title story, 'River of Dolls,' a Japanese woman struggles with infertility. Ranging from dirty to magical realism, the stories collected here are often infused with humor, while exposing universal truths.
"Written in eloquent vibrant prose, River of Dolls is a splendid collection of stories about mothers and daughters, girls and women, wives and ex-wives. Above all, this is a book about good mothers, bad mothers and those unable to be mothers." -- Tina deBellegarde, Writers in Kyoto
Death By Trauma:A Josiah Reynolds Mystery
byAbigail Keam
In the Bluegrass world of oakcured bourbon, antebellum mansions, and Thoroughbred horse farms are secrets— deadly secrets!
Josiah Reynolds knows this with good reason. She’s solved many a murder, but Josiah prays that she does not stumble across another body. The stress is too much, and she is happy to be invited to a winter sledding party at Haze Corbyn’s home. Corbyn is a former syndicatedcriticfornewspapersandmagazines,whoretired to the Bluegrass, dabbling in his love of horses. The party is a kickoff for the Victoria Weathers film retrospective at a local theater.
Miss Weathers is even coming for the showing of her first movie and Corbyn’s event. Josiah is excited to meet her movie idol, so it comes as a big surprise when Haze Corbyn turns up dead at his own party.
Kentucky is not called “the dark and bloody ground” for nothing!
Hello! I’m Abigail Keam, author of the Josiah Reynolds Mysteries and the 1930s Mona Moon Mysteries.
Celebrate with me as I publish my 50th book, Death By Trauma: A Josiah Reynolds Mystery, and enter my 15th year as a writer. I write books about women for women.
As writing is a lonely business, it’s nice to speak directly to readers who love to read. I penned my first story in the second grade. It was titled Bobby Bobo Got Baptized at the Big Bone Baptist Church. Bobby Bobo was a real country western singer who was baptized in my church’s outdoor baptismal in Big Bone, Kentucky. Yes, Big Bone is a real place where Ice Age animals’ bones are found. I got an A+ and the teacher called my mother, telling her to encourage me to write. I loved the attention.
After that call, my mother and I would take the bus from our Kentucky home across the Ohio River to the Cincinnati Public Library and bring home a shopping bag full of books every month. I currently live on a cliff overlooking the Kentucky River. I spend most of my days alone at my keyboard writing, but I do have critters keeping me company. The river acts as a corridor for wild turkeys, bobcats, coyotes, bald eagles, groundhogs, and various birds.
I write the award-winning Josiah Reynolds Mystery Series about
a woman who makes her living as a beekeeper and is thrust into the role of an amateur sleuth in the lush Bluegrass horse country— a world of Thoroughbreds, oak-cured bourbon, and antebellum mansions where secrets never die.
Folks say write about what you know—so I do. I made my living from beekeeping and sold my honey at a local farmers’ market, just like my protagonist, Josiah Reynolds does.
AJosiah Reynolds Mystery is a little different from the usual cozy. While there is very little violence, sex, or swearing in the storylines, they are a tad darker than most cozies. Josiah is not your typical sweet, wholesome heroine. She has an edge to her and does not suffer fools gladly.
I try to make these stories as much fun as possible and have populated Josiah’s world with some quirky friends that could only be found in America’s colorful South. There is Josiah’s wealthy octogenarian neighbor, Lady Elsmere, a Kentucky gal who married an English lord and came back to live in the Bluegrass.
Josiah’s gun-happy daughter, Asa, who claims she is an art insurance investigator, but everyone knows she works for the CIA.There are also Baby, Josiah’s 200 pound English Mastiff, and Glory, her American Paint horse who has a penchant for bucking Josiah off.
As a beekeeper myself, I love weaving tidbits about beekeeping into my mysteries as well as historical facts about Kentucky, which has a fascinating past.
A few years back I introduced a new series—The Mona Moon
Mysteries. Mona Moon lives a 1930s rags-to-riches life during the Great Depression. Mona Moon is a cartographer and counting pennies to get by when she learns that she has inherited her uncle’s vast wealth and a magnificent Bluegrass horse farm. She thinks she’s on easy street until someone tries to kill her. Oh, dear! So begins a life of trouble finding its way to her door.
I absolutely love writing mysteries and blending real events and people into my stories. I guess I’m a frustrated teacher at heart and enjoy doing the research to make both mystery series as authentic as possible. Speaking of writing, I must beg off. Inspiration has struck and Josiah is calling me!
To learn more, go to:
Amazon Facebook BlueSky Goodreads
AWARDS
2010 Gold MedalAward from Readers’Favorite for Death By A HoneyBee
2011 Gold MedalAward from Readers' Favorite for Death By Drowning
2011 USABOOK NEWS-Best Books List of 2011 as a Finalist for Death By Drowning
2011 USABOOK NEWS-Best Books List of 2011 as a Finalist for Death By A HoneyBee
2017 Finalist from Readers’Favorite for Death By Design
2019 Honorable Mention from Readers’Favorite for Death By Stalking
2019 Top 10 Mystery Novels from Kings River Life Magazine for Murder Under A Blue Moon
2020 ImadjinnAward for Best Mystery - Death By Stalking
2022 Finalist in Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Finalist for Best Historical Category - Murder Under A Full Moon
2022 Finalist the Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Award for Best Historical Category - Murder Under A New Moon
2022 Death By Chance: A Josiah Reynolds Mystery Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Finalist for Best Cozy Mystery
Walton’s Creek Land of Our Fathers Volume I by Rickie
ZayneAshby
Walton’s Creek: Land of Our Fathers is the fictional story of the Atlee and Caughill families as they live, love, and survive in the hills and hollers of Walton’s Creek, Kentucky. The dialogue in this simple story is true to the dialect, vocabulary, and phrasings of the people of rural Western Kentuckyintheearlytwentieth century. Volume One of a twovolume set, the narrative flows through time from the years 1913-1971.
"A masterfully engaging novel..." Brant Boehmann, Principal Software Engineer, Warner Brothers, Discovery
“One of the most endearing features of Ashby’s writing involves the explicitly authentic voice that permeates his narrative. I grew up surrounded by people who talked exactly the way they do in “Walton’s Creek,” and it brought back several warm memories from my childhood and adolescence…” Five Star Reader Review
Walton’s Creek: Land of Our Fathers, Volume II by Rickie ZayneAshby
Walton’s Creek: Land of Our Fathers, Volume II is the fictional story of the Atlee and Caughill families as they live, love, and survive in the hills and hollers of Walton’s Creek, Kentucky. The dialogue in this simple story is true to the dialect, vocabulary and phrasings of the people of rural western Kentucky in the early 20th century. Volume Two of a twovolumeset,thenarrativeflowsthroughtimefromthe1950s1970s.
Walton’s Creek native Rick Ashby based the characters on members of his own family, his parents and grandparents in particular, and reflects on what life was like in this humble but hard-working community. It is a land where families tilled the land and raised their own food, supplemented by meat from wild game … a place where men worked in the coal mines and women maintained the home with no indoor plumbing, all while trying to adapt to new technologies and changes to theAmerican way of life.
James Baldwin, author and civil rights activist, stated that to be Black in America and relatively conscious is to be in a state of rage almost all of the time. In this audacious debut poetry collection, The Horizon Never Forgets, Steven Moore offers us dropsofhoneyinthetendermomentswesometimes experience, especially a mother’s love. But also, drops of fire and rage when he writes about being Black, when the world ignores the pain and refuses to address the ongoing struggle to live while bearing theweightofracism.Readersfeeltherage,theburn, thefuryoftheBlackexperience,andtheurgencyfor change—but also the uplift and hope that still reside within love’s possibilities.
Shadow Family is the story of a birth mother, an adoptive mother, and their struggles with life’s pitfalls. Their son, after searching diligently for his birth mother, brings them together in the end. Told in these three voices, it is a story of perseverance and, ultimately, hope.
Original cover art: End of the World by Emily Rankin
ABOLD THRILLER—Kirkus Reviews
In Streets of Nashville, Ezra MacRae has a nearly encyclopedic knowledge of songs and their writers, and he has moved from the North Carolina mountains to Nashville’s Music Row with the dream of becoming part of that songwriting world. Yet just as he is out on the town to celebrate his first good fortune after several years of trying—a staff songwriting contract with an independent music publisher— he witnesses the man who signed on the dotted lines with him gunned down with three others outside his Music Row office. The masked gunman spares Ezra. But why?
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.
Life Close to the Bone by Michael Spake
John Greenburn used to be somebody. Now, he's just a middle-aged guy, sitting behind his computer screen, waiting for his life to come to a screeching halt.Cognitive-Pharma,aFloridabased pharmaceutical company with deep pockets and a secret to hide, has caught the attention of the U.S. Department of Justice. The allegation? Medicare fraud. No one is more on the hook than John, who, as the Chief Ethics Officer at Cognitive-Pharma, has been the canary in the coal mine for the last 12 months. Not that his CEO cares much.
The CEO, a flashy, profit-driven type, certainly doesn't care that John's own mother, Francis, is in desperate need of Cognitive-Pharma's top-selling drug to slow her memory loss. Haunted by what he knows of the fraud allegationsand the investigation's impact on the thousands of patients who depend on the medication - John draws closer to the memories he has of his own mother, Francis, and the ways she pushed him to be somebody. And, not just somebody, but the greatest youth tennis player upstate South Carolina had ever known. With Francis' memory deteriorating, John's time to understand both himself and his mother, a
product of the rough mill town that shaped her, is slipping away.
Life Close to the Bone moves from present day Florida and back in time to John's successful tenure on the youth tennis circuit and the textile mill in upstate South Carolina that, through Francis, shaped John's adolescence. It depicts a matriarchal family's relentless striving to overcome their "linthead" heritage and explores what it means to live for yourself and, ultimately, to forgive parents shaped by their own generational hardship.
Michael Spake is a healthcare attorney and writer. His debut novel, Life Close to the Bone, a coming-of-age story about the shift in memory that comes with moving from adolescence to adulthood, as the story’s protagonist learns about love and loss in a textile mill town located in upstate, South Carolina.
Michael and his wife Mary Lucia celebrated their 27th wedding anniversary. They have four children(22,18,18,and13).Michael is from Anderson, South Carolina and graduated with honors from The Citadel with a BA(English) in 1994.
Michael currently lives in Lakeland, Florida. At home, when not writing, he gardens and raises chickens.
This is a special, limited edition hardback with music CD of songs recorded by
Michael Martin Murphey.
Texas Poets LaureateAlan Birkelbach and karla k. morton are joined by award-winning musician, Michael Martin Murphey.
ANew Leash on Life:A heartwarming story of the dogs who rescue us by Patricia Sands
Atale that will leave paw prints on your heart.
Welcome to the dog-friendly town of Dragonfly Cove, where you’ll find plenty of heartwarming moments that blend canine companionship into the everyday lives of ordinary people, to create extraordinary stories. If you loved books like Wish Me Home by Kay Bratt, the Second Chance series by Casey Wilson, and the Guiding Emily series by Barbara Hinske, you will enjoy the books in the bestselling Dragonfly Cove Dog Park series; heartwarming stories of the dogs who rescue us!
A New Leash On Life, the ninth book in the Dragonfly Cove Dog Park series, is a tender story of unexpected change.
Libby Moore has been a caregiver to her loving husband, Don, for three years. An early diagnosis of dementia for Don turned their world upside down. With the help of of PSA’s, Libby was able to continue being a librarian at the elementary school. Evenings and weekends were devoted to Don until it was no longer possible to care for him. Retirement gave Libby options for travel and some free time. Suddenly her son, transferred to Australia for three months, needed a big favor. Could cat-owner Libby take in a new pup for a short time until his family returned to Dragonfly Cove? Libby questions how she would ever adjust to the demands of a dog, even if it was temporary. But she cannot say no to the pleas of her grandchildren. A heartwarming story of how embracing the unexpected with an open heart can lead to remarkable discoveries. Life’s surprises
often remind us that beauty lies in unpredictability, and that the best experiences often come in ways we never imagined.
The Dragonfly Cove Dog Park series is perfect for fans of fiction who love stories that are as heartwarming as they are entertaining.
Originally from Toronto, Canada, the pandemic caused Patricia and her husband to move two hours north to The Blue Mountains with Georgian Bay in their ‘front yard’ and ski hills 8 minutes away. An admitted travel fanatic, Patricia can pack a bag in a flash and be ready to go anywhere … particularly the south of France, for her annual visit.
As of January, 2015, along with being an indie author, Patricia has also published with Lake Union Publishing. This is the women’s fiction arm of Amazon Publishing. With a focus on her love of the south of France, women’s issues and ageing, her stories celebrate the feminine spirit and the power of friendship. Encouraging women of all ages to stare down the fear factor and embrace change, Patricia has heard from readers (men too!) ages 20 to 83.
In 2024, with many of the same writers mentioned above, she contributed Book 9 to the Dragonfly Cove Dog Park series. A NEW LEASH ON LIFE was published on January 1, 2025, and a joy to write. The series is about a litter of eight yellow Labrador Retriever puppies and where each one goes when they leave the breeder. Dog lovers took these books to #1 onAmazon’s Best Sellers inAnimal Fiction.
Naked Young Woman in Front of the Mirror celebrates physical, mental, and emotional growth throughout the different phases of life. From the playful nature and feelings of insignificance in childhood, to the angst of teenage years, this character continues to grow into a young woman who is bold and confident in her body and in her thoughts, her sexuality and her voice. She moves on to the frailty and despair of clinging to mortal relationships. She experiences both the agony and the bliss of love, and revels in an insatiable appetite for life.
Naked Young Woman in Front of the Mirror Jessica Jones
The Green Mage is a tale in the finest of sword and sorcery tradition—a hero’s journey told through the eyes of the mage.
Norbert Oldfoot is a simple mage who makes his living traveling the Bekla River Road, selling trade goods, performing healing magic, and singing traditional songs of heroes. He becomes friends with Kerttu, a coppersmith who has developed a new alloy which is perfect for manufacturing swords. When Kerttu is kidnappedby theevilWizardLudek,Kerttu’s teenage daughterTessia, a skilled hunter, recruits three friends, including Norbert, and sets out on a quest to find a legendary dragon who lives in the mountains. With the help of the dragon, Tessia plans to save her father. Little do they know that in order to save Kerttu, they will first have to save the kingdom.
Long ago, Milon Redshield, the first warrior-king of Windkeep Castle, brought down a curse on the kingdom for his cruel treatment of dragons, the Goddess Nilene’s chosen guardians of nature. Thousands of years later, Windkeep is still burdened with the curse, and Queen Tessia is having to defend her kingdom from repeated assaults by the weather witches and their allies. She turns to her friends and advisors Norbert the Green Mage and Tyrmiss the Last Dragon, to accompany her and a band of heroes in a quest to travel to the far land of Sheonad in order to parley with the witches, and if they refuse to negotiate, thentodestroytheircity.TessiaurgesNorberttousehis powers to fight the witches and protect Windkeep, but Norbert is reluctant to do so because he understands that the world exists in delicate balance, and grave and unforeseen consequences result if the balance is disrupted. After fighting a number of battles and suffering bizarre magical transformations, Tessia and Norbert at last come to understand the kingdom of Windkeep can be saved only through the ancient wisdom of dragons.
When the dragon Tyrmiss returns to thekingdomtoaskTessiaandNorbert to help save the Western Dragons from extermination, the two heroes begin the greatest adventure of their lives, one that will take them into the underworld to plead with Mnuurluth, Lord Death himself, whom they have unknowingly been serving all along.
MADVILLE PUBLISHING seeks out and encourages literary writers with unique voices. We look for writers who express complex ideas in simple terms. We look for critical thinkers with a twang, a lilt, or a click in their voices.And patois! We love a good patois. We want to hear those regionalisms in our writers’voices. We want to preserve the sound of our histories through our voices complete and honest, dialectal features and all. We want to highlight those features that make our cultures special in ways that do not focus on division, but rather shine an appreciative light on our diversity.
InVolume One, you’ll find thirty-eight submissions written by a fantastic mix of award-winning authors and poets plus new ones to the scene.
Three submissions in this volumewerenominatedfor a Pushcart Prize: Miller’s Cafe by Mike Hilbig, SleepingonPaul’sMattress by Brenda Sutton Rose, and A Hard Dog by Will Maguire. The cover art is byartist,LindsayCarraway, who had several pieces published in February’s issue.
Contributors: Jeffrey Dale Lofton, Phyllis Gobbell, Brenda Sutton Rose, T. K. Thorne, Claire Hamner Matturro, Penny Koepsel,MikeHilbig,JonSokol,RitaWeltyBourke,Suzanne Kamata, Annie McDonnell, Will Maguire, Joy Ross Davis, Robb Grindstaff, Tom Shachtman, Micah Ward, Mike Turner, James D. Brewer, Eileen Coe, Susan Cornford,Ana Doina, J. B. Hogan, Carrie Welch,Ashley Holloway, Rebecca Klassen, Robin Prince Monroe, Ellen Notbohm, Scott Thomas Outlar, Fiorella Ruas, Jonathan Pett, DeLane Phillips, Larry F. Sommers, Macy Spevacek, and Richard Stimac
In Volume Two, you’ll find forty-three submissions written by a fantastic mix of award-winning authors and poets plus new ones to the scene.
Three submissions in this volume were nominated for a Pushcart Prize: A Bleeding Heart by Ann Hite, A Few Hours in the Life of a FiveYear-Old Pool Player by Francine Rodriguez, and There Were Red Flags by Mike Turner. The cover art for Volume Two is by artist, DeWitt Lobrano, who had several pieces published in November’s issue. Enjoy!
Contributors: Ann Hite, Malcolm Glass, Dawn Major, John M. Williams, Mandy Haynes, Francine Rodriguez, Mike Turner, Mickey Dubrow, William Walsh, Robb Grindstaff, Deborah Zenha Adams, Mark Braught, B. A. Brittingham, Ramey Channell, Eileen Coe, Marion Cohen, Lorraine Cregar, John Grey, J. B. Hogan,Yana Kane, Philip Kobylarz, Diane Lefer, Will Maguire, David Malone, Ashley Tunnell, Tania Nyman, Jacob Parker, LaVern Spencer McCarthy, K. G. Munro, Angela Patera, Micheal Spake, George Pallas, Marisa Keller, Ken Gosse, and Orlando DeVito
TheyAll Rest in the Boneyard Now by Raymond L.Atkins
(Author), Evelyn J. Mayton (Illustrator)
“Raymond Atkins writes with intuitive wisdom, as he channels those from beyond the grave. His poetry gives voice to those who once mattered, those who time wants us to forget. In They
All Rest in the Boneyard Now, Atkins wrestles death from the dusty clay and breathes life into dry bones while reminding us that every soul who once had breath is worthy of being remembered. These saints, sinners, socialites, and the socially inept are all victims of time, or circumstance, as we too shall one day be. Atkins offers salvation to all who are tormented, and solace to those who seek eternal rest.”
– ReneaWinchester,Award-winning author of Outbound Train
The Cicada Tree by
Robert Gwaltney
The summer of 1956, a brood of cicadas descends upon Providence, Georgia, a naturaleventwithsupernatural repercussions, unhinging the life of Analeise Newell, an eleven-year-oldpianoprodigy. Amidst this emergence, dark obsessionsarestirred,uncanny gifts provoked, and secrets unearthed.
During a visit to Mistletoe, a plantation owned by the wealthy Mayfield family, Analeise encounters Cordelia Mayfield and her daughter Marlissa, both of whom possess an otherworldly beauty, a lineal trait regarded as that Mayfield Shine. A whisper and an act of violence perpetrated during this visit by Mrs. Mayfield all converge to kindleAnaleise’s fascination with the Mayfields.
Analeise’s burgeoning obsession with the Mayfield family overshadows her own seemingly, ordinary life, culminating in dangerous games and manipulation, setting off a chain of cataclysmic events with life-altering consequences—all of it unfolding to the maddening whir of a cicada song.
Haints on Black Mountain:AHaunted Short Story Collection
by
Ann Hite
Ann Hite takes her readers back to Black Mountain with this haunted short story collection.
An array of new characters on the mountain experience ghostly encounters. The collection took inspiration from her beloved readers, who provided writing prompts. Wrinkle in the Air features Black Mountain's Polly Murphy, a young Cherokeewoman,whoseesherfutureinthewell'swater. Readers encounter relatives of Polly Murphy as the stories move through time. The Root Cellar introduces Polly's great grandson, who tends to be a little too frugal with his money until a tornado and Polly's spirit pays the mountain a visit. In The Beginning, the Middle, and the End, readers meet Gifted Lark on an excessively frigid January day. This story moves back and forth between 1942and1986tellingGiftedandhergrandmotherAnna's story. This telling introduces spirits that intervene in the spookiest of ways.
Red Clay Suzie by
Jeffrey Dale Lofton
Anovelinspiredbytrueevents. The coming-of-age story of Philbet, gay and living with a disability, battles bullying, ignorance, and disdain as he makes his way in life as an outsider in the Deep South— before finding acceptance in unlikely places.
Fueled by tomato sandwiches and green milkshakes, and obsessed with cars, Philbet struggles with life and love as a gay boy in rural Georgia. He’s happiest when helping Grandaddy dig potatoes from the vegetable garden that connects their houses. But Philbet’s world is shattered and his resilience shaken by events that crush his innocence and sense of security; expose his misshapen chest skillfully hidden behind shirts Mama makes at home; and convince him that he’s not fit to be loved by Knox, the older boy he idolizes to distraction. Over time, Philbet finds refuge in unexpected places and inner strength in unexpected ways, leading to a resolution from beyond the grave.
The Smuggler's Daughter
by Claire Matturro
Ray Slaverson, a world-weary Florida police detective, has his hands full with the murders of two attorneys and a third suspicious death, all within twenty-four hours. Ray doesn’t believe in coincidences, but he can’t find a single link between the dead men, and he and his partner soon smash into an investigative stonewall.
Kate Garcia, Ray’s fiancée, knows more than she should. She helped one of the dead attorneys, just hours before he took a bullet to the head, study an old newspaper in the library where she works. Kate might be the only person still alive who knows what he was digging up—except for his killer.
When Kate starts trying to discover what’s behind the murders, she turns up disturbing links between the three dead men that track back to her family’s troubled past. But she has plenty of reasons to keep her mouth shut. Her discovery unleashes a cat-and-mouse game that threatens to sink her and those she loves in a high tide of danger.
The Bystanders by Dawn Major
The quaint town of Lawrenceton, Missouri isn’t sending out the welcoming committee for its newest neighbors from Los Angeles—the Samples’ family. Shannon Lamb’s “Like a Virgin” fashion choices, along with her fortune-telling mother, Wendy Samples, and her no-good, cheating, jobless, stepfather, Dale Samples, result in Shannon
finding few fans in L-Town where proud family lines run deep. Only townie, Eddy Bauman, is smitten with Shannon and her Valley Girl ways. The Bystanders is a dark coming-of-age story set in the 1980s when big hair was big, and MTV ruled. In a quiet town of annual picnics and landscapes, the Samples’ rundown trailer and odd behaviors aren’t charming the locals. Shannon and Wendy could really use some friends but must learn to rely upon themselves to claw their way out of poverty and abuse if they want to escape Dale.
The Bystanders pays homage to Americana, its small-town eccentricities, and the rural people of the Northern Mississippi Delta region of Southeast Missouri, a unique area of the country where people still speak Paw Paw French and honor Old World traditions.
Bells for Eli by Susan Beckham Zurenda
First cousins Ellison (Eli) Winfield and Adeline (Delia) Green are meant to grow up happily and innocently across the street from one another amidthesupposedwholesome values of small-town Green Branch, South Carolina, in the 1960s and 70s. But Eli's tragic accidentchangesthe trajectory of their lives and of those connected to them. Shunned and even tortured by his peers for his disfigurement and frailty, Eli struggles for acceptance in childhood as Delia passionately devotes herself to defending him.
"BELLS FOR ELI, Susan Beckham Zurenda's finely detailed, debut novel paints a vivid portrait of Adeline Green who is growing up in the 1970s and maneuvering class differences, peer pressure, and first love. The sexual confines of her Southern town as well as taboo family secrets from the past, bring her face to face with lifechanging decisions and losses in ways both moving and profound." --Jill McCorkle, award-winning and New York Times best-selling author of LIFEAFTER LIFE
The Best of the Shortest: ASouthern Writers Reading Reunion by
“Some of the happiest moments of my writing life have been spent in the company of writers whose work is included in these pages. They all brought their A-game to this fabulous collection, and at our house it is going on a shelf next to its honored predecessors. The only thing that saddens me is that the large-hearted William Gay is not around to absorb some of the love that shines through every word.” ―Steve Yarbrough
“The Best of the Shortest takes the reader on a fast-paced adventure from familiar back roads to the jungles of Viet Nam; from muddy southern creek banks to the other side of the world, touching on themes as beautiful as love and as harsh as racism. However dark or uplifting, you are guaranteed to enjoy the ride.” --Bob Zellner
“I had some of the best times of my life meeting, drinking and chatting with the writers in this book, times matched only by the hours I spent reading their books. This collection showcases a slice of Southern literature in all its complicated, glorious genius. Anyone who likes good writing will love it.” --Clay Risen
Walking The Wrong Way Home by Mandy Haynes
Spanning nearly twenty decades, the struggles and victories these characters face are timeless as they all work towards the same goal.
A place to feel safe, a place to call home.
Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth: Eva and other stories by Mandy Haynes
Each story features a female protagonist, ranging from ten to ninety-five years of age. Set in the south, you’ll follow these young women and girls as they learn that they’re stronger than they ever thought possible.
Oliver by Mandy Haynes
“Dear God…and Jesus and Mary…”
Even though eleven-year old Olivia is raised Southern Baptist, she likes to cover her bases when asking for a favor. Unlike her brother Oliver, she struggles with keeping her temper in check and staying out of trouble. But Oliver is different, and in the summer of ’72 he proves to Olivia there’s magic in everything - it’s up to us to see it.
Mandy Haynes spent hours on barstools and riding in vans listening to great stories from some of the best songwriters and storytellers in Nashville, Tennessee. After her son graduated college, she traded a stressful life as a pediatric cardiac sonographer for a happy one and now spends her time writing and enjoying life as much as she can. She is the author of two short story collections, Walking the Wrong Way Home, Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth Eva and Other Stories, and a novella, Oliver. She is a co-editor of the SouthernWriters Reading reunion anthology, The Best of the Shortest. Mandy is also the editor-in-chief of WELL READ Magazine, an online literary journal created to give authors affordable advertising options that supports and promotes authors of all genres and writing backgrounds. Like the characters in some of her stories, she never misses a chance to jump in a creek to catch crawdads, stand up for the underdog, or the opportunity to make someone laugh.
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INSIDE VOICES
Robert Gwaltney and
Jeffrey Dale
Lofton introduce Emily Carpenter
Emily Carpenter is the critically acclaimed, bestselling author of suspense novels, Burying the Honeysuckle Girls, The Weight of Lies, and Every Single Secret. After graduating from Auburn with a Bachelor of Arts in Speech Communication, she moved to New York City. She’s worked as an actor, producer, screenwriter, and behind-thescenes soap opera assistant for the CBS shows, As the World Turns and Guiding Light. Born and raised in Birmingham, Alabama, she now lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her family.
Inside Voices/Jeffrey: Emily, congratulations on the upcoming release of your novel, Gothictown. The novel is set into motion by pandemic-era incentives that entice New York City restauranteur, Billie Hope and her family to Juliana, an idyllic small town in Georgia. Will you set the story up a little more for us?
Before that email arrives in Billie’s inbox, we’re very briefly in 1864 Juliana, Georgia at a clandestine meeting with the town’s three elders, the founding fathers. The Civil War is raging, and these men know they are in the path of General Sherman, who is burning his way through Georgia to get to the sea. They also know they have a very valuable gold mine with an entire work force of women and children, who are filling in for the men who’ve left to fight in the war. What they decide to do will seal Juliana’s fate and have repercussions for decades to come.
Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Emily Carpenter
Inside Voices/Robert: Billie Hope takes a huge leap of faith that the Juliana Initiative is all that it seems. In the wake of the pandemic, so many people, like Billie, were left existentially reevaluating their lives.Talk a little about what inspired you to write the book.
It was a combination of the pandemic, and then losing my agent and being dropped by my publisher. So even though the idea had been percolating before that, Billie’s state of mind became real for me, this desire, maybe even a little desperate, to find a place that felt safe and sustainable. To get back to normal. I’m a person that if I’m not writing, it’s not good. I get squirrelly. So I understood how at loose ends Billie felt and how she might overlook certain red flags in her determination to start over.
Inside Voices/Jeffrey: People and places aren’t always what and who they seem. This is especially true in Gothictown. The townsfolk of Juliana remind me a bit of the residents of the Bramford apartment building in Ira Levin’s Rosemary’s Baby—eccentric and seemingly harmless at first. Share your thoughts on the descendants of Juliana’s founding families and how they found their way to you.
Okay, I love Rosemary’s Baby, the book and the movie. I’m a sucker for a story where the whole town is in on the secret, so I knew I wanted to do that from the start. I’m also fascinated by people who are educated, bright, resourceful, but don’t question the beliefs they’re born into – especially
Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton
introduce Emily Carpenter
beliefs that, in the harsh light of day, are kind of appalling. The citizens’love for their town is strong because the town is GREAT and worth preserving. Their way of life – of being this tight knit community and supporting each other and being self-sustaining, for the most part, is really a goal worth fighting for. But they don’t question if what they’re doing to keep the status quo, or improve things, is right or ethical or moral. I think we can draw some parallels to modern life, here—this me-first attitude at the expense of others. Inside Voices/Robert: The novel, as the title suggests, is gothic in nature. How do you define the Southern Gothic genre, and what is your approach to keeping it fresh for the modern reader?
Southern Gothic is actually just plain, old gothic with that uniquely Southern twist. With straight up Gothic you have crumbling houses, ruined aristocracy, grotesque characters, taboo sexual and religious situations, darkness and death, secrets from the past, and ghostly apparitions, etc. Southern Gothic is the same, but instead of being based on the English aesthetic and thematic focus, everything’s Southern and you’re addressing the sins of the South’s past: slavery, the Civil War, and racism. Obviously, not every Southern Gothic book or movie addresses those issues head-on, but they’re almost always somehow tangentially involved. While the racist South is still a relevant idea, I chose to tell a story that addresses something that I believe underlies
Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Emily Carpenter
racism, which is the fear of losing your way of life. This desire that some people have to cling to the power and safety they have. Or go back to some imagined golden age where they felt safe all the time and no one challenged them. I loved exploring that human desire and sort of running with it.
Inside Voices/Jeffrey: How does your background as an actor, producer, and screenwriter impact how your approach the written page as a novelist?
Basically, I act out all the parts by reading the dialogue out loud, so that’s where the acting background comes in handy. Screenwriting really taught me about following a tight, three-act structure, and that’s particularly helpful in writing suspense.
Inside Voices/Robert: You shared some exciting news recently that AMC is in the early stages of developing Gothictown as a series. What can you share about the project?
Abby Ajayi, our talented writer and showrunner, is executive producing, so I feel really excited about that. Apparently, the development process of TV shows is slow, so I’ve got nothing for you yet!
Inside Voices/Jeffrey: The dreamy Jamie Cleburne, a
Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Emily Carpenter
prominent member of one of Juliana’s founding families, is a very handsome temptation for Billie Hope. Any thoughts on who you might like to see cast to portray him in the series?
Casting questions are so funny for me as an older woman. I’m not as aware of younger actors, so a lot of times I write characters who, in my mind, are “a younger version of…” whoever. So Jamie, to me, was like late 40s Jude Law. I mean, come on. Impossible to resist. But he’s a bit out of reach, so I’d probably cast Clayne Crawford, who’s blond and gorgeous and from Alabama. He was on one of my favorite shows called “Rectify,” and he’s a really underrated actor. I think he’s really talented and good at radiating that smarmy charm thing.
Inside Voices/Robert: Emily, I am so excited for Gothictown to make its way into the world and into the hands of readers. Do you mind sharing what’s next for you in your writing life?
My next book is called A SPELL FOR SAINTS AND SINNERS and it’s about a young psychic working in Savannah who does an incredibly accurate reading for the daughter of a wealthy family in town and then gets pulled into her family’s very strange, very twisty lives.
“Carpenter has a spectacular voice, and I was drawn into this story immediately. With all the gothic spookiness layered into a suspenseful family drama, this pulse-racing story of a NewYork family relocating to an idyllic southern town with a dark secret is timely, intense, and terrifyingly good.” —J.T. Ellison, NewYork Times bestselling author of AVery Bad Thing
Gothictown
Emily Carpenter
Playing Beauty Shop
The story I’m going to tell you is as true as I know it to be. My granny told it, my mama told it, and even my second cousin, Mama’s best friend back then, told it all the same. The year was 1934 or there abouts, and Mama was five years old. Her and Granny lived with Granny’s brother Ernest, his wife Corine and their girls, since Mama’s daddy got ran out of the county for beating Granny one night when he was drunker than Cooter Brown. Mama always said he wasn’t really mean but that night he cracked open and lost his mind, seeing how her baby sister had just died of meningitis. He never was the same. She would never see him again.
Granny was a right independent woman, and Ernest was a right bossy brother. This caused them both lots of stubborn showdowns. Like when Ernest told Granny she couldn’t take Mama to the hospital for an operation to removeher tonsils. Hesaid Mamadidn’tneed no such thing done to her. Granny had already lost the baby girl and wasn’t about to lose Mama too. There wasn’t any penicillin
for use at that time. Granny, being the woman she was, took out and found a job in a speak-easy waiting on tables. Now the shine served there was made by Mr. Martin, who had quite the business. And who worked for Mr. Martin in his early days and was granted his own still? Ernest. So it wasn’t going to take long for him to find out where Granny was working. Corine helped Granny hide her job by watching Mama. Granny and Corine were thick as thieves. If the truth be known, Granny liked her better than her own brother.
One day while Granny was at work, Mama and Corine’s daughter, Audrey, went out to the barn to play. Normally Ernest was out there working but he’d been called to his daddy’s house. Back then kids could go and come as they pleased. The two five-year-olds loved to play beauty shop from watching Granny and Corine give each other home perms. They would pretend to fix each other’s hair. Granny had caught Mama with scissors one morning and gave both girls a good talking to. That evening as the heat bugs began to hum outside, Mama and Audrey decided to play beauty shop. Audrey found a big can of tractor oil and with a little hunting, Mama found a paintbrush.
Oh Lord, dear readers, you know what’s coming, don’t you?
Audrey suggested she paint the tractor oil on Mama’s white blonde hair since it was so much like the gook
Granny and Corine spread on their tightly curled hair. They were missing the curlers, but some things couldn’t be helped. The plan was for Audrey to do Mama’s hair, and then Mama would do Audrey’s. Just as Audrey finished Mama’s hair,Audrey’s older sister, Doris, came in the barn and caught them red-handed.
Corine sent Doris to bring Granny home from the speakeasy. Granny’s reaction was to break down in tears. Something she hardly ever did. Mama’s hair was matted with inky oil. As was expected, water was repelled and beaded in place. Then Corine got the idea to use petroleum jelly to remove the oil. Granny took a long piece of Mama’s hair and coated it with petroleum jelly. She let it sit a minute and wiped the hair with a cloth. Some of the oil was removed, but Granny could see this job would take a long time and many jars of the gunky jelly. So, Granny took a pair of scissors and cut Mama’s long hair just under her ears, throwing the oily strands away.
In all truth, Granny spent days working on Mama’s hair just to get it presentable. Mama and Audrey were banned from the barn by Ernest. He was right mad they had wasted his oil. Weeks went by before Mama’s hair returned to her white blond color. Granny did manage to earn the money she needed for Mama’s operation before Ernest shut down her job. She was one tough and determined woman. What is the mountain magic in this oily tale? In a day
when most don’t understand the resourcefulness and hard work of the people in Appalachia—the stay-at-it attitude— we can learn from the past, from the stories of our families. The mountain magic here is storytelling. We all have them. Stories touch others. Our brains are wired to understand and learn from stories. This is the way we have survived in Appalachia, kept the memories, faced the hardships. Think about all the folks who suffered from the flood in North Carolina this past September. They are reaching back to their kin, long gone by now, for the old stories that got their people through hard times.
And that is a golden threaded mess of mountain magic. Dear readers, write your stories down. Don’t let them die. You owe it to generations to come.
In the photo above, Ann’s Granny is on the right and her that’s Ann’s mom standing in front of her.
CLAIRE CONSIDERS
Account
Claire Hamner Matturro reviews
The Final
by Jeff Cooper
“The FinalAccount,” by Jeff Cooper
Reviewed by Claire Hamner Matturro
The unraveling of a long-term embezzlement conspiracy starts with a purloined watch while a new widow with dementia listens to the thieves from a nearby room. Attorney Tom Nelson, long trapped into the ongoing scheme by his gambling addiction, tries to talk Kyle Stone, a Connecticut state police officer and general henchman, out of taking the heirloom watch fromTom’s client, a multimillionaire who just died. Why take a watch worth only thousands when many millions of dollars are in play? Because Kyle, a man who believes he is entitled to far more than he is getting in the continuing conspiracy, simply wants the watch.
So begins “The Final Account” (Red Adept Publishing 2025), by Jeff Cooper, an attorney and law professor. Cooper first fascinated his readers with the award-winning “After the Fact” (2021), a legal thriller with more than a twist or two. Now Cooper is back with “The Final Account,” which seamlessly blends legal thriller and political thriller into an engrossing, well-plotted novel.
Jack Collins, the protagonist in “After the Fact” reappears in “The Final Account,” this time with his own
newly created law firm in Greenwich, Connecticut. Jack enjoys a happy family life with wifeAmanda and son, with another baby on the way. Yet, Jack has many problems— their unborn baby might have serious issues, they need a bigger house they might not be able to afford, and the law firm teeters on the financial edge. When Jack brings in an older, well-established partner, Tom Nelson, he believes Nelson will be a rainmaker for the firm and bring with him some of Greenwich’s rich and elite. The problem with this plan is that Nelson is embezzling from the multi-milliondollar estate of a recently deceased client. Not a couple of thousand here or there, but millions. And not just from that one estate but from other estates spanning many years. Jack Collins, who forms a tender part of the story with his beloved wife Amanda and their growing family, is a man with much to lose. Of course, his primary priorities are to both protect and provide for his family.And then there is his fledgling law firm, which struggles to avoid the red ink of insolvency. With family, career, and finances on the line, the safest thing for Jack Collins to do when he learns of the watch stolen fromTom’s client’s estate is to walk away. But Jack isn’t that kind of guy—he can’t just overlook the missing watch. Especially when the widow summons him to her memory care facility to express her outrage that Tom and some man she later identifies as Kyle took the watch, a treasured family heirloom that she wants for her son.
In tackling the issue of the watch with the help of his firm’s legal assistant, Jack discovers the estate is missing more than just a watch. The discrepancies equal millions. And the conspiracy neither begins nor ends with Tom. The fraud goes even higher up, soon pulling Jack into a political vortex that puts his family and his firm in the crosshairs.
Just as Jeff Cooper did with his debut novel, the author leads his readers through a tense, action-packed story with scheming, manipulative bad guys and stressed but earnest good guys facing off in dangerous, no-mercy conflicts.Tom is more nuanced than the other co-conspirators and is a seemingly good guy with a bad habit—his gambling. His co-conspirators are the really bad guys who remain ruthless to the core. Their fragile bonds are sex, greed, and ambition, but these bonds could well break under pressure.
It's a riveting ride protagonist Jack Collins takes in “The FinalAccount” and author Jeff Cooper knows how to build the suspense into ever tenser momentum, crafting a classic page-turner, edge of you seat kind of book. Not only does author Cooper merge legal thriller and political thriller genres to great effect, but he also blends the inverted detective story format with the more utilized who-done-it format. That is, the author lets the readers learn early on that Tom and Kyle are embezzling and that Kyle steals the heirloom watch, just as the inverted detective format lets readers know who the villains are at the onset. But Cooper
holds back who the true operatives are in the spiraling conspiracy, reserving more of the who-what-why until revealed mid-stream in the novel. Yet still, like the inverted detective format, readers know more than Collins. The story evolves into a chase to the wire as to whether Jack Collins can find the truth and live to see justice—or whether he and his beloved family will be more casualties in the ambitious schemes of some of Connecticut’s most powerful figures.
Not only does Cooper successfully blend genre and formats, but he excels in the use of the old Chekhov's gun narrative principle, in which if a gun appears early in the book, readers should expect it to be fired at some point. Thus, the watch which appears in the first chapter later becomes instrumental in the plot. But the watch isn’t the only object used consistent with the Chekhov’s gun narrative principle, so readers, be alert. Cooper is not just a grand storyteller, he is an author who knows well how to use the mechanics of genre and technique to create compelling, readable, awesome novels.
Jeff Cooper, a New York native who now lives in Greenwich, Connecticut, is a law professor, lawyer, former Presidential candidate, and published author of both fiction and nonfiction. A graduate of Harvard College, Yale Law School and New York University School of Law, he spent much of his career working in the law firms and trust banks fictionalized in his novels.
THE WRITER’S EYE
Finding Inspiration in Unexpected Places
Where do writers get ideas? Anywhere there’s life is where, and often when least expected. Our new column features authors finding inspiration in surprising ways. It happened to me not long ago on New Year’s Day:
For the first time in, well, a very long time, I hosted a formal meal in my dining room. I’m talking about silver, crystal, white linen napkins—the whole shebang. We ate what Southerners typically eat on the first day of the year: pork (for moving forward), collard greens (to bring paper money) black-eyed peas and rice (for coins), and cornbread (gold color for wealth).
Eleven of us sat around my old mahogany table soaked in mid-afternoon, blue-sky light to celebrate not only the start of the year, but also a dear friend’s 88th birthday. Conversation turned from the University of South Carolina losing to Illinois in the Cheez-It Citrus Bowl to long-term marriages, which led to unusualmarriages, which prompted someone to bring up first cousin relationships in my debut novel, Bells for Eli.
I started with facts about first cousin marriage, such as it being legal in 19 states in the US, plus seven states giving permission with restrictions. I told how cousin marriage was common before the Civil War, especially among the landed class, until laws began banning the practice in the 1870s. I mentioned a huge number of marriages throughout human history—as high as 80% according to current
estimates—have been between first or second cousins. At some point, I remarked on the irony of Charles Darwin (the man who conceived the theory of natural selection, after all) being the grandchild of first cousins and marrying his first cousin, Emma Wedgwood. That fact led my friend Larry at the other end of the table to ask if I’d ever learned about or met anyone who married a first cousin when I was giving author talks related to Bells for Eli, a story in which first cousins Eli Winfield and Delia Green grapple with their feelings for each other in their teen years.
Faces turned toward me, expectant. (Ain’t it grand when people want to hear what you have to say?) “Sure,” I said. “Several people told me privately they were in love with a first cousin. A couple of folks said they knew people who married a first cousin.” A general exhale in the room followed. “But the most remarkable confession happened during a Q&A after my talk at a country club luncheon in Highlands, NC.” I paused, remembering.
“And?” my friendAnn, prompted me.
“Y’all want dessert and coffee first and then finish the story?” I’d realized all of a sudden plates were empty and it was time to serve my friend Steve’s buttermilk pie. I half stood.
“Hell, no,” someone said.
Alrighty then. I sat and took a sip of water. “During the Q&A at that luncheon, an elegant, elderly lady raised her
hand, startling me by standing but not nearly as much as what she said to the room of 35 or so people: ‘My husband and I were first cousins married for more than 50 years until he died. I loved him dearly. I miss him every day.’”
“Do you think that was the first time she ever confessed her marriage to a group like that?” my friend Sally— visiting her brother for the holidays from Canada, where, incidentally, first cousin marriage is legal—asked.
“I have no idea,” I said.
“Can you imagine the relief she must have felt?” Sally posited.
I saw again this beautiful, white-haired woman wearing a blue linen suit and gold jewelry galore. I imagined the courage it took, and with that thought, an idea for a story about a blue-blood young woman breaking a taboo and marrying her first cousin was born.
Going forward, I will invite guest authors to share accounts of unexpected inspiration. Don’t miss next month when nationally acclaimed poet Peter Schmitt shares a story of how the kernel of a fantastic poem came to him unawares.
The Deception of Hester Prynne
Mary Kendall
Hester Prynne picked her way through the woods, traveling deeper to forage for wild wine berries. Those with the deepest, richest flavor grew abundant in a glade bathed in sunlight, just beyond a small pond.
The trail opened up with the clearing where she paused to lift her heavy, dark mane from her neck. She tied its weight into a knot and swept it off to one side.As she felt a light pulse of cool air, a reprieve from the humid summer day, she caught sight of the ruby red color that ringed the tranquil space, the berries. But Hester stopped short before entering; she did not have it to herself.
In the very middle, a visitor sat perched on the edge of a stump. She recognized his shining crown of gold hair from her vantage. The young minister recently assigned to head up King’s Chapel and guide the villagers on their spiritual paths was a beautiful specimen of a man.
Upon first clapping eyes onArthur Dimmesdale, she had thought of none other. Now, he appeared in deep reverie, gazing above at the bright, blue sky. She hesitated no more and walked forth with determination.
A few feet apart, his eyes, depths of dark pitch, studied her. She closed the gap and reached over to touch his delicate features that filled with amazement at her bold action. She traipsed fingers along his neck, down his chest, then lower. He made a sound of protest but she pressed on until he protested no more.
Their coupling was a frenzy of friction on the floor of the glade. It also led to a piece of grit between them that was enough to bind. In time, it would become a pearl. Her Pearl. Later, he said, “I have lost my mind. Hellfire will come upon us both.” She shushed him with her mouth.
Summer drew to a close. The woods became sparse of foliage, no longer a safe meeting place from peering village eyes. The lovers were left with secretive and strangled glances exchanged at church services and occasional village functions.
In time, Hester discovered trysts in the glade had resulted in her belly and breasts becoming full. She knew what was coming and disguised it through her clothing selections, generous and billowing.
Her husband, much older than her, had left several years
earlier to travel overseas for scholarly endeavors. She had awaited his return in their thatched roof cottage on the far edge of the village, but no one had received word of him. She hoped he would not return in fact. The selectmen allowed Hester to remain in the cottage, on her own, as she took good care of it.
She now had every intention to protect Arthur and his position as the Bay Colony’s spiritual director. She would not reveal the nature of their relationship—until he was ready. Tethered by his responsibilities and duties, she assumed they might go elsewhere to make a life once his appointment was complete.
With each passing month, her size became greater and more unwieldy with trips into the village increasingly difficult. As the time grew near, she squirrelled away provisions necessary for her confinement and then stayed put, hoping to be left alone.
Thanks to her attendance at many births, Hester knew what to do. She kept a clear head and birthed by herself; floundering at points, but making it through. Afterwards, she nursed both herself and the infant on her own. But, within a short time period, a goodwife arrived at her doorstep seeking herbs and heard the infant’s cries.
Word got out about Hester’s secret, a baby but no husband at her cottage near the woods. Soon after, she found a letter staked to her door decreeing mandatory
attendance at the next selectmen’s meeting.
On the appointed day, she closed up the cottage and slowly walked to the village with her babe, Pearl, strapped to her bodice. She gazed down atop her infant’s head, incredulous still such a miracle had come to her.
She moved with caution on the path strewn with broken twigs and branches, winter’s residuals. Two months after the birth, her body tinged and ached in places, not yet back to what it had been. Still, it was good to be outside after little activity.
As she neared town, furls of smoke rose from chimneys in cottages sprinkled along the path. At the top of the main street, she remembered it was market day seeing more hustle and bustle and people afoot. She considered some purchases after the meeting, after whatever was to occur.
She passed the blacksmith’s shop with its open bay and he gazed at her, unsmiling, face black with soot. Further along, several goodwives standing by the cooper’s shop stopped talking as she passed. She gave a nod getting none in return, only a flicker of compassion on one of the faces. News of her baby had filtered throughout town.
As she crossed paths with others and experienced similar reactions, the walk to the meeting house became neverending. She stumbled at one point and barely caught herself, hearing a snicker but pressing on. The harbor, laying off to one side, water shimmering from bright
sunlight, offered an escape someday if these reactions were to be her life.
Finally, the meeting house stood in front of Hester, a wood frame building imposing in stature. She pulled herself up the three tall steps to the entrance, short on breath once at the top. She shook herself, dismayed by this sign of weakness.
She opened the door and entered the wide, open-spaced room with its roughhewn rafters exposed as the ceiling. A table dominated the center, where a handful of men, the selectmen, the pillars of the community as it were, sat.They were a blur of sameness to Hester in their puffed white collars, dark attire, thin beards and gray hair.
None rose as a sign of respect, their expressions censorious. She felt a sinking sensation at being cast and judged as a fallen woman. As she steeled herself, Pearl made a mewing sound. All eyes moved to where the baby was bound on Hester’s bodice.
Pearl bore a striking beauty even to a casual observer. She already had a full mane of golden hair, her father’s color. But her facial features were her mother’s; big, brown eyes, a button of a nose and rosebud lips.
Goodman Billings stood up at the head of the table and cleared his throat. “Mistress Prynne. Please sit,” gesturing to a vacant spot. Once she was seated, he spoke again. “So, we will
commence. It has come to the selectmen’s attention that you have conducted relations outside of the marital contract. The result being the babe in your arms.”
Hester said nothing nor did the other men around the table. She glanced around in the brief silence taking stock. There was an unease with where the proceedings would be taking them.
She knew all of the men. Their wives utilized Hester’s skills to keep their husbands’ attire in a fitting manner. Hester’s seamstress talents made the ruffles in their collars so precise and perfect. Hester was compensated with pittances that kept her and her flock of chickens fed with enough also to maintain her dwelling if needs arose.
Goodman Billings made an overt noise in his throat then continued. “We demand now that you tell us the father of the infant so proper steps can be taken.” It was unspoken what those steps would be. Prior history of punishments in the community did not preclude hanging on the scaffold in the village square.
Hester blinked, then spoke one word. “No.”
There was a collective and uncomfortable shuffle around the table. Billings looked around for someone else to jump in but no one did. His voice came out in a fiercer tone. “Mistress, you will tell us or else…or else you will be confined to the stockade.”
Alaugh burbled up from somewhere deep within. It came
out sounding like anything but merriment. “Do as you must.”
Hester sat down heavily onto the thin, musty pallet; Pearl, asleep on her chest. She let out a sigh and eyed up the porcelain bowl in the corner for toilet needs. The barest sniff of fresh air along with a glimmer of light filtered through a slit in the wall. Her punishment was a set period of days confined to the stockade cell.
There was one other item; materials for embroidery. Fine red thread and gold cloth lay at the end of the pallet along with an open case of several sewing needles made from animal bones. Whilst jailed, she had been instructed to sew the letter A to be affixed to her garments. Hester’s skills, known throughout the village, were now to be used against her as she was tasked to stitch her own sentence. A for Adulteress.
Hester picked up thread, spooling out some through her fingers.What no one realized was her prowess went beyond just expert embroidery. She let out a mirthless laugh over the village gossips, prideful and puffed up with suspicions. But ignorant about who really dabbled in witchcraft amongst them. In fact, her stitchery could easily become witchery.
Days in the cell passed much the same with the most meagre of provisions given twice daily; a broth long gone
cold, a hunk of stale bread and a vat of water. She felt herself becoming lighter in weight and could only hope the rations would sustain her nursing of Pearl.
Pearl was a good sleeper so, when not tending to her, Hester perfected the letter’s stitching on its backdrop of gold-colored cloth. At one point, she begged for additional spools saying it did not stand out enough. Granted her request, she used it for her own intents and purposes, not theirs. Even though light was dim, the startling effect was evident as she pulled strands back and forth. No spool of thread was ever dyed the exact same hue so different red tones worked in her favor.
While village folk relied on her sewing and herbal remedies, they knew nothing of her calling upon ancestral spirits for a spell or an incantation. Now, she depended upon those spirits to craft her punishment, the letter A. She had to be careful though. Mistress Hibbins was presently under fierce scrutiny on trumped up accusations of witchcraft. The specter of the gallows loomed ahead of any woman suspected of tangling in the dark arts. But that gossip had never been pinned on Hester.
Time in the chilly, dank cell passed by in this manner until the end result pleased Hester—greatly. When her sentence was up, they were brought out from the cell to outdoors where she and Pearl blinked their eyes like moles emerging from underground.
After being led to the meeting house, Hester found herself again surrounded by the selectmen at the table. This time, however, Hester wore the ScarletAacross her bodice. She lifted Pearl up before she sat down. All of them got an eyeful of the letter that shimmered and danced and they reeled back from the sight.
What exactly were they viewing? What they had mandated yet not as expected, it was…it was…exquisite artwork.The letter was defined in a way that twirled in front of their view. Was it even really an A? One could almost make out other letters within it…a P, a H, a M….it was almost magical but magic was against all Puritan teachings. It had to be just an A. Their minds settled on that deeming it so.
As Goodman Billings gave her the slimmest smile, Hester noted his eyes, an icy blue, not unlike those of her missing husband. “Well, it is evident you made use of your time to embroider the A. Now, you can still change all of this and tell us the name of the man.”
Just as before, Hester repeated, “No.”
He cleared his throat. “If that is your decision, this board condemns you to wearing the Scarlet Letter at all times from this point forward.”
Hester made her way over the uneven landscape, balancing her strapped-on babe with a basket of goods to sell in the village, her first venture back since released from
the stockade. The cold nip still in the air reminded it was imperative to get provisions from the local shops. But her main objective for the trip was to come face to face with him. She had been patient long enough. It was time.
As Hester neared town, she crossed paths with Goody Johnson, an ancient lady who tottered around with the aid of a cane carved out of birch. The woman eyed her under her heavy, white-haired brows. “The nerve of you, coming to town, bold as can be.” She spat in front of Hester’s boots. Hester lifted Pearl away from her chest to expose the Scarlet A. The woman took a faltering step back, almost falling over. She sputtered out, “It’s evil you are. I don’t know what I even look at.” She averted her gaze from the sight as if blinded.
Heartened at the letter’s effect, Hester put Pearl back in place, covering theA, and walked on. Her presence in town drew out small groups to gawk. Most gave a wide berth and cast their eyes to the side, preferable to Goody Johnson’s reaction.
She pulled herself up, tall and proud, continuing to her destination, undeterred. She let the loud and pretend whispers, vicious in intent, waft over her. “Look at her brazenness walking right towards chapel” and “Our poor reverend having to contend with her type.”
She reached the chapel, located diagonal from the harbor’s edge, where she expected Arthur inside at midday
in his offices.Acluster of gossips with the most clout stood in front and stared her down, blocking her entry.
She took them in as a collective, all clothed in gray woolen cloaks that bespoke of their standing in the village hierarchy. Some were the very same who employed her to stitch their husbands’ garments which counted for nothing now by their tally.
One spoke up. “Not seemly to walk into the house of the Lord with such a stain on your person, indeed on your soul.” Hester lifted her baby just enough for the letter to be shown. The gossips, struck silent, turned their gazes away.
As they stepped aside, she made her way to the rear door. After knocking, she heard the voice that had whispered tender sweet nothings into her ear on so many summer afternoons speak, “Enter.”
She pushed the door open and stood on the threshold. He looked over from where he sat at the desk with a quill pen and rag paper. He immediately paled at the sight of her and the baby, his baby.
“Hester…” His voice came out in a falter.
Without invitation, she walked into the small room and sat across from him. It had all been worth it, the imprisonment in the stockade and the village’s shaming, because Arthur would do right by them. “Aye. I am here.” He was without words, mouth gaped open.
“Arthur. The time is nigh. Time that we are a family, the
three of us. My husband is presumed lost at sea. We can approach the selectmen and be betrothed. Or we can just leave. Tell no one anything.”
She adjusted Pearl to lay along her lap, the letter on her bodice in full reveal. His dark eyes nearly popped out at the sight. “Hester, what am I viewing? What is this?”
She stared down her nose at it, her handiwork. “It’s rather beautiful, isn’t it?
He stuttered. “But…but…it was supposed to be your punishment.”
She cocked her head at him. “MY punishment?”
“Yes, yes for…” His voice trailed off as his gaze took in the slumbering babe.
“Pearl is not a punishment. She is the most amazing gift that could ever be bestowed upon me…upon us.”
The couple was silent,Arthur’s eyes not meeting hers.
“So…it is time.” Hester repeated herself.
He cleared his throat and finally looked up to face her. “I cannot do as you ask, Hester. My vocation makes that an impossibility.”
“Your vocation?”
“Yes.All of my years of learning at Oxford and devoting myself to procuring a position such of this one…I…I cannot abandon that.”
She swallowed and then said, “But… I thought…when the time was right…when you were ready…”
He nervously clenched and unclenched his fists. She noted a show of perspiration on his upper lip. “Is the child even mine?” he said in a soft voice.
She reeled back, the impact as if he had physically hit her. “How dare you! After I withstood all of this, thinking you were of the same mind.”
She stopped talking with sudden realization. The man in front of her, the man she had given her heart to, was a coward. He had sat by and let her suffer and be punished for months with no consequence for himself.
Arthur went even paler under her appraising gaze. Then he stood up. “I need to usher you out, Hester. The gossips will take note and—”
She put up a hand. “Stop your words.”
Her internal emotions were in a rapid boil. Before they could overflow, she stood, lifting Pearl and rising up into that somewhat ungainly shape of mother and child, bound together.
As Hester stared at Dimmesdale, the thought occurred that this was the moment of her awakening. She was a woman scorned….and there would be a reckoning. She turned and took her leave.
Hester waited until all were at Sunday service thus leaving her path free from any encounters. Arriving at the chapel, she knew all were seated, filling the pews, as the
service commenced a quarter of an hour earlier. She took a deep breath and gazed down into Pearl’s eyes, eyes that stared back with complete adoration.
She hesitated for just a beat then flung the double wooden doors wide open. They made a screeching sound followed by the thud of hitting sidewalls. Dimmesdale, facing his flock in the middle of an exhortation, was the first to see her before all others turned back at the noise. He stopped mid-sentence and fell silent.
Never once had Hester presented any disorder to the village. Instead, she had been a model citizen—with the one exception that led to her lettered bodice. But now creating disorder was a must. She strode down the center before any officiant could even think to act, barely aware of the audible gasps echoing through the cold and airless room.
In front of the congregation, she stepped up to stand by Dimmesdale’s side at the altar. She grabbed his arm covered by the flowing vestment and announced, “I am ready to reveal the father of my baby.” He did not resist as she raised his limp arm up high. Her words dripped with scorn and bitterness she now felt for her erstwhile lover.
“The great Reverend MisterArthur Dimmesdale.”
Goodman Billings sprang up from his front row seat. “This is preposterous! Mistress Prynne, I command you to step down at once!”
A low buzz of outrage had started up in pews. The noise became loud with some crying out, “Take her away! Take her to the gallows!” Several joined Billings, moving in force towards the altar.
Dimmesdale had gone mute, pounding on his heart with a free hand with the other still raised up by Hester. She released her hold on Dimmesdale and swiftly placed Pearl at her feet. Standing up tall, the Scarlet A blazed brighter than ever. The men faltered in their movements giving her the moment needed.
Her voice, strong and clear, yelled out, “Let me prove it!”
In the pause of the men paralyzed and still, she picked up Pearl and removed the loose-fitting red gown. Pearl gave a little screech of complaint at cold air striking her bare torso. Shushing Pearl’s cries, Hester turned the baby outwards to face the congregation now in rapt attention.
She held out the side of Pearl’s little body where sat a most unusual birthmark. It appeared as large, strawberrycolored and slightly raised in an arc shape, like a sickle seen out in the fields. Arthur had never held the babe, much less showed any interest in examining her, thus he was ignorant of this tell-tale sign. But now it was Hester’s currency.
Goodman Billings spoke in the harshest of reprimanding tones. “Mistress, this proves nothing. Now come down here right now and—”
Hester cut him off. “Dimmesdale has the exact same.”
“That’s enough!You will speak no more nonsense in this sacred space—”
Goodman Parker stepped forward and cut off Billings saying, “I say Dimmesdale can settle this once and for all by lifting his vestment.” He then glared at Dimmesdale with suspicion as Hester’s ploy took hold.
“No! Of course, the Reverend will not be made to do that!”
The congregation began to talk aloud; some crying out that Hester needed to be taken away, others calling out for Dimmesdale to prove otherwise. Goodman Billings put a hand up to halt all the noise. “We shall put it to a vote.”
He waited for the room to quiet down. “All in favor, raise a hand.” Raised hands filled the room, a clear majority with curiosity winning over decorum.
Dimmesdale stepped down from the altar with a heavy tread, away from Hester and Pearl. He spoke for the first time since Hester’s dramatic entrance. “There is no need.” He paused, gathering strength, then said, “I fathered the babe.”
The room erupted in chaos.Acacophony of outrage fired up with people standing and yelling in angry voices about Dimmesdale and his fate. Hester took the opportunity to scoop up Pearl and escape out the sacristy door. She needed nothing more from Dimmesdale or the village.
Running with Pearl to the nearby harbor, Hester’s mind
went back to her cottage that morning where she had chosen straight-forward deception for her revenge instead of witchery.While Pearl slept deeply, Hester had dipped her blunt-edged bone needle into wine berry liquid, saved from summer’s harvest and thickened with root flour. The needle tickled Pearl just enough that she let out a small sigh. Hester had stood back, needle in hand, to let the babe settle. Then she painted the design etched so well in memory, Arthur’s birthmark.
After each pass dried, Hester applied layers until they stippled atop Pearl’s smooth, dewy, alabaster skin and resembledArthur’s mark.After she finished the artistry, she had thought to herself, not for the first time, that red really was a magnificent color. When it was time to leave for the service, she clothed Pearl in the loose-fitting red gown to disguise any berry paint rubbing away.
Now, she relished the sight of the Victory in the harbor, the ship departing to parts southern. The day prior, she had arranged passage with the captain for the destination where she and Pearl would find a home. A sailor, casting ropes back to the dock, called out in a sing-song manner, “All aboard who are going aboard!”
Hester grabbed her clutch bag, hidden under a canvas earlier, that held all her modest possessions. The sailor lent her a hand, saying, “Almost too late, Mistress. Hop up.” They were aboard seconds before the Victory drew away
from the harbor.
A buzz in the distance came from church members as they got closer. Someone spotted her on the ship and yelled out, “There she is!”
Hester moved to the Victory’s aft. Once enough witnesses had gathered, she brutally wrenched off the Scarlet A and hurled it into the open air. The letter arced over the churning waters, twisting and sparking with a life of its own; something apart from Hester, something apart from all things.
It landed on top of the water without even a hint of a splash. All fixated on the Scarlet A dancing and springing along with the swift current, venturing off to a place unknown, eventually to be pulled under and away forever.
Mary Kendall is first a reader of books across the genres and, second, a writer of fiction. She brings her background in historyrelated fields to her writing along with some Celtic story-telling genes. Her published novels include The Spinster's Fortune, Campbell's Boy, Bottled Secrets of Rosewood and, an upcoming release, The Accidental Heiress.
Mimi and Bess
John M. Williams
In “my" china cabinet sits a porcelain cheese server, a misshapen, florid curiosity with a lid, as it has in blissful obscurity for twenty-something years. The only reason you’re reading this story is because, as I was retrieving something from that antique cavity a few days ago, it caught my eye and fired a buried memory neuron. I have only a few fragments of what might be called fact in this tale, and as you might guess, there’s no one now to ask. I confess that some of what follows may be invented. Memory, invention—what’s the difference? The main character, Mimi, my paternal grandmother, and her cruelladevillean older sister, Bess, are long gone. But in their childhood they would have been familiar with that piece of dishware which their mother, my greatgrandmother Miss Ida, who lived to be 106, brought out only at Christmas.
To my way of thinking, there wasn’t much worth
grasping among Miss Ida’s worldly goods, there being no money and hence no will, only some household items and an heirloom or two—the aforementioned china cabinet, an antique Philco phonograph with a cache of 78s, a clattery chandelier, and so on—and it may have been that scarcity which gave to a random piece of crockery such potential meaning. That meaning came to fruition when Miss Ida died, and the grasping began.
Actually it began some weeks before the actual event, when its inevitability became clear.
The sisters, as sisters will, had fought from the crib up, battles which Bess usually won. She had no soul and the tenacity of a pit bull and would have been a ruthless businesswoman except that she lived in the south in an age when women didn’t have careers, unless squeezing the blood out of her turnip husband Elmer counts as one. So in this case you can imagine to which Cadillac-driving sister the choicest pieces of Miss Ida’s estate went.
Except for the cheese server.
On that point, Mimi stood her ground. I’m pretty sure the dish meant nothing, really, to her, and that this fight was not about an object at all, but one fueled by spite, envy, the will to power, and the need for at least a minor victory every now and then.
“I will have that dish!” Bess, unrivaled in having, vowed. But somehow Mimi ended up with it, keeping it under
lock and key, and vowing to have it interred with her if she died first.
Which she did.
“I’ll get it out!” Bess had sworn. Which she did.At the Visitation.
She waited until the modest crowd of bereaved had thinned, then slipped into the Viewing Room where one of the ghoulish and promising young assistant funeral directors caught her up to her shoulders in the casket. “Adjusting her dress,” she claimed.
“Mam, I assure you we have made every effort to—”
“Why don’t you make an effort to get the hell out of here so I can have some quality time with my departed sister,” Bess overpowered him—and then, almost tipping the casket, in her dear sister’s lap—found it!
I can easily imagine the triumphant gleam in her eye, the rich gratification coursing through her blood, even perhaps a little Hitlerian jig of conquest, there in that hushed room, holding the dish over her head like a rival’s severed head.
I don’t know how these emotions fared over the three years she outlived Mimi—I like to think they lost some of their glow—but die indeed she did, and no one mourned.
In the dispensing of her effects, she had outlived everybody who might have wanted any of them, which I’m betting was nobody, and certainly not Mama. Daddy, who liked to fish, couldn’t have cared less.
And that’s how I, the unlikeliest of beneficiaries, ended up with the cabinet and its collection of curios, including an ornate and forgotten cheese server, dusty and ridiculous.
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 (withAndy Lee White) (The History Press 2019), Monroeville and the Stage Production of “To Kill a Mockingbird” (The History Press 2023), and his just-released 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.
Why I Said What I Said to the Bartender
Alaina Hammond
You are six years old. I referred to you—in the presence of the bartender and no one else—as a fucking cunt. My exact words were “I hate that fucking cunt.” And this is what I meant by that.
I said I hate you, because I find it frustrating that you so consistently steal time from your classmates, while compromising their learning. I’m annoyed that you deliberately monopolize our attention by acting out. Camilla can barely read, but she’s quiet. Thus our eyes are on you, instead of on Camilla, who surely needs them more. Frankly, I resent the way the other teachers reward you for your bad behavior. They feed your vicious cycles with their indulgence.As the teacher with the least authority, I’m in no position to tell them that.And I’m annoyed at you for creating that hidden schism between myself and the colleagues I otherwise respect.
I said I hate you, but what I mean is that I’m disturbed by your bursts of violence. I have a bruise on my hand from when I blocked your blows, directed at Matthew. The book you used was sharp and heavy, which was why you chose to hit him with it. Also, you hurt my head when you threw a pencil at me, on purpose, because you didn’t want to do math.And in that moment, yes, I hated you.You’re vicious. You’re feral. You suck.
I told the bartender I hate you because I can’t tell YOU that. I have to take your shit, because it’s my job. It’s exhausting having to constantly censor myself all the time. So I said it to the bartender instead, because that way you don’t have to deal with my anger. By letting off steam in that moment I can find the strength to do this shit again next week. Letting myself insult you, uncensored, is part of the process in which I stay kind to you.
I called you a cunt, and I said that I hate you, because I’ve seen the way your parents and your grandparents are with you. How loving, how patient, how involved in your education all four of them are. You seem to have no respect for the depth of your good fortune.You literally spit on your beleaguered mother, when she said it was time for you to leave. You fucking cunt, what a cunty thing to do!
I called you a cunt and said I hate you because you made fun of Emily’s weight the other day.At six, you know damn well how cruel you’re being.
I called you a cunt because you WORRY me. I’m worried about your future. I’m worried that your impulse control issues will only increase as you get older. I’m worried that these problems will avalanche into academic challenges you can never overcome. I’m worried that you will never achieve your potential.
I said I hated you because I’ve seen what you’re capable of, when you apply yourself.And what I hate is the idea that you’ll squander your natural talent. Already, you’re behind where I think you could be, if you tried even a little bit harder.
I said I hate you because while I recognize that there are parts of your brain that are completely outside of your control, I also see you as having a great deal of agency. I see you as a full person, and not a blank victim, defined exclusively by what’s wrong with you. You are not a marionette, controlled by your learning disabilities. I said I hate you, because I hate the choices you make.
I said I hate you because, after having known you merely two months, I fucking love you, as I love all your classmates who aren’t a constant pain in my ass. I hate that you have that much power over me, that you have forced me to care about you as much as I do. It’s annoying.You’re annoying. Fuck you.
Today you gave me a card with my name on it. You signed your name with hearts.
Alaina Hammond
Then later, when I told you not to look at Sophia’s paper, you screamed at the top of your lungs. But you then stopped looking at Sophia’s paper, which means I’m making progress with you. A few weeks ago, you might have thrown your chair across the room, so enraged at being told what to do. Instead, you merely vocally expressed your displeasure—LOUDLY—then concentrated on your own work. The scream was part of your emotional selfregulating process.
Also, you screamed because you’re an obnoxious little cunt.
I showed the bartender the card you made me. He recognized your name, and he asked me, is that the cunt? Yes, I told him. That’s the cunt. I’m putting it on my fridge.
Cunt.
Alaina Hammond is a poet, playwright, fiction writer, and visual artist. Her poems, short stories, and paintings have been published both online and in print. Publications include Littoral Magazine, Third Wednesday Magazine, [Alternate Route], Paddler Press, Verse-Virtual, Macrame Literary Journal, Sublunary Review, Quail Bell Magazine, Assignment Literary Magazine, Superpresent, Jelly Squid, redrosethorns, and Flash Frog. @alainaheidelberger on Instagram.
WHY I SAID WHAT I SAID TO THE BARTENDER by
Alaina Hammond
Ode on Individualism’s Twentieth Century Trinity of Champions (anAcrostic)
Jake Sheff
“If I know your sect, I anticipate your argument.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self-Reliance
I.
Ever the scientist, all you dreamt
Invented the void, like a Gustav Klimt. Nazi Germany’s oodles of plans
Surrounded the absence for which it stood. Then its loneliest sect of one, you stood Erect on that emptiness. (Now, it shines In perpetuity.) Lit by your saber, Nihility’s time’s unlovable neighbor.
II.
Assumptions begat so much, but your lines
Undid the most colorable of them all.
Dexterity’s fall into disrepair
Engendered despair, then you banged your tabor…
Nullity’s no unlovable neighbor.
III.
Agita aimed at the general will
Reveals nothingness ten times more than fear
Ever could. But you had arousal’s ear…
No wonder a womb’s-worth of knowledge fell
Despondently after you tossed your caber.
Titillation’s awe’s unlovable neighbor.
CHAMPIONS by Jake Sheff
Jake Sheff is a pediatrician and US Air Force veteran. He’s published a full-length collection of formal poetry, “A Kiss to Betray the Universe” (White Violet Press), along with three chapbooks: “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing), “The Rites of Tires” (SurVision) and “The Seagull’s First One Hundred Seguidillas” (Alien Buddha Press).
OF CHAMPIONS by Jake Sheff
Weren’t We Beautiful
(Atribute to the women in my family)
Ann Hite
Weren’t we beautiful in the morning, waiting for the bus. The sun still far from showing itself, the day the black cloud rolled through the sky, turning the air yellow and green, splitting the place with a bolt of lightning, crackling in our hair and leaves of the trees, whipping in a frenzy over the moment of change.
Weren’t we beautiful in the heart of the country dirt roads, gravel spraying us when cars drove by. Flowers dotting the forest floor, the wild blueberry bushes, the thorny blackberries, pulling at our tender skin, staining our fingers with purple juice.
Weren’t we beautiful watching the mountains in the distance colored in orange, yellow, and red. The source of
water flowing to the sea, to the place where we camped in pup tents. The raccoons gathering on the edge of the darkness, waiting for us to drop a crumb.The ocean moving in and out, shifting under our feet, sifting the sand like flour sprinkling in a big bowl like snow falling outside the window.
Weren’t we beautiful in the warmth of a fire on a freezing night, cracking and popping with sparks escaping the stove door, heat dancing through the cold house, taking off the edge.
Weren’twebeautifulinblousescoveredinlittlesequins,the gray of our hair turning snow white. The heart of the holiday most loved. Toys and lights. Banana bread and sugar cookies with green and red icing. Knights and horses with bows and arrows surrounding the castle.
Weren’t we beautiful walking in the mountains, a place that filled our hearts with long ago happiness, the clean crisp air, the bright blue sky. Trees scrubbing the clouds, catching them, pushing them to the ground.
Weren’twebeautifulscrubboardsinhand,washingclothes, hanging them on the line outside. Clothespins gripping the edges as wind whipped them straight into the air.
In September of 2011 Gallery, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, published Ann Hite’s first novel, Ghost on Black Mountain. In 2012 this novel was shortlisted for the Townsend Prize, Georgia’s oldest literary award. In the same year, Ghost on Black Mountain won Hite Georgia Author of the Year. She went on to publish four more novels, a novella, memoir, and most recently Haints On Black Mountain: A Haunted Short Story Collection from Mercer University Press. In December 2022, Haints On Black Mountain was one of ten finalist for the Townsend Prize. The collection was a Bronze Winner in Foreword Indie Award 2023 and Georgia Author of the Year Second Place Winner for Short Stories 2023. Ann received a scholarship to the Appalachian Writers Workshop Hindman Settlement in the summer of 2020 and was invited back in 2021. Her passion for history influences all her work.
The Golden Locket
JoyAnne O'Donnell
From the rising gold leaves
Inside my locket of joy
Gold that is mine
Forever in my heart and mind
When memories are so kind
Time of great laughs
Time to remember
Music playing
Seeing harmony
The key to keep around my neck
Close to my heart forever
My souls chime
To be one with time
From the golden light
Beams my hearts sunshine
Inside my golden heart’s locket
Awalk to remember on the beaches rhyme
The waves flow thoughts so glowing
Blue sky so warm
The sand so soft
Dreams to come
To see engraved in my locket’s true sparkle with time.
JoyAnne O'Donnell is an author of five poetry books available on Amazon included "Winds of Time", Spring & Summers Veil', Palace of Enchanted Day and Night", Heavens Medal and Summer In The Breeze. JoyAnne has twice been nominated for The Pushcart Prize.
HELLO WRITERS &ARTISTS
CALLFOR SUBMISSIONS IS OPEN!
*No prompts or themes - no boundaries*
WELL READ is looking for submissions from writers and artists who have stories to tell – through words and art. We combine new and established voices from diverse backgrounds and celebrate different perspectives. We want people who aren’t afraid to shake things up, speak their mind, and share their humanity.
Click here for SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
Please follow the guidelines - all submissions must be sent as attachments and include an author photo and short bio.
Annie McDonnell asks Maria T. Henriksen
What is your idea of perfect happiness?
My idea of perfect happiness is the joy I have every minute of the day because the Holy Spirit dwells within me. This is not a temporary feeling. This is a constant state of being because I'm a follower of Christ.
On what occasion do you lie?
While it is my understanding that most people lie a few times a day, I'm an extremely honest person. In fact, I was too honest at one point in my life that I had to learn how to be more diplomatic. For example, if someone said, “Does my butt look big in this?” and it does because it is. The old me back in high school may have said, “Yes.” Now, I might say, “It's flattering,” if doesn't make their rear end look worse. I am not as brutally honest as I once was, although I may have my moments.
What is the quality you most like in a man?
Trust is the quality I most like in a man. Even as a young child I didn't trust men, except my father. My mother noticed this and told my male doctor who dismissed it. Apparently, I wasn't very accepting of him either. It makes me wonder if something happened to me at a very young age because I have no memory of anything. I wouldn't be surprised if I repressed traumatic memories to protect myself. One of the things that drew me to my husband was that I trusted him. I still do.
What or who is the greatest love of your life?
Jesus is hands down the greatest love of my life. To say anything other would mean I'm lying, or my state of mind has been severely altered. No human or thing could ever or will ever compare to my love and devotion to my Lord and Savior. Jesus is love. Christ died on the cross for our sins. He sacrificed His life so we may have eternal life. That's love. In turn, I will shout from the rooftops that I am His humble servant and will make sacrifices along the way to spread the good news that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life. It's God's love for me and my love for Him that I share the path to paradise.
If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
In a heartbeat, I would change the fact that I have multiple autoimmune diseases. These diseases affect my cognitive ability, cause extreme fatigue, inflammation, constant and chronic pain, insomnia, stiffness, discomfort, irritability, skin problems, among other afflictions. The daily struggle is real and is getting worse. By the grace of God, I am able to be productive when I need to be. I plan accordingly. Procrastination is my enemy, and I refuse to succumb to its temptation. God gave me a purpose in life, and I intend to fulfill it with every ounce of my being.
What do you consider your greatest achievement?
My children are my greatest achievement, although I really
can't take the credit. Ultimately, they make their own decisions, and I'm incredibly proud of the young adults they have become. In the face of extreme adversary, my son rose out of the ashes and has continued to be one of my biggest inspirations. His twin sister demonstrates love and support to everyone she encounters and has a tenacity to succeed. Both of them will always have my heart.
Where would you most like to live?
The sea beckons me with its serenity, power, and beauty. I am in awe of how I'm able to be transformed in its presence. My struggles melt away as new breath invigorates me while standing on the sandy shores. As I peer out into the vast unknown, I'm surprisingly comforted. This peace brings forth a fresh take on life, one that I take full advantage of. For that reason, I would love to live on or near the beach to be able to experience a certain level of clarity that would otherwise elude me.
What is your most treasured possession?
The Holy Spirit dwells within me. It guides and directs each path that I take. These roads are less traveled, but the presence of the Holy Spirit stays with me as my journey leads to paradise. I also rely on the third part of the trinity to gift me with wisdom, understanding, and knowledge. Furthermore, it leads me on literary journeys, equipping me to write poignant and inspiring works. My writing, in turn, has been able to help others in meaningful and life-altering ways. I trust the Holy Spirit to empower me when I'm at my lowest depths. I depend
on spiritual healing powers to lift me out of the mire that I continually find myself in as a mere human. The Holy Spirit convicts me of my sins and repositions me on the straight and narrow path. For these reasons and more, the Holy Spirit is my most treasured possession.
What do you most value in your friends?
Loyalty is my most valued trait in friends. If someone betrays me in any way, I take it very personally. If they stick by me, support me through the peaks and valleys of life, I consider them to be devoted friends. In turn, I will treasure our friendship and support them however I can.
What are your favorite names?
Christina and Michael are my favorite names. In fact, Christina is the name of the main character in the first two books of my NotAgain series.
How would you like to die?
Ideally, I would like to leave this world peacefully without pain surrounded by people I love. More importantly, I would like to die with the peace of mind that those closest to me will join me in heaven.
What is your motto?
Live, Laugh, Love is a motto I live by. Live life to the fullest. I interpret that to do God's will. Laugh. If you met me, you
know I laugh heartily. Love. Life is meaningless without love.
Maria T. Henriksen is a Christian author of both fiction and nonfiction. It is her hope that she transforms lives through her writings. The Not Again series encompasses a coming-of-age, faith-based tale with romantic and tragic elements, beginning the spiritual journey of a teenage girl during the 1980s. The story incorporates scripture to demonstrate how to overcome even the darkest of tribulations. The epic saga continues with different narratives of friends originating from the first novel.
Maria has been happily married for nearly three decades to a sweet and intelligent man of God. She is also blessed to be the mother of amazing adult boy/girl twins.
During the week, Maria works as a substitute teacher and considers it a privilege to be working with the future leaders of America.As a spirit-filled lover of reading, writing, and the arts, Maria is also passionate about purple, chocolate, and jewelry. Her greatest desire is to help people draw closer to God and thrive in life.
The Not Again series is growing! Books 3 - 6 are coming soon! Not Again Morgan's Story, Book 3 will be released on March 5, 2025
Pre-order here for only 99 cents & receive a free gift.
“There’s
Something About the Walls,” at Bemelmans’s Bar
“There’s
SomethingAbout the Walls,” at Bemelmans’s Bar
In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines lived twelve little girls in two straight lines. In two straight lines they broke their bread and brushed their teeth and went to bed. They smiled at the good and frowned at the bad and sometimes they were very sad. They left the house at half past nine in two straight lines in rain or shine—the smallest one was Madeline.
-Ludwig Bemelmans, Madeline
The iconic Bemelmans’s Bar in The Carlyle Hotelin Manhattan, NY named after Ludwig Bemelmans—author and illustrator of the celebrated children’s series Madeline—is largely known for three things: celebrity sightings, jazz, and the best martini in New York City. But I went to see the walls, specifically the murals, though admittedly the jazz added to the ambience and the martinis (three!) were flowing.
Sidenote: How to Make a Major Martini Recipe: 1. Fill martini glass with crushed ice and pour Vermouth to the
tippy-top of the glass. 2. Pour either Beluga Gold (preferably), Grey Goose, or Belvedere vodka into cocktail shaker with ice. No need to measure. You know what you’re capable of here. 3. Aggressively shake cocktail shaker. Shake, shake some more, shake until your hand is frozen to the metal and you’re in danger of losing your fingerprints. 4. Toss out ice and Vermouth mixture from the glass. 5. Pour vodka into martini glass through strainer. 6.
Adorn with two extra-large, blue cheese-stuffed olives. Note: Olives must be hand-stuffed on the same day as making a Major Martini. 7. Jazz hands!
On the evening my hubby, Nick, and I visited Bemelmans’s Bar the atrium was full of WASPs dressed to the nines and there was a line waiting to get a seat at the bar. So, we joined the queue in a hallway and I stared at those walls for about half an hour. On either side of me were framed black and white photos of politicians, royalty, and Old Hollywood. It took me less than a minute eyeing Frank Sinatra, Princess Diana, Marilyn Monroe, Jackie Kennedy Onasis, and President John F. Kennedy who looked ever so glamourous exiting The Carlyle before I said to Nick, “Let’s go.” The vibes were too fancy even for me and I was thinking I didn’t even grow up reading Bemelmans’s books; those books were way before my time.
Madeline, the first book in a series of six books, was published in 1939. Of course, I was familiar with Madeline,
specifically Bemelmans’s illustrations of a tiny, red-haired little girl wearing a yellow hat who if not on one of her grand adventures, was found with eleven of her schoolmates in “two straight lines” being herded by her caretaker, Miss Clavel. Insert Photo of Miss Clavel herding schoolgirls.
Once we landed a seat, I quickly settled in. The first martini didn’t hurt. The effect of Bemelmans’s low ceiling and subdued lighting was reminiscent of a dive bar. I felt like I could curl up in dark corner and imbibe for hours. But with its exquisiteArt Deco décor, 24-karat gold leaf ceiling, and the low tones of cool jazz emanating from the double bass, Bemelmans’s is no dive bar, far from it. I wouldn’t rule out any raunchy activities happening there, however. The Carlye is veiled in innuendo.
To provide some background…The Carlye Hotel has catered to the uber rich and the uber famous since the 1930s. Though the staff would never reveal any of their guests’ secrets, people talk. It’s rumored that Marilyn Monroe snuck in through the tunnels to “meet” up with J.F.K. after singing Happy Birthday to him. Their tryst is well-documented. The tunnels are unconfirmed. Journalist, Gradon Carter, visited Hunter S. Thomspon’s room and noted Thompson had “a bottle of scotch, a bowl of cereal, and a bowl of cocaine.”Today, people flock to the bar to see and be seen. But I am not a member of the rich and/or the
famous, and no one cares about seeing me…like I said I went for the walls.
Reflecting back, Bemelmans’s Bar is really an oxymoron. In its shadowy elegance are images of fanciful animals and caricatures of upper echelon New Yorkers doing upper echelon things. As a waiter, who wanted to be an artist, Bemelmans was on the other side of the table so to speak. He had worked in the hotel business for most of his life including a fifteen year stint at the Ritz-Carlton. You can’t fault Bemelmans for poking fun at society types. Ironically, parodying patrons from Bemelmans’s and around New York City got him noticed:
His breakthrough finally came when, at work one day, the menus on which he’d absent-mindedly sketched caricatures of a pair of guests were accidentally handed to the very same guests to place their orders. They left in a fury, but Bemelmans’s manager recognized the talent in his work and insisted he use an empty suite as his studio in his off hours from then on.
There are mostly images of animals in the murals than LudwigandBarbaraBemelmans,GramercyPartStudio,NewYork,1941
people, so perhaps Bemelmans wanted to avoid anyone recognizing themselves again and decided to go with snooty animals such as the cigar-smoking rabbit. But you have to wonder about the conversations between the waitstaff when they saw monkey waiters wearing the same red uniform as theirs. In the mid-1940s and in trade for his family’s stay at the hotel, Bemelmans worked on the murals. He completed the paintings in 1947. An extended stay at The Carlye? Not a bad gig. Bemelmans had now made it to the other side of the table.
For Bemelmans, like most artists, his muse was his life. Madeline’s and Miss Clavel’s characters were an amalgamation of Bemelmans’s mother, wife—his main character’s
Barbara, Madeline, and Ludwig Bemelmans, Bedford, New York, 1940
namesake—and his daughter, Barbara.
The expression art imitates life rang true for Bemelmans. Incidents from his life became fodder for his writing.
In the middle of the night Miss Clavel turned on her light and said, “Something is not right!” Little Madeline sat in bed, cried and cried; her eyes were red. And soon after Dr. Cohn came, he rushed out to phone and dialed: DANton-ten-six—“Nurse,” he said, “it’s an appendix!” Madeline
While in the hospital in France after a biking accident, Bemelmans was introduced to, or found inspiration for his characters: Madeline, Miss Clavel, and Dr. Cohn:
A doctor came, with a cigarette stub hanging out of his lower lip…in the next room was a little girl who had had her appendix out, and on the ceiling over my bed was a dark crack that in the varying light of morning, noon, and evening,
André Léon Blum served three times as the prime minister of France.
looked like a rabbit, who looked like Léon Blum, and at last, in the conformity of the island, like a tremendous sardine.
Bemelmans stated that at the hospital:
I saw the nun bringing soup to the little girl. I remembered the stories my mother had told me of life in the convent school at Altötting, and the little girl, the hospital, the room, the crank of the bed, the nurse, the old doctor, who looked like Leon Blum, all fell into place.
Few authors are writers and artists, so I appreciate it when authors illustrate scenes in their books. It gives the full perspective of their art and it was what compelled me to go wall-gazing at Bemelmans’s Bar.
My favorite image and undoubtedly the most recognizable of Bemelmans’s illustrations is Miss Clavel directing two straight lines of schoolgirls. That illustration resonates with me because I was once a Madeline. During my stretch in Catholic schools, the students were always forming straight lines while presided over by a nun. I was
confused why Bemelmans didn’t refer to Miss Clavel as Sister Clavel until I did a little digging and discovered that Miss Clavel is not a nun; she’s a nurse, the caretaker of twelve girls who live at a boarding school. When I visited Bemelmans’s Bar, I was still under the impression that Miss Clavel was a nun. But many mistake Miss Clavel for a nun. Plus, Bemelmans stated it himself, that the nun tending the little girl at the hospital was the origin of Miss Clavel. It’s not a great leap of the imagination to see a “Sister” in Miss Clavel. Plus, if you have a preoccupation for nuns, like I do, the mind can play tricks on you.
When I found my favorite image at Bemelmans’s Bar that evening it was blocked by a group of twentysomethings doing the see and be seen thing I mentioned earlier. Whenever one of the women in the party moved her head I would try and snap a photo. I wasn’t having any success. Finally, I got up and kindly asked if I could get a quick photo and they were gracious and didn’t seem bothered that I had interrupted their conversation.
Afterwards, I overheard one of them say, “Oh, yeah, I heard there’s something about the walls.” There is indeed.
Note about sources: Photos of Bemelmans’ Bar were taken by Dawn Major. Quotes, photos of Bemelmans’s family, and photos of illustrations were taken from Madeline.
-A Madeline Treasury, The Original Stories by Ludwig Bemelmans previously published as Mad About Madeline with an Introduction by Anna Quindlen first published in 1993 by Viking an edition of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2014.
- “History of Bemelmans’ Bar at The Carlye Hotel, A Rosewood Hotel,” Press Kit, The Carlye Hotel website, 2/2025.
-Always at the Carlye a film, writer and director Matthew Miele, 2018.
-Punch, Reagan Hoffman, March 26, 2014.
-Leon Blum photo, Wiki. 2 20, 2025.
#31titleswomeninhistory
Looking for something to add to your to be read list? --How about thirty-one titles in one fell swoop? For the speed readers among us, how about a book a day for the month of March? For readers of historical fiction and for any reader looking to discover the stories of women who have remained in the shadows of history, I’m happy to share a curated list of 31 titles to read in celebration of Women’s History Month in March. Why women’s history? As noted by Anita Diamant, bestselling author of THE RED TENT, “Women’s history and women’s stories are still under-told, which means that there’s a hunger for them.”
With my third annual #31titleswomeninhistory list, I hope to satisfy that hunger. By joining with other historical fiction authors like myself, we have tuned into that need and have worked tirelessly to discover, research and tell these stories. By combining facts with fiction, historical fiction addresses the emotional responses of the woman/ women in the stories for readers to imagine how those women strode forward with dreams in their minds and
hopes in their hearts.The appeal of the genre will lead more readers toward discovering, learning, celebrating, and sharing the stories of these women. They’ve been invisible for too long,
The subject of the titles range from pioneering women doctors as presented in my second novel, THE PATH BENEATH HER FEET, to African-American female aviatrix Bessie Coleman, who predates Amelia Earhart in Carole Hopson’s debut novel, A PAIR OF WINGS, to SOLITARYWALKER by Nancy Mastro to tell the story of Mary Wollstonecraft, the 18th-century British philosopher, to the trials of the U.S. Army Medical Corps nurses who served during the Vietnam War in Kristin Hannah’s epic bestseller, THE WOMEN, plus twenty-seven other titles.
For each title, I used a defined set of criteria to pick the final thirty-one:
1. Historical fiction genre which appeals to a wider readership
2. Women authors only
3. Diversity in author—cultural, as well as type of publishing and name recognition
4. Diversity in subject matter—cultural, setting, field of recognition
5. Goodreads ratings
In order to elevate the awareness of all the books, especially by lesser-known authors, I have engaged with the other authors on the list to encourage sharing through their networks. Rebecca Rosenberg, author of MADAME POMMERY (#17 on the alphabetically ordered 2025 list), and I have also identified several Facebook interest groups, podcasts, and Instagrammers who will assist with spreading the word throughout the month of March. Readers can interact with the list over social media by answering the questions: Which titles have you read? Which ones have you added to your To Be Read list? They can also fill out an online survey (https://bit.ly/4fVDDq6) which offers chances to win paperback copies of the thirty-one books. The summary sheet of the full list of books is also available to download here.
About Janis Robinson Daly
Daly graduated with a B.A. in Psychology fromWheaton College, Norton MA, at the time, a women’s college. At Wheaton, she developed a fond appreciation of the supportive relationships established between students and a heightened awareness of female-centric issues. A presentation of how her genealogy research inspired her to begin writing has made Daly a sought-after speaker for
book clubs, women’s groups, libraries, and writers’groups. She has presented at the Historical Novel Society's annual conference, as well as local chapters of AAUW, teachers’ sorority ADK, and Soroptimist International, the Clarksville Writing Conference, Black Rose Writing Author Fest, and virtually with the Historical Society of Pennsylvania and the American Medical Women's Association. Her annual #31titleswomeninhistory curated list has gained recognition from historical fiction authors and avid readers as an innovative way to celebrateWomen's History Month in March. After a professional career in sales and marketing, Daly now applies her experience to assisting other authors through her marketing consultancy service.
Rebecca Rosenberg
Portrait of Madame Clicquot and her great-granddaughter Anne de MortemartRochechouart. (Wikimedia Commons)
How One Woman Overcame Pandemics, War and Patriarchy to Build a Champagne Empire
Rebecca Rosenberg
“The world is in perpetual motion, and we must invent the things of tomorrow. One must go before others, be determined and exacting, and let your intelligence direct your life. Act with audacity.” —Barbe-NicoleClicquot
For centuries, women have faced the devastation of pandemics and the roadblocks of patriarchy. Yet, one of them, the audacious and determined Barbe-Nicole Clicquot, found a way to build a champagne empire despite the hardships.
In 1805, the typhoid fever pandemic swept through the Champagne region of Reims, France, and took the life of champagne house owner, Francois Clicquot. His young wife, Barbe-Nicole, was left a single parent to a six-yearold daughter. Her father-in-law promptly informed Clicquot winery customers, employees and vendors they were closing the doors.
Under Napoleon Code, she inherited only a quarter of her
husband’s property, the rest reverting to his family. Now known as Veuve (widow) Clicquot, Barbe-Nicole needed money to support herself and her daughter and was dismayed that their shared passion for making champagne would be summarily erased.
In a time when married women were prevented from owning a business in France, she found a loophole. Seeking legal advice, she learned that a widow could own a business and property. She’d never run a business or handled finances, but Barbe-Nicole was determined to continue the champagne house. Thus, the arm wrestle with her father-inlaw began.
She bargained with her father-in-law to carry on the winery, which he agreed to on the condition he choose a male business partner for her.
Despite her ambitions and best intentions, her first steps in the male-dominated world of wine-making were doomed. She started this new venture in the middle of 13 years of Napoleonic wars (1803–1815). As Napoleon fought to rule Europe, he blocked trade between countries and destroyed Europe’s economy, making it nearly impossible to sell wine. By 1810, Veuve Clicquot’s business partner knew their venture failed and broke off the partnership, leaving her to manage the business alone.
On her own again, her father-in-law pressed her to close the winery and stem the losses. In the face of rising doubts
and mounting debt, Barbe-Nicole became more determined. She boldly rebranded the winery as Veuve Clicquot-Ponsardin, using her title, widow (Veuve) and adding her maiden name, so there would be no mistake who was making the wine. Veuve Clicquot-Ponsardin was the first champagne house owned by a woman.
The next few years were bleak for the single mother managing the vineyards and winery alone. Napoleon and his French army waged two more wars; the Fifth Coalition War with Austria and Britain and the Peninsular War with Spain.
In 1812, Barbe-Nicole’s champagne sales fell from a peak of 130,000 bottles to 10,000 bottles. She used those dark years to experiment with the wine. Champagne in the early 1800s was unpredictable and mysterious. It could grow snakes of yeast, be flat and lifeless, or murky with frog’seye bubbles. Barbe-Nicole invented new methods to improve her champagne’s clarity and taste. Eventually, she created the riddling rack, a large board with holes to store wine Riddling racks at Schramsberg Winery in Calistoga, CA (ExarchIzain / Flickr)
bottles neck down. A gentle rotation of the bottle slid sediment down into the bottleneck for easier removal. This method of riddling bottles and the riddling rack are still used in champagne making today.
The Great Comet of 1811, known as Napoleon’s Comet, streaked across the sky for one million miles and was visible for more than 260 days. Prophets said the comet predicted Napoleon’s invasion of Russia and the war of 1812. But, for Barbe-Nicole, the Great Comet of 1811 brought the most magnificent and bountiful grape harvest of a decade. Using her new techniques and skills, she crafted an exquisite champagne that would make her famous. Le Vin de Comète was the first vintage champagne ever made, using only grapes from that comet year instead of the traditional method of blending wines from different years.
While Barbe-Necole aged her Vin de la Comète in the chalk caves under her winery, France remained in turmoil as Napoleon waged the Sixth Coalition war against Prussia, Sweden, Austria, Russia, the United Kingdom and several German states.
In 1812, he marched his GrandArmy of 450,000 soldiers to Moscow. When they arrived, Moscow was deserted and burned by the Russians. Napoleon had to march his army back across the vast frozen wilderness in the winter. Bitter winds froze the horses in place. Men died of Typhus and
other diseases. Battling peasants and Cossacks on the way back, Napoleon’s Grand Army dwindled to 10,000 men. When Napoleon heard of a coup d’etat in Paris, he abandoned his army and fled back through Barbe-Nicole’s town of Reims, seeking lodging at her father’s house.
Prussians, Cossacks, and Russians invaded and occupied Reims until Napoleon abdicated in March 1814. Finally, the time had come for Barbe-Nicole to launch the audacious strategy she had been planning. She hired a Dutch vessel, packed it with 10,550 bottles of Clicquot champagne, and sent it with her salesman, Louis Bohne, through the Baltic Sea.
He found an eager market of Prussians starved for fine wine and other luxury goods. “Our ship is the first for many years to sail North … with a cargo of champagne,” Louis Bohne wrote. He immediately sold out his stock in Konigsberg and St. Petersburg. Barbe-Nicole sent another ship with 12,500 bottles.
By autumn, they had 70,000 bottles committed. BarbeNicole worried they would run out.
“What a lovely problem to have,” Louis Bohne wrote.
Barbe-Nicole oversaw the growth of the business, which rocketed to 280,000 bottles in 1821. Survival of the champagne house Veuve Clicquot was assured.
Had Barbe-Nicole remarried, her business and power would have been ceded to her new husband. Instead, by
remaining a widow for five decades until she died in 1866, Veuve Clicquot gave us a model of strength, creativity and vision as she used her intelligence, tenacity and sheer guts to break through the chaos and confusion in the world around her.
Rebecca Rosenberg is a champagne geek, lavender farmer and bestselling author of biographical historical novels about extraordinary women, including the Champagne Widows and Gold Digger series.
:00 pm - 6:30 pm
An Evening with Dawn Major and Kim Poovey
The Pat Conroy Literary Center will host an evening with authors Dawn Major and Kim Poovey portraying characters from their respective novels, introduced by host Mary Ellen Thompson.
Cost: Free and open to all. March 20, 5:00 p.m.
Pat Conroy Literary Center, 601 Bladen Street, Beaufort, SC
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March 25
March 18
March 18
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You come to the city because your passion called you here. Whatever that passion may be. That thing you love. And you wander out into the streets searching for a place to pull up a stool, order a drink, chat with the bartender about all things divine.
Welcome to God On The Rocks. Serving up great drinks and soulful conversations since time began.
I’m looking for Authors Interviewing Authors and would love to shine a spotlight on your favorite Independent Bookstores, Book Sellers, Libraries, and Librarians.
A monthly column that takes us off the page and into the
Travelin’Ray
After spending a few days in Rome, we rode the Fast Train to Florence. Fast Train is what the Italians call their high-speed rail service, and they aren’t kidding around. I love to ride trains and figured that this might be my only opportunity to go 153 miles per hour without subsequently taking flight. Unfortunately, due to the language barrier and the intricacies of seat selection, we made this journey while facing where we had been rather than where we were going. Now that my vertigo has subsided, however, I have to say that the Italians have really got it going on when it comes to rail travel. I have ridden severalAmtrak trains, and they just can’t compare. I once rode theAmtrak to New Orleans, and the one time that the engineer pushed it above 60 I thought we were all going to die.
When we got to Florence, our first stop was to pick up a rental car, which was NOTwaiting for us in the train station as advertised. We needed a car because after leaving Florence we were headed for the country, and while there is bus service to just about every little town in Italy, I didn’t think my Italian language skills were up to working with a 20-page Italian bus schedule. Plus, Italian bus drivers can
sometimes be rowdy, especially if you are meeting them in the fog at night on a curvy mountain road. Most of them apparently used to be taxi drivers in Rome until their driving shenanigans became too much for the city fathers to allow to continue.
Anyway, we finally found the car rental agency a few blocks away from the rail terminal, and after they explained to me in halting English that they were within walking distance of the trains so no harm no foul and I explained back in halting Italian that so was PARIS within walking distance if I brought food, water, and good shoes but that wasn’t the point, we got down to the business of renting a car. I had arranged and paid for the car a couple of months prior to the trip because I am an old guy and like to have my ducks in a row, so I was very surprised at the number of random ducks just running around the lobby of the rental car agency, bumping into chairs, flapping their wings, and quacking as I tried to secure my vehicle. Incidentally, on the advice of Counsel I cannot tell you the name of the rental car company, so let’s just stipulate that it “hurts” me even now when I talk about my experiences and let it go at that.
I finally got a car after first refusing to leave as additional security my return airline ticket, an additional credit card, cash, or my passport. My negotiation method was to stand there smiling, tapping my chest, and saying “No Italian” while the line grew ever-longer behind me until finally they
gave me a set of keys before I put them out of business. I got a Peugeot, which was a nice little French model that I actually had a bit of experience with from my days as an automobile mechanic. In the Seventies I worked in a gas station, and as a fledgling mechanic and the new guy on top of that I got to work on all of the vehicles that no one else wanted to fool with. One day a tow truck brought in a beat up old foreign car, and when my boss hollered, “Atkins, see what you can do with that Pew-gut,” my time to shine had arrived. I actually got the thing running, sort of, and luckily the brand has improved greatly over the 50 years since. Driving in a foreign country is an interesting experience, but I want you to know that I came prepared. Before my trip I went to the State Department website where I learned that Italian driving laws are considered more as a set of guidelines by the locals than as hard fast rules, and that it is common knowledge among Italian drivers that they are awarded bonus points if they run over an American in a Peugeot. Okay, I made that last one up, but the rest of it is on there. You can read it for yourself if it hasn’t been Eloned away. There is also a link at the State Department site to obtain your international driver’s license. This stringent and exclusive process involves sending $20 and a photo to AAA, which will then award these credentials to you. Times have apparently been tough in the travel industry, and I am proud to have my international license
even if no one has ever asked me to produce it.
Our next stop was Pisa. If you are going to travel from Florence to Pisa, you must get yourself to the Fi-Pi-Li (Florence-Pisa-Livorno) highway. It is only about two miles from downtown Florence, so allowing yourself twoand-one-half to three hours plus a mirror bump or two should do nicely.Amirror bump for those of you who don’t know is when you meet oncoming traffic on a narrow city street and actually bump each other’s side mirrors as you pass. I know what you are thinking, but if you DO slow down to let the other car proceed, then you get to have a trunk incursion from the vehicle behind you. It is right on your rear bumper, so close that you can see exotic Italian gestures from the driver in your rearview mirror, and the reason it is there is because of what is riding ITS tail. Believe me, the mirror bumps are better.
The Fi-Pi-Li is the major artery connecting east and west in the heart of Italy.Think of I-75 between Chattanooga and Atlanta. Now remove all but two lanes going each way, and randomly close some of these here and there for maintenance, usually in tight curves. Add potholes and rough pavement, remove the emergency lanes, throw in a few tunnels, completely fill the right lane with trucks, and bingo, you have the Fi-Pi-Li. I have to say that the truck thing is different in Italy, and better up to a point. There are plenty of them just like there are here, but they are a little
bit smaller than their American cousins, and they never get above about sixty miles per hour. I can only surmise that this restraint is built right into the truck and that they will go no faster, because European or not, truckers are truckers, and they will always make what they are driving go as fast as it will. But the great thing is that they stay in the right lane and will not pass no matter how much they have to slow down for whatever is in front. I assume it is the law, and it is only the unruliest of truckers who break it.
I almost skipped Pisa altogether because I had read on the internet that it was a disappointment, but I went ahead anyway, and it was awesome from start to finish, which just goes to show that you can’t always believe what you read online, and that some people will put things out there which are just not true for reasons of their own. My theory in this case is that since Florence and Pisa have been mortal enemies since about 1100 AD when they were both citystates, the Florence Chamber of Commerce spreads these lies in an attempt to defeat their longtime foe. It is cheaper and more subtle than outright warfare and has the advantage of not having to move an armored brigade down the Fi-Pi-Li during rush hour.
The Old City where all the good stuff is has a mostly intact wall still around it with battlements, gates, and crenellated guard posts. The walls date from the 1100s, and if you are a history buff like I am, they alone are worth the
trip. Inside the walls are the famous Leaning Tower, which I did indeed hold up with my hand but don’t judge me, the Pisa Cathedral, which was in my opinion the most spectacular of all of the cathedrals I saw in Italy, the Baptistery, which was built around 1400AD and which has a perfect echo, and the ever-popular Camposanto, where you will find all manner of ancient deceased Italian folks entombed in the floor, so be careful where you step.
It was while in the Old City at Pisa that I had my pickpocket experience. I was standing in the Piazza dei Miracoli considering the proper place to position myself for my upcoming Leaning Tower selfie when I noticed a young woman making her way through the crowd. As she walked she kept bumping into people, but I didn’t think much about this because it was very crowded that day, and Italians don’t seem to move out of each other’s way when they meet, on foot or in cars, so bumps are pretty common. Then she bumped into me, and I felt her fingers slip into my hip pocket. Before I could react, she was bumping into someone else as she disappeared into the crowd. No, she didn’t get my billfold. It and my passport and my credit cards and my euros were all in a pouch hanging around my neck and tucked under my shirt, which is where you should keep yours if you travel.
There were two other high points in Pisa that I want to mention. The first is what has to be the world’s largest
IKEA store. I am not an IKEA person because if I want to assemble a piece of furniture without benefit of all the screws I need to do so I will just go to Home Depot like I always do, but if you are, this is your store. The other honorable mention goes to the Pisa McDonalds, which is right next to the IKEA place. They have all the usual fare, plus a cappuccino bar complete with glass cups, and whatever you order will be brought to your table by a smiling waitperson.
Mandy Haynes is the author of two short story collections, Walking the Wrong Way Home, Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth Eva and Other Stories, and a novella, Oliver. Her stories have appeared in several anthologies and literary journals. She is the editor and designer of Encounters with Nature, a collaboration ofAmelia Island Writers and Artists, The WELL READ's Best of 2023 anthologies, and also the co-editor of The Best of the Shortest: A Southern Writers Reading Reunion.
Raymond L.Atkins, Contributing Editor for OFF THE PAGE
Raymond L. Atkins resides in Rome, Georgia, on the banks of the Etowah River in an old house with a patient wife and a lazy cat. His hobbies include people-watching, reading, and watching movies that have no hope of ever achieving credibility. His first novel, The Front Porch Prophet, was published in 2008 and was awarded the Georgia Author of the Year Award for First Novel. Camp Redemption, was awarded the Ferrol Sams Award for Fiction and the 2014 Georgia Author of the Year Award for Fiction. Sweetwater Blues was a Townsend Prize nominee, the 2015 GeorgiaAuthor of the Year runner-up for fiction, and the 2016 selection for One Book, Many Voices. South of the Etowah, his first creative non-fiction book, was released in 2016. It was nominated for a Push-cart Prize and was the 2016 GeorgiaAuthor of theYearAward runner-up for essay. In 2017, he was awarded the Lifetime Achievement Award by the Georgia Writers Association.
Robert Gwaltney, Contributing Editor for INSIDE VOICES
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. In 2023, Gwaltney was named Georgia Author of the Year for first novel.
Meet the staff
Ann Hite, Contributing Editor for MOUNTAIN MAGIC
In September of 2011 Gallery, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, published Ann Hite’s first novel, Ghost on Black Mountain. In 2012 this novel was shortlisted for the Townsend Prize, Georgia’s oldest literary award. In the same year, Ghost on Black Mountain won Hite Georgia Author of the Year. She went on to publish four more novels, a novella, memoir, and most recently Haints On Black Mountain: A Haunted Short Story Collection from Mercer University Press. In December 2022, Haints On Black Mountain was one of ten finalist for the Townsend Prize. The collection was a Bronze Winner in Foreword IndieAward 2023 and GeorgiaAuthor of the Year Second Place Winner for Short Stories 2023. Ann received a scholarship to the Appalachian Witers Workshop Hindman Settlement in the summer of 2020 and was invited back in 2021. Her passion for history influences all her work.
Jeffrey Dale Lofton, Contributing Editor for INSIDE VOICES
Jeffrey Dale Lofton hails from Warm Springs, Georgia. His years telling the stories of playwrights and scriptwriters as a stage and screen actor taught him the pull of a powerful story arc. Today, he is Senior Advisor at the Library of Congress, surrounded by books and people who love them. Red Clay Suzie is his debut novel, a fictionalized memoir written through his lens—gay and living with a disability—in a conservative family in the Deep South. It was longlisted for the 2023 Center for Fiction First Novel Prize and awarded the Seven Hills Literary Prize for Fiction, among other distinctions.
Claire Hamner Matturro , Contributing Editor for CLAIRE CONSIDERS
Claire Hamner Matturro is a former attorney, former university writing instructor, avid reader, and the author of seven novels, including four published by HarperCollins. Her poetry appears in various journals including Slant and Lascaux Review. She is an associate editor ofThe Southern LiteraryReview and lives happily in Florida with her cross-eyed rescued black cat and her husband.
Dawn Major, Contributing Editor for TRIPLIT with D Major
Dawn Major’s debut novel, The Bystanders, was named finalist for 2024 GeorgiaAuthor of the Year for Best First Novel. Major is an associate editor at Southern Literary Review and advocates for southern authors via her blog, Southernread. Her literary awards include the following: the Dr. Robert Driscoll Award, Reinhardt University’s Faculty ChoiceAward, and the James Dickey Review Literary Fellowship. Major is a member of the William Gay Archive and has edited and helped publish the works of the late author. She serves on the board for Broadleaf Writers Association and is also a member of M’ville, anAtlanta-based artist salon. Major lives in the Old Fourth Ward inAtlanta, GA and is working on her next novel, The Dandy Chronicles.
Annie McDonnell, Contributing Editor forANNIEASKS
Founder of The Write Review Literary Community, Podcaster, Book Reviewer, Author Consultant and Matchmaker. She also teaches workshops on top of all of this! Annie has been introducing us to books and authors since 2006, when she began reviewing books for Elle Magazine. Proud Stiff Person Syndrome Warrior, and several other illnesses.
Susan Beckham Zurenda, Contributing Editor for THE WRITER’S EYE
Susan Beckham Zurenda taught English for 33 years on the college level and at the high school level to AP students. She is author of the award-winning Southern literary novel, Bells for Eli, and the recipient of numerous awards for her short fiction, including the South Carolina Fiction Awards, twice. Her second novel, The Girl From the Red Rose Motel (Mercer University Press, September 2023), was the recipient of the 2024 Patricia Winn Award in Southern Fiction, Gold Medal winner in the 2024 IPPY Awards for Southeast Fiction, a 2024 Pushcart Prize nominee, a Shelf Unbound 2023 Notable 100 books, and a finalist in theAmerican Book FestAwards. Susan lives in Spartanburg, SC.
The Red Shoes by
Mandy Haynes
"Hell, we cain't all be saints."
The tip of my shoe catches on the edge of the top step and I almost lose my balance. Wouldn’t that be perfect? Bat shit crazy old Penny, falling face first in front of everyone because of her shoes. I shake my head, steady myself, and think back to that awful scene in my room two nights ago. I’d woken up to one of the night shift nurses standing at the end of my bed, which was enough to almost give me a heart attack. I’d been in the middle of a good dream when she woke me. It confused me, but when I realized she was taking the shoes off my feet, I went from confusion to feeling violated to feeling enraged.
I’d lost my temper and in trying to defend my privacy— hell, my dignity—ended up on the list of residents that get talked to like toddlers and written off as lost causes.
Regardless of the gossip at the nurses’station that night, I’d not forgotten that my shoes were on my feet. That’s plumb pure-D stupid. I knew damn good and well they were there when I turned out the light. If she’d asked me why I was wearing them to bed, instead of assuming I was nuts, none of this would’ve happened. If only she’d respected the little bit of independence I have left.
And for the record, I did not think she was a thief, nor did I accuse her of trying to steal them. Gossip spread like wildfire. By the time it made its way back to my end of the hallway, someone said I’d kicked the poor girl in the face. That I’d called her a thieving twat of all things. How embarrassing and completely untrue. I would neverkick anyone, especially in the face, and I have never called anyone a thieving anything. Except for maybe the orange slug who's pretending to be president, but that’s neither here nor there—I mean, honestly, who would want these old shoes but me? And I do want them, very much. I’m not insane, I’m an eighty-seven-year-old woman living in a nursing home who wants to sleep with my shoes on in peace.
Meet Penny, an eighty-seven year old widow who sleeps in her red shoes. Why on earth does she do that, you might ask…
Read her story and find out.
The Red Shoes was previously published in Walking the Wrong Way Home
"Mandy Haynes never shies away from the hard truths of rough living. She's casting into the weeds, where siltdwellers are circled by dragonflies, their brilliant sapphire blues and the lace of their wings darting and emerging, like Haynes' tales, from all six directions, and with redemptive grace." --Suzanne Hudson, multi-award winning author including the 2025Truman Capote Prize winner.
