Den of Rhyme by Craig Faris HONO R AB LE M E NT IO N The old building was just as I remembered, despite the wisteria vines covering part of the rusted tin roof. Paint peeled from the clapboards above the front porch and the sandblasted sign that hung over it. The sign was round, carved to look like the Earth. Wood letters surrounding it proclaimed the building as the former home of the Globewalker Arcade and Grill. It served as a general store until the ’70s when the traffic moved to the interstate. In the ’80s, the owner’s son, Ed Glasscock, renovated it as the Globewalker, but that too had failed. A cool November breeze swirled leaves around my car like a flood of memories as I got out. I grew up here, rode to school every day, and stopped at this store for snacks on the way home. Down the road was the church we attended and where I got married. The best times of my life were spent in this community, but those fond memories intermingled with more recent images. The Globewalker had been empty for years before Ed suggested we use it for our local writers’ meetings. An aspiring writer himself, Ed cleaned it up and served sandwiches and spirits when the crowd was large enough. It usually was, and for five wonderful years, the Thursday evening critiques at the Globewalker stretched late into night. That is, until one Thursday, a decade ago, when a new member arrived. *
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JULY 1999 She told us her name was PJ with no initials, and like the rest of us, she had difficulty finding her way into the building that first time. Ed posted a wooden sign over the front door which read: There are no doors into the Globewalker. Knock on the window. Having missed the sign, she almost left, but I caught up with her in the parking lot and invited her inside. She was young for our group, probably in her late twenties with shoulder-length, brown hair and hazel eyes. Gwen, our chapter president, told her she was allowed to attend and read at three meetings before joining. Membership was forty dollars, and I got the feeling PJ would have to scrape to gather that sum. That night, she brought several poems and, being late, she read last. Halfway into her work, I knew she was an extraordinary writer. Her word choices and descriptions filled us with vivid images. Our critiques covered her pages with checkmarks and words like “fabulous” and “wow.” I longed for more and felt slightly jealous. By the time we adjourned, most of us nursed a glass of wine or beer, but PJ sipped only a soft drink. She thanked several members, and then lingered to ask if I would walk her to her car. “There’s no streetlight,” she said. “Would you mind?” “Of course not,” I said. We headed outside toward the far end of the lot. “Do you live around
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