painting by Shakuntala Rajagopal

Melancholy of Fall

Shakuntala Rajagopal

Melancholy of fall weighs heavily in my heart

the beauty of auburn Maple, yellow golden Ash leaves

and rose hips turning red and brown

signal goodbye to blue herons, robins and the geese

.

falling leaves wave farewell to summer

and force me to remember of times I had to

bid somber farewell to loved ones in far away places

and those long gone with the setting suns

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sunbeams push weakly through fog hovering over still waters

even fat frogs croak sleepy and slow

lazy golden sunsets change to orange autumn specters

and a pallor fills my eyes with sadness unexplained

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when winter winds bring chilly nights

frigid and still though they may seem, they seethe

with the energy of sleeping dreams readying

to unfold the hopes of Spring not far behind

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but, it is the slow of fall I really dread

as I face long swarthy, submissive evenings

and the restrained sorrow that fills my heart

owing to nagging pains of remembered goodbyes

.

photo by Lisa Guidarini

painting by Shakuntala Rajagopal

Claire Beck

Doberman Mix – Male, neutered, shots, excellent with kids and other dogs. 815-555-12XX.

He turned the page and wished he’d brought something to read. He got to the café a lot earlier than expected, so on an impulse he bought the local paper. Now he’d been here for over an hour and was reduced to reading the classifieds.

Jeremy travelled the 900 miles from Ossining, New York to Woodstock, Illinois to meet his birth father. He’d found him through Facebook and they’d been chatting online for about a year. It took all of that time to convince Steve to meet him face to face. Now Jeremy worried that he’d changed his mind and the long drive was for nothing.

Wanted: Portable dishwasher. Lake in the Hills area. 847-555-67XX.

Jeremy was raised by his mother. To her credit, she never said anything negative about his father. “It was the sixties,” she’d say, “and you were my love child.” That statement would often be delivered with a smile and followed by a squeeze and a kiss.

They’d met during a demonstration in 1962. The occasion was the opening of Indian Point reactor number 1 in Buchanan, New York. Sarah was 18. She and a small group of friends made the trip out to Buchanan in a beat up van with orange shag carpeting on the floor and the distinct smell of spilled bong water. At the rally, the van rolled along slowly at the back of the march. Footsore protesters took turns riding in the back. One such person was a 25-year-old carpenter named Steve Campbell – Jeremy’s dad.

They had a brief encounter the night of the rally and never saw each other again. When Sarah realized she was pregnant she had no way of contacting Steve.

Jeremy’s childhood was shaped by the many rallies and concerts he attended with his mother. At sixteen, he attended the No Nukes concert in Battery Park – the first concert his mother let him go to without her – and only if he agreed to get at least one hundred signatures on a petition to shut down Indian Point reactors 2 and 3 (reactor 1 was shut down five years earlier). Jeremy couldn’t help but look earnestly in the faces of the older attendees, searching for the slightest family resemblance.

His father was everywhere and nowhere. On every birthday, Jeremy would wonder what his father was like and how things would have been with two parents. He felt sorrow and anger in turns and jealousy when his friends talked about doing things with their dads. Father’s Day was another day of heavy thought.

At 46, Jeremy joined Facebook and was noodling around, looking for friends from high school. He typed in Steve’s name and got ten matches. Some had pictures and some didn’t. He narrowed it down to three and reached out to them with an exploratory query. His Steve responded.

Now Steve was half an hour late and Jeremy was almost out of newspaper. He turned to the obituaries, which went nicely with the growing lump in his throat. He found it mid-way down the left column.

Steven C. Campbell

Steven C. Campbell, 75, died Sunday, Feb. 14, 2010, at his farm in Woodstock, Illinois.

He was born Sept. 16, 1937, in New York.

Survivors include two daughters, Nicole A. Campbell and Samantha J. (Campbell) Walker.

He was preceded in death by his wife, Lynne J. (Parker) Campbell.

A memorial service will be held 6 to 8 p.m. Wednesday, Feb. 24, at Levy & Carter Funeral Home, Woodstock.

He wondered what the C was for. Charles? Conner?

photo by Lisa Guidarini

Sweat, A Sexy Coolant

by M.A. Tailor

I sweat.  My pores leak hot lava, spilling out of little volcanoes into streams trickling down my head, neck and back.  It burns my eyes.  My shirt thirsts; it drinks from the rivers and ponds of my perspiration.  Wet rings smile below my breasts and underarms.  A saturated line snakes down the center of my back causing my shirt to cling against my moist skin.  I bask in my own juices, my broth, my oils.  I lick my lips, a taste of punchy salt tingles on the tip of my tongue.

I sweat while cutting the grass on a muggy day.  I sweat when breaking through a high fever.  Sweat – my coolant – cleanses my pores rendering my skin clammy and sticky, a banquet to gnats and mosquitoes.  I am the antonym of sexpot when I sweat, I need to shower.

Under the colors of throbbing lights, rock stars sweat.  The lead singer captivates his audience with his gyrating hips; the buttons on his shirt melt like M&M’s and his sparkling, bare chest peeks out.  He exploits his version of the mating dance while hypnotized by his band’s pulsating music nudging him to the edge of the stage.  His skin shines and tears with perspiration.  His hair sways like wet strands of chocolate spaghetti.  A carpet of woven arms and hands reach above the nap of heads bobbing to the thrusting rhythm.  The girls in the front row reach out to their sexual healer, they long to be baptized in his sweat.  His coolant possesses the intimate power to cleanse away innocence.  Elvis exhibited this power.  His sweaty scarf could transform a post-menopausal woman into a lusty teen.  The women who clutched Elvis’s sweat riddled scarves breathed in his private scent.  To seize his scarf meant a divine connection:  you are the chosen one.

Below my kitchen sink, through the open cabinet door is a contorted plumber.  He is confined to touching my pipes by bending and stretching in ways a man his size should never dream of.  His trousers cannot keep up with his kneeling on all fours, squatting, and sitting positions.  I notice the glow of his derrière, and am punished by the top of his crack frowning back at me.  A clear line of sweat glazes down his hairy back and into the valley of his freckled pound cakes.  Is this sexy?  I ponder the value of perspiration.  Could there be a fine line between creepy and sexy?  Maybe if Elvis turned plumber we could answer that question.

Three Irish Waitresses

by Tony Schrieber

Peaches, Melba and May O’Naise

Sling hash at Slim Eddie’s Grill.

They carry the hot meals

From kitchen to table

Until everyone has their fill.

-

Peaches, the oldest, of the three

Is pretty and well endowed.

She charms the diners

With her wisdom and wit

But no touch is ever allowed.

-

Melba, the trio’s middle child

Is aloof, quiet and so cold

She gets no special tips

For her efficient work

Just coins with no paper to fold.

-

Sweet young May is so innocent

She knows little about life

She believes each patron

Is telling God’s whole truth

When he says she should be his wife.

-

Peaches , Melba, and May O’Naise

Sling hash at Slim Eddie’s Grill

They carry the hot meals

From kitchen to table

And it looks like they always will.

by Claire Beck

She stood at the side of the road with her thumb out, hoping for a ride. Mae hadn’t hitchhiked since she was in her 20’s back in 1960 or so. She mused that it was a lot easier to get a ride when you were a young curvy girl in bell bottoms with blonde hair down to your ass than when you were a pleasantly plump dowager in your mid-sixties with a trick knee and a cheating husband.

Not that he’d actually done anything. At least, she didn’t think so. It was really more about the way he’d looked at the waitress. How his eyes followed her as she flitted from table to table. The way he’d made eye contact with her as she wrote down the blue plate specials he ordered for both of them. And the fact that Mae didn’t even like halibut, which was the blue plate special. It was like she wasn’t even there, and he just ordered the first thing he saw on the menu.

There had been other times like this, where his eye seemed to wander. He’d answer her questions with a distracted single-syllable answer that told her he wasn’t even paying attention. Just completely checked out. She could slit her wrists and stand in front of him spurting blood all over the place and singing the National Anthem and he’d crane his neck to look around her to the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition on ESPN.

How dare he.

Well, this was the last time he was going to discount her. She was going to pack her things and head out to the Super 8 until she could find a nice little apartment. She had some savings, and her job ought to just cover a little one bedroom place.

Occasionally a car slowed and the driver craned his neck to look at her on the side of the road, dumpy, put out and glaring back with all the resentment 30 years of marriage to someone who didn’t love you could conjure up. No one stopped, though. She probably wouldn’t, either.

She was in a fairly nice blouse with polyester pants and carried a matching bag. That probably didn’t matter much – they probably thought she was some homeless crazy who had perhaps pissed her drawers and smelled bad.

She turned and walked a little further down the road, trying to look like she was out on a purposeful walk, rather than an angry woman who had just left her husband at the diner on the corner. God, she didn’t want him to drive up and see her here. She’d much rather he drive home slowly, looking for her, and worry. He’d be sorry.

Just then, she heard the crunch of gravel under a car tire behind her and adrenaline dumped into her bloodstream. If it was him, what should she do?

But it wasn’t. It was a police car. It rolled slowly up beside her. The passenger window rolled down. The officer behind the driver’s wheel leaned over to speak to her. He looked like a real straight arrow with his close-cropped hair and mirrored sunglasses.

“Ma’am, do you need some assistance?”

“Well, I supposed I do,” she said somewhat huffily, though her eyes swam with tears.

“I need to get home. I left my husband, and he has the car. Could you give me a ride?”

She got in the back seat of the cruiser after a short exchange with the officer in the mirrored glasses. The cruiser left the side of the road and picked up speed.

Mae was never seen again.

MUD

by Tony Schrieber

Your name is short like an epithet

Spit from the lips in disgust.

You appear after strong or gentle rains

Then dry to fly away as fine dust.

.

You incubated the first life of souls

In primordial ooze where creatures grew.

You gave Sir Raleigh a chivalrous stage

When upon your field his cape, he threw.

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You provide caring mothers a purpose

To shine and polish a child’s smudged face.

You hold a fen’s seasonal promise

Where, in dormancy lie frogs, newts and dace.

.

You cement secrets in your once thin brew

Where you onetime swallowed mammoths entire.

Now archeologists dig through solid rock

To reveal bony secrets you locked in your mire.

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Your substance mixed with grass and formed,

Provides adobe to build homes and church.

But a rainy season can release your wrath

And bury whole villages in a sudden quick lurch.

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Like yin and yang in a balanced world

You provide your own soiled give and take

Whether formed into pottery, blocks or tombs

Or still lying at the bottom of a placid lake.

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In inert ways you provide a bane or a boon,

A bier for careless step or a bed for flower bud.

Your power lies in your life altering essence

Whether called muck, mire or just plain mud.

The Crash

by Matt Brauer

Let it not be true that I would open any writing with a line such as, “Tragedy struck today,” or, “A woe hast befallen me.”  Though I cannot be accused of perpetual optimism, such openers are a bit too adverse, too gloomy.  Who wants to read any article beginning with, “Tiny Tim, now fully enveloped in the terminality of his sickness, was at death’s door awaiting only the somber, hollow knock from Mr. Grim Reaper or any other solitary spiritless soul aching to claim the body?”  Well, maybe me; that wasn’t a bad opener, but only because of the liberal dose of sarcasm.

Despite my resistance to such opening words, certain instances of tragedy are worth documenting, if not for historical value, then to provide a future record to inspire my anger.  For what good is anger if it cannot be revisited on occasion like an annoying friend or recalled like the plot of a frustrating movie?  Transitory anger, anger unremembered, is like a Picasso in the sand – washed away by the first lapping wave of happiness, never to be experienced again.  Recalled anger renews the strength of the recaller, and sometimes I need a good dose of strength.

Such a type of calamity occurred this past weekend when my computer hard drive crashed.  Anyone who has experienced a disk crash knows what a monumental inconvenience it is, even if all critical data is backed up or copied.  In my case, I coerced it to crash from excess fiddling.  My direct involvement in the succumbing intensified the anger I directed at the digital devil box, defense for my ego in the form of psychological projection.  An equal amount of blame was directed towards Microsoft; I’m sorry, Mr. Gates, but if that file was so damned important to keep my computer running, your software should have tried to prevent me from modifying it.

I am not one who tends to follow theoretical processes such as the Kubler-Ross Five Stages of Grief.  In this case, five stages were not enough; I found myself mired in eleven stages of grief.  First came denial, then the anger I spoke of.  Actually, the denial and anger occurred simultaneously, as I shouted a stream of profanities punctuated with “No’s” throughout my forensic exploration of the damage I’d done.  Panic was next, as I checked to see if I really did back up all my data.  I knew full well I did, but I am prone to outbursts of anxiety attacks, such as when I panic over my car keys missing from my pocket while I am driving.

After the panic attack was over, I entered stages four and five.  I was overcome with hunger and an intense need to use the washroom.  I used the washroom first.

Next came stage six: buyer’s remorse.  I thought about the amount of money I spent for the privilege of crashing my computer, the cost of going through these six stages of hell, and the price I paid to complicate my life so much.  I rapidly slid into stage seven, contemplation, as I imagined a world without computers, with good, clean, happy people in white clothing frolicking about in a sunny, flowery meadow.  Suddenly, trumpets blared, and The Machine ripped through the crumbling ground.  The skies transformed to a smoky grenadine haze as the happy, ignorant people filed into The Machine, assumed their places in their cubicles, switched on their terminals, and began to feed The Machine boxes and boxes of software, rebooting the electronic beast after every disk.  Another trumpet brayed, an illegal instruction occurred, and I awoke from my reverie.

Then came acceptance.  This was immediately followed by denial, frustration, and once more by anger, as my mind transformed to a smoky grenadine haze when I realized I had to reload boxes and boxes of software, rebooting after every disk.

The aggravation lingers as I continue to feed the beast and grow it back to its level of pre-crash maturity.  At the same time, I am exuberated by the experience, as if I have just created a caustic Picasso, an artwork of anger.  So, I will not write, “Tragedy struck today,” or, “A woe hast befallen me,” because this particular misfortune has inspired a refreshing and energizing level of ire.  And now that I have captured it in writing, it can inspire me in future days.  At least until the next electro-adversity – which may not be far off.  I think I heard the refrigerator making strange grumblings this morning.

mixed media by Lisa Guidarini

Bridge Trolls

by Claire Beck

He forgot about the possibility of ice on the bridges, and only remembered as he lost control of the bike and went into a long skid. Mark quickly found himself almost perpendicular to the wood planks as his bike skated out from under him. He hit the wooden planking and slid several feet. One cleat came free from the pedal, but the other held fast. The bike rose up above him and then fell. The free pedal nailed him hard mid-calf and the pain was excruciating. Mark’s slide ended. The bike rested half on top of him, the front wheel actually dangling over the edge of the bridge, still spinning. His left cleat finally popped out of the clamp on the pedal.

It took a moment for Mark to assess the damage. His right leg was in agony. He craned his neck to look and saw a rapidly growing pool of blood coming from his torn racing tights. White bone protruded wetly through the spandex. There wouldn’t be any walking out of this accident; he’d have to call for help.

Then he remembered that he didn’t have his cell phone with him. He’d decided not to take his Camelback, since he was only planning a short ride, opting instead for a small bottle of water. That meant everything he normally carried in his Camelback was also at home, including the phone.

Mark shivered with the cold of shock and realized he was in a lot of trouble. Hopefully someone would ride by soon, but he wasn’t too hopeful; it was nearly dusk and the cold would deter most casual cyclists. There was snow earlier in the week. The snow was largely gone, but as most people would know (and Mark had forgotten), the many bridges of the Prairie Path had a fair coating of ice this late in the season.

He was on the bridge just north of the Prairie Path Bike Shop and just South of IL-31 – far enough from both that shouting wouldn’t do much good. Autumn woods spanned the left side of the path, and an abandoned warehouse loomed hauntingly on the right. Mark recalled that this bridge was about twenty feet above a large brook. No help from below, then.

“Who’s that trip-trapping on my bridge!” A voice boomed out from below, accompanied by several giggles.

Mark was startled by the voice, but his fear quickly changed to relief. He called back, “Thank God! Hey, I had a really bad accident – wiped out on my bike. My leg is broken. Can you run for help?”

The sound of hurried movement below. Some whispering. Then, even louder than before, “Who’s that trip-trapping on my BRIDGE!”

That didn’t sound like a child’s voice. Okay, teen-agers, maybe. Perhaps this is a hangout where the local kids go to drink beer and smoke pot. Mark shivered again. He felt very cold and his teeth chattered.

“Listen, this is serious. I’m bleeding all over the place up here, and I can’t move. Can you help me?”

More laughter from below. More movement. It sounded like someone was climbing the trestle. Okay, maybe his saviors were a little stoned, maybe a little mean, but they were coming to help him. Thank God, Mark thought again. This could have been so much worse.

Then a large hand reached out from under the bridge and grasped the front wheel of the bike. The hand looked pale and bloated, as if it had been in water for a long time. There were bruises and puncture marks. One fingernail was missing, and the others were crusted with dirt. The hand yanked the bike with such force that Mark was pulled toward the edge of the bridge along with it. The dragging pulled the wound open further. Mark screamed in agony and fear.

More titters from below. The sound of heavy breathing. A high buzzing in Mark’s ears made it difficult to tell what else was going on. His vision tunneled and faded as the blood loss stole his consciousness. Amidst the buzzing he heard a babble of conversation – yelling, more laughter, more whispering. He felt himself tugged closer to the edge. His leg screamed again, jolting him back to consciousness briefly. The hand of his captor grasped the knee of his broken leg fondly, possessively.

A WINTER TAIL

by Lydia Lacina Hartsig

One dawnlit morning, about three weeks into the frostbite cold of December, I opened the drapes on the back window to enjoy the brightening woods beyond my yard.  Under a cedar tree near the woods, I noticed two rather large brown rocks which I had not placed there.  I stared intently through the swelling light.  One of the rocks moved.  It rose with royal grace, becoming the antlered head of a young buck.  Young, I guessed, since he was blessed with just one rack.  I saw then, that from my perspective at the window, the ‘rocks’ were his bent down head and his rump.  He was lying on the scant, needle strewn snow under the cedar, huddled as though to drain what little heat his shivering body could siphon from the patch.

At first, I joyed in the sight of this majestic animal, even though in any other season I would have chased after it with at least a hefty five-foot long dead branch screaming, “venison!” Soon I realized he might be dying.  What then?  I thought of the sparrows that do not fall without God’s knowledge and prayed earnestly for God’s attention to the buck.  Yes, well.  There would still be a carcass.  Under MY cedar tree.

While I considered this, he gently stirred his furry body upright.  Surveying the sparse breakfast possibilities, he seemed to focus upon some dead-dry weeds protruding from the foot deep snow a few feet away.  He limped towards the weeds.  Limped!  One limb was lame.  What misfortune had he survived?  Compassion pricked my conscience, but of course there was nothing I could do.

My attention turned to some disturbance a little way off in the woods.  It was a lovely doe trailed by a small deer, no longer a fawn, yet still quite small.  They ambled towards the buck and seemed to communicate.  Then the little one, white tail raised starch high, spurted down the prairie path a few feet beyond the strip of woods followed leisurely by the doe and the buck.  I wondered what their story was – I will never know.  But I took comfort knowing that at least the injured buck was not alone with his lameness.

by Nile Tallman

Crack! A swift painful rap on the head from the witch’s broom handle awakened Pasquale.

“Get up you naughty, naughty little boy! Get up!” La Strega Befana squawked.

Pasquale rubbed his curly black hair and rose from the straw bed on the cold cell floor.  Strega Befana smiled; her soot stained face folded into long deep creases and the bridge of her large hook nose bunched up into a hundred crinkles.   She wrapped a boney arm around the recoiling Pasquale, pressed her ancient cheek against his and swung them both around.   He noticed that her dirty babushka smelled like an odd mixture of burnt firewood, peppermint and herbs.

“You come to steal from La Strega, no?  You think you can just walk in and take from me?  Are you not afraid of my magic?” She quickly questioned with sugary glee.

Pasquale only managed a grunt as he struggled to free himself from her surprisingly iron grip.  La Strega mocked his grunt then kicked the cell door all the way open.  With Pasquale safely tucked under her arm, she skipped down the dim stone hallway, away from the dungeon.   Resigned to his continued captivity, Pasquale allowed the toes of his boots to drag across the floor as he was carried down the hall.

An arched, heavy wooden door blocked the way.  Strega Befana lifted her broom and defiantly waved it at the door.  It flew open of its own accord and crisp winter air blew through the passageway.   She stopped just short of the edge of the open portal.  Pasquale let out a weak yelp as he looked down at the ground far below.  His knees buckled and he tasted bile at the back of his throat.  As his stomach churned, Pasquale imagined how it would feel to splatter on the rocks below.

Strega Befana motioned with her broom to the village in the valley beyond the hill.  It was festively decorated; candles burned in every window, evergreen garland was strung from building to building over the streets and brightly painted wooden statues of gods and saints stood proudly on the cobblestones.  The whole village glowed and twinkled, a reflection of the stars in the heavens above that clear night.  Despite his situation, Pasquale couldn’t help but find it beautiful, warm and lovely.

“Look you naughty little boy.   You should be with your family for the holiday, no?  Instead you come here to steal from me… on the eve of my holiday.  Tell Befana: Why did you do such a stupid thing?”

Pasquale swallowed then spoke without looking at the witch, “You always give me coal and  I never do anything wrong!  All the other children get candy and presents.  It’s not fair!”

“Naughty boys do not receive gifts on Befana Day.”

“I am not a naughty boy!”

“Oh, but you are little Pasquale.  You are.”

“Nicolo and Valentina are much worse than me.  You give them candy and toy swords! They are mean old bullies!”

Strega Befana stared at Pasquale; her smile faded.  She reached over and grabbed the nape of the boy’s neck.

“Who is worse?  What is worse?  Tell me, what good do you do?  All you do is: want, want, want.  You are always thinking, ‘What can I get?’ not, ‘What can I give?’”

She grunted and shook her head.

“Come little Pasquale, La Strega has something to teach you.”

She pushed Pasquale off the precipice.  He tried to force out a scream as he fell towards the ground, but no sound would escape.  The entire world rushed away as he plunged towards the sharp rocks.  Suddenly he was caught and placed roughly on a flying broom.  Strega Befana cackled in delight.  Pasquale grabbed a hold of the tattered witch’s dress and held on tight as they accelerated at an impossible speed through the night towards his village.

Tears streamed across Pasquale’s cheeks as they rocketed over the Temple of Juno, the baths and towards his neighborhood.  He recognized the home of his rival, Nicolo, as they slowed near the window.  He could see the hearth inside and Nicolo’s father lying on his side on a couch.   He held a cup of wine in his hand.   Nicolo was playing with toy soldiers on the floor; banging them together angrily.

“His mother is dead, you know,” whispered the witch.

“I know.”

Suddenly Nicolo’s father stood up and dropped his cup.  It shattered on the floor with red wine splattering all over Nicolo.  His father cursed, stumbled a few steps and fell to the ground.  Nicolo dutifully walked over to his father, helped him up and lead him to his room.   He saw the tears in Nicolo’s father’s eyes.  A few moments later Nicolo was scrubbing the floors and cleaning up the broken glass.

They rushed off again.  This time they sped past the streets of the village to a small farm in the outskirts.  It was Valentina’s house.  They landed gracefully and Strega Befana pulled Pasquale roughly to a low window.  Inside the Contadinos were ravenously scarfing down a very meager meal that must have been their holiday feast.   Pasquale noticed that Valentina was just pushing her food around on her plate.  She sat next to her poor crippled sister who was run over by an ox cart as a baby.  Carefully she slid her food onto her little sister’s plate so her parents could not see.

The boy and the witch were in the air again.  Pasquale watched the village speed past underneath him.   His heart was heavy as they slowed and landed on the roof of his family’s villa.  Strega Befana lifted her straw broom up and leaned on it like a walking stick.  Pasquale looked up at the witch with a frown.

“I see now, La Strega, why they deserve your gifts.  But… I still do not know why I received coal last year.”

“Oh little Pasquale, you only do good for the prize.  This is your problem.   You only care who is looking or what you will get, not about being really good deep down inside.”

“What is the difference, La Strega?”

“It is all the difference in the world, little Pasquale.   Quit being so selfish!  Help your mamma even if she’s not paying attention.  La Strega can forgive a lot.  But, selfishness makes for a very naughty boy.”

“Yes, La Strega.”

“I must go now.  The candy, toys…  and coal still must be packed in my sack for the children.  Go.  Your mamma and pappa are looking for you.”

Pasqualle heard his mamma sobbing then.  She must have been worried sick since he was gone.  He had not even thought about his parents all day; he had only thought of his own hide.  La Strega was right, he was selfish.  He began walking over to the edge of the roof to climb down when…  Crack! The witch’s broomstick smacked him across the back of his head.

“You quit being so naughty, Pasquale!”

He watched as Strega Befana launched off the clay roof and up into the air.   She paused in front of the moon; her silhouette stood out against its cool glow and she cackled happily.   She looked at Pasquale for a moment then sped off into the darkness.  Pasquale knew he was getting coal this year (he did try to rob La Strega after all) but all he cared about was getting to his family, the warmth of the holiday, and to the life he now realized he was so lucky to have.

Book Review: The Hidden by Tobias Hill

Lisa Damian Kidder

The Hidden is a haunting mystery novel written by award-winning writer Tobias Hill. Seamlessly shifting back and forth between research notes on ancient Sparta and a present day archeological dig in Greece, the story’s main character, Ben Mercer, flees his failed marriage and his academic life at Oxford. He first finds himself in Athens, taking a job at the Metamorphosis meat grill, where he hopes to lose himself amidst the hard work and anonymity at this local dive far off the beaten path. However, tensions at the restaurant appear to possess an undercurrent of chaos that seems on the verge of erupting into potential violence. As the name implies, Metamorphosis is merely a place of transition for Ben, before he eventually seeks out a job at an archeological dig site taking place at the location where the former Sparta once existed.

With themes reminiscent of Donna Tartt’s The Secret History, the Spartan dig and the group of archeologists are not all that they would appear on the surface. Struggling between feeling like an outsider and wanting to belong to something greater than himself, Ben is forced to weigh his morals and his sense of self against his desire to be a part of this elite group. As his academic notes on Spartan history begin to descend into less research and more of a labyrinth of his own self reflections, Ben learns that some secrets may be better left hidden.

Hill does a fine job of escalating the story to its inevitable sinister ending. The characters are both representations of the old Spartan legends as well as friends and foes. They’re fearful, alluring, unattainable, flawed, stark, and dark all at once. Though the story itself is a bit circuitous at times, the pleasure of reading this book is in the writing style itself. It comes as no surprise that Tobias Hill is also a poet. His lyrical prose and observations about the most simple or the most grand of settings make the reader feel a part of the dusty behind-the-tours Greece, as if you could not only visualize it but reach out and touch it.

Olive trees silver in the last sun. Olive trunks full of lumps and rumps, love handles, sumo thighs, double chins, breasts and warts and genitals, whittled slits, murder holes, clefts and crevices, wingbones and filigrees. Olive groves full of secret things: car wrecks, gypsies and horses, shoulders of ruin.

Be an Eagle

Jen Yeakey

It was a cold morning and I was snug and warm in my bed hitting the snooze button again and again, not wanting to get out from under my blankets.  I only succeeded in getting a late start, which would not have been a start at all, were it not for the anticipation of a piping hot shower. But before I had even worked up a lather, the hot water ran out.

Okay, so no more hot water, at least I was clean and ready for the next step to my morning. While making my way to the kitchen, I stubbed my toe on a dog chew bone and said sarcastically to myself, this is going to be a great day.  Seeing how nothing else was working in my favor, I thought fresh-brewed coffee should do the trick and wouldn’t you know it; I was out of coffee. No biggie, I thought, I can swing through McDonalds- they have good coffee and it’s on the way.  I was trying to stay positive, but I couldn’t help thinking in my head that this was going to be a bad day. As it turned out, my snooze button-induced delay, coupled with abnormally bad traffic, cancelled out any time I had to swing in for a coffee without being late to work. Wonderful!

I repeated the old adage “you can start your day over at any time” like a mantra, trying to make myself believe it was true. Then I remembered an email that a friend sent to me just the day before. It was perfect for what I was going through:  “If you get up in the morning expecting to have a bad day, you’ll rarely disappoint yourself.” The email went on to quote a radio personality, “Stop complaining! Differentiate yourself from your competition. Don’t be a duck. Be an eagle. Ducks quack and complain. Eagles soar above the crowd.”  And it was in that moment I remembered all that I have going for me and all that I have accomplished so far in life. I don’t want to be a duck. I want to be an eagle!

Complaining takes too much energy; it accomplishes nothing, yet still leaves you exhausted at the end of the day. Soaring above the crowd trying to be a bright spot to yourself and someone else, on the other hand, gives you a high like no other drug can or ever will. Not to mention at the end of the day when you lay your head on the pillow, thanking God for giving you one more day, and drift off to sleep, your rest is so much more peaceful.

I try to remember that no matter how bad of a day I may think I am having, there is always someone who has it so much worse than I. And that whatever it is that has my feathers in a ruffle will soon pass. It certainly won’t matter at the end of my life. It may not even matter enough to worry about by the end of the day.

Life is a precious gift and if we spend all our time acting like a duck, quacking and complaining, then what we are essentially doing is pooping all over the day. After all, that is what ducks do while walking, is it not? When I choose to soar like an eagle, I am more apt to find the positive in all that went wrong. Such as: I probably needed that extra few minutes in bed this morning, the majority of my shower was warm, not ice cold, I could stand to cut back on my caffeine intake, my toe was not broken from the dog bone  and I still made it to work on time.

Start doing little things everyday to soar like an eagle. Tell someone to have a GREAT day as you exit the elevator. Tell yourself you’re going to have a great day and don’t let minor calamities deter you. It is little things like this that will set you apart from the rest and have you up and flying high above the crowd before you even realize you are not pooping on the day anymore.

Letter From the Editor

The crisp air of fall has inspired many of the pieces in this second edition of the AAWG eZine. Perhaps it is because fall is a great time to go to the movie theater, that we bring you not one, but two screenplays. We introduce you to Gratitude month, happening in November, and give you the heads-up on Guillermo DelToro’s creepy new novel. An idyllic autumn afternoon sets the stage for a tense father-son relationship, and a woman leaves something behind, while chasing a dream. Last, but not least,  because the colder part of the fall will bring about the end of summer’s ubiquitous garage sales, we thought we’d pay tribute. Enjoy!

Unearthly

By Sandra Mytys

FADE IN

Ext. CANADA OCTOBER 1955 – DUSK

Under a light snow French Canadian Trapper ARNAUD LAURET and his son JACOB (15), trudge eagerly towards the trapper shanty ahead. They carry their haul of furs.

ARNAUD

(pointing ahead)

There it is! A sight for sore eyes.

JACOB

Hope there’s wood for a fire.

ARNAUD

Left some last time I was here.

JACOB

Maybe someone used it.

ARNAUD

Trappers always leave enough wood for one

fire. Trapper etiquette you might call it.

Suddenly, a strange bright light sears the darkened sky. Startled, they look up to observe a cylindrical object with a bullet-like tip streaking across the sky.  Jacob, dropping his pelts, runs forward.

JACOB

Dad! What is it!

ARNAUD

Never saw anything like it.

JACOB

Looks like it’s headed towards Lake Anjikuni.

Arnaud stares at the now, empty sky.  He starts forward leaning down to pick up his son’s discarded pelts.

JACOB

(looking back at his dad)

What do you think it was?

ARNAUD

Don’t know…don’t want to know. Let’s get to

the shanty, son. I’m wantin’ a fire real bad.

They continue to the shanty, with Jacob still staring at the dark, empty sky.

Ext. CANADA 1955 LATE NOVEMBER – EVENING

Humming a snappy tune, trapper JOE LA BELLE snowshoes steadily towards Lake Anjikuni Village.  He carries a good haul of pelts. Squinting into the darkness, he sees the outline of roughly made houses but sees no light, no smoke coming from the chimneys. It is eerily silent. His jaunty pace slows. As he reaches the edge of the village, he stops, uneasy. He looks desperately for signs of life…but there are none.

JOE

(cupping his hands)

Hello!

His voice echoes hollowly as he waits for an answer in the stillness.

JOE

(under his breath)

What the hell…

Shifting the pelts on his shoulder, he arranges his gun in a defensive position as he walks into town.

Passing darkened windows and empty streets he notes snow drifted against doors and rifles crusted with ice leaning abandoned next to them. Joe runs to a shanty sporting a colorful tin beer sign. Dropping the furs, he beats desperately on the door.

JOE

Martin! Edna! Open up! It’s Joe.

No answer. He hesitantly opens the door, his rifle at the ready.

INT. CABIN:

The main room is empty. He lights the kerosene lamp on the table. Pots of food hang over cold ashes. Layers of fuzzy mold coats the meat. A book lies open on a cot, while a cup of coffee and partially mended sock lay on the table. There are no signs of struggle. He checks the bedroom. Nothing.

Joe backs uneasily out of the house.

EXT. CANADIAN VILLAGE:

Seeing the dog sleds drifted over with snow he begins calling the huskies.

JOE

Swifty, here boy! Odie! Pepper!

Joe whistles urgently – then he sees the chains wrapped around the tree and runs like a madman towards it.

JOE

No…no….no!!!

He starts digging in the high drifts with his hands, until he comes to a lump of fur; the first dog.  Digs again, and finds another and another; then stops. Sobs wrack his large frame – tears stain his face.

He heads down the street in a daze until there are no buildings.

EXT. CEMETARY:

The cross looms up in the lamp light. Making the sign of the cross, he tentatively takes a few steps forward holding the lamp in front of him. Light reflecting off the headstones blind him momentarily. But then he sees the unbelievable.  Despite the frozen, snow covered ground, the graves are all open and empty.

Joe drops to his knees in despair and shock. Looking upward, his arms extended heavenward, his scream echoing through the deserted town.

JOE

Dear God in heaven! What happened here?

Seasons of Change

By Jennifer Yeakey

Aaahh, the smell of fall as it quickly approaches.  Soon there will be beautiful shades of orange and reds along the roadside and the smell of burning leaves to fill the air.  Decorations will festoon homes to make them appear welcoming, safe, comfy and cozy.  The children will be getting ready for trick or treat soon and the excitement in their little faces as they say, “Mommy I want to be a ballerina for Halloween,” will fill the stores.  These are just a few of my favorite things about this time of year.  Sounds like a piece out of the Sound of Music, doesn’t it?

It is interesting how the seasons run so parallel with happenings in our life and with all the changes taking place.  When I think of spring, I think of new blooms; a growth in a person’s life.  For Summer, I think warmth; the softening of old hurts or loss.  The softening of the heart, if you will.  Into Fall, I think calm; a peace we hope to find.  And in Winter, I think icy; how slippery situations in life can be at times. For me and so many others like me, Fall is also the time of year where we look back over the past months and reflect on all that we have to be grateful for.  Did you know November is also known as gratitude month?  It is, though the practice of gratitude is truly timeless and without season.

It was once said by a very dear friend of mine, all negatives have a positive, we just have to put the pain and anger aside to look for them.  I have in the recent past been forced to make some very hard and painful decisions, which have led me to start my life over with my beautiful baby girl, who is now three hours away from her father and happy big brother.  My daughter and her brother have a relationship like no other I have seen in children that little.  From the time she was born, he would tell people “that’s my sister,” as to warn them they had better not harm her.  This has been a very trying time of growth and challenge for me, accompanied by both calm and slippery conditions, but it has been a journey well worth the changing seasons.  And I have been blessed enough to be allowed this wonderful experience.  (See, there is positive number one!)  The decision to move my daughter that far away from her other family was not an easy one, but I knew in my head, heart and stomach that it was a much needed move, as well as a healthy one for both of us.  I have this theory that before making a major decision in life, you must first check to see if, a) you’re running from something and if you are, please remember that you always take you along for the ride wherever you go, and b) make sure your decision is in line with the following: the head, the heart and the gut intuition.

Let me explain.  Where I moved from was a dying city and I had seen no room for growth there.  It was beginning to eat me up inside and allowing me to feel hopeless and increasingly negative.  I have always viewed myself as a positive person wanting to help other people become their very best, by guiding them to find the positive in whatever negative situation they were going through or have been through. Since I have moved to Illinois, there has been a sense of peace in my spirit in knowing that all is and will be taken care of.  It will be here that I’m given an opportunity to grow and help others to do the same.  (Positive number two!)  I am very blessed to have met some wonderful people here who are willing to help me get where I want and need to be in life to feel complete.  (Positive number three!) I was able to find three positives in that negative and painful experience.  And in doing so, it has helped to inspire me to keep on keeping on and not lose sight of my dreams becoming a reality.  It is when we give up that we then become defeated.

Maybe you were not thinking of reflecting over the past year or even considering taking the time to see all that we have to be grateful for today.  But I highly encourage everyone to do this.  Make it fun.  Get a friend to share a daily gratitude list with you.  Everyday, sit down and write at least five things you have to be grateful for, even if it’s just that bowl of ice cream you got to enjoy.  (And hey, what’s stopping you from sharing that bowl of ice cream with your friend?)  Whether it is the first thing in the morning or the last thing in the evening as a wrap up of your day, there is no right or wrong way to do a gratitude list.  Just remember that no matter how little or silly the thing is you’re putting on your list, it’s yours, you own it! I think each of us has a lot to be very grateful for, don’t you?  I promise no matter what you are going through good or bad, big or small, you will feel a sense of peace then situations will just be, in effect,  what they are.  They’ll just be.

Photo by Lisa Guidarini