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Shadows Express

Volume 4: Issue 4 Winter 2012

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Our MissionPublished four times a year, Shadows Express strives to bring new voicesto discerning readers. We pride ourselves on being the stepping stonefor new writers as they begin their published journey. We welcomequality work from all writers at any stage of their careers.

Managing Editor: K. Wallmanagingeditor@shadowexpress.com

Fiction Editor: P. L. Schollfictioneditor@shadowexpress.com

Non-Fiction Editor: Winnie Kay Davis nonfictioneditor@shadowexpress.comPoetry Editor: Liam O’Haver poetryeditor@shadowexpress.comEditorial Assistant: Lisa Byus editorialassistant@shadowexpress.com

Here in the Northern Hemisphere, the days are getting shorter. Infact, we release this issue on the shortest day of the year.

At times like this, it is comforting to settle back with a cozy fireand something good to read. For our friends in the SouthernHemisphere, days are longer and warmer. Perhaps it is time to findsomething good to read at the beach or by the pool.

Whether your days are hot or cold, long or short, we hope youwill enjoy this issue of Shadows Express.

Meanwhile, the staff of Shadows Express wish you the very bestduring this holiday season, and we hope your dreams come true in2013

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ColumnsBurning the Midnight Oil ~ Gratitude.….………….………………………….…….………………….……...4

Rhythmic Reflections ~ Let’s Dance…..……..………..…….…………………………………………………..5

Fireside Conversations ~ The Gift of Writing…………………………………..…………………..………...6

In the Spotlight ~ Write What You Know.……………………….….….…………….…………………………7

FictionGirl with Flowers by William Leet…….….………….…………………………….……………………………..…16

Focused by Brad Hainsworth.……………......….……………..……....….…..…….……....….………………..33

You Never Know What Christmas Will Bring by Angelo Dalpiaz.…………………….……………..….40

The Test by Kat Hawthorne………….……………….....….……………….....….……..…..……………………..48

PoetryWarmth Emerging by C.K. Ledford…………………………………..……………..………………………………...8

What Giant Birds are Trees by Cathe Ferguson ………………………………….………………….…………15

Blocked by T. A. McCarthy.…….…………………………………………….….………………………….…….……29

Seasonal Friends by Audra L. Ralls……………………………….………………..………………………………..43

Ghost Train by Carla Ralston…..…………….………………….………………………….…………………..…….44

Hummingbird by John Grey..…………….……..……..……….………………………….…………………..…….47

Non-fictionThe 1969 Christmas Play by Joel Spearman.………….…………......….……………………………..……..…9

Baptism by Fire by Wendy Van Camp………………..…………………………………………….……………….24

Christmas in a Child’s Eyes by Michael Hanvey……….………………………………….…………………….30

The Coat by Michael Hanvey……….…………………………………………………………………….…………….45

Contributors…….......….…………………………………………..……………………………………………53

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It is hard to believe a full year has passedsince I took up the reins of Shadows Expressas managing editor. A lot has happened thisyear. We developed a new website, a strongerweb presence, and a wonderful relationshipwith our writers. I have had the opportunity towork with talented individuals who inspire andchallenge me. For this, I am thankful. Each issue poses its own challenges and itsown rewards. Approaching these as learningopportunities and a chance to expand myhorizons has allowed me to grow in ways Inever thought possible. For this, I am thankful.

With a wonderful team of professionalsdedicating their time, energy, and love to thisproject, I believe we have consistentlyproduced a product to be proud of. They aremore than co-workers. They are my supportand my friends. For them, I am thankful. Finally, without you, our readers, thisendeavour would be futile. We love to hearfrom you and get feedback on the work we aredoing. For you, I am thankful. As we wrap up this year and face thechallenges of the next, we hope to continue togrow. We look forward to discovering newtalent and revisiting old favourites. We hopeyou continue to join us on this wonderfuljourney and the New Year brings you much tobe thankful for.

By K. Wall

At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by aspark from another person. Each of us has cause tothink with deep gratitude of those who have lighted theflame within us.

Albert Schweitzer

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Writing is literally a creative art. Thewriter takes unborn thought and brings it tolife for the inquisitive to view. Those touchedare forever changed by the experience. If thewriter is a poet, this creation is music to theear of the reader. I’m certain this is true,because every time I read poetry—I dance.

When I begin to read a poem, it is as ifthe poet has asked me, “Would you like todance?” But there is all manner of dance, andjust how we dance together is totally in thehands of the poet. After all, he or she is the onewho has asked for the dance.

I’ve had all different kinds ofexperiences because I enjoy reading poetry,but it seems to me that nearly all of thesedances fall into one of three basic categories.So I will share them with you.

The first kind of experience, I like tocall the “free dance.” In this kind of dance,even though the music is commonly heard, thepoet and I dance apart from each other. Thepoet does her dance and I do my dance, but

our movement is not common—and we maynever even touch.

The second kind of experience, I usuallyrefer to as “line dancing.” In this dance form,we dance together, but apart from one another,and there is a more common connection withthe music. Our movement is virtually identical;we make the same steps at the same time—andyet we rarely touch.

The third kind of experience, I considerto be “dancing together.” In this dance, contactis close enough to put frowns on the face of ahigh school chaperone. The poet takes the leadand directs the movement. I just hold on andfollow along as we glide effortlessly throughthe dance.

Each of these experiences describes thelevel of interaction between the poet and thereader. While we may have different favorites,and our choices may vary from time to time,all are valid responses to the creations of thepoet. Let’s dance.

By Liam O’Haver

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.

Carl Sandburg

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Every year, my family launches theChristmas season with a simple tradition. Theday after Thanksgiving, we put up theChristmas tree while listening to our favoritecarols. Afterward, we sit down to sip hotchocolate and watch It’s a Wonderful Life. Ofcourse, this movie always makes me thinkabout the greatest gifts in my life, andsomewhere in that list is always the gift ofwriting.

As a writer, I get to experience a richfantasy life. I can go anywhere and be anyoneI want to be. As a little girl, I dreamed aboutthe Old West. I became a Sioux Indian livingon the plains. I hunted buffalo with my bowand arrow and painted my face before battle,ready to defend my tribe against the enemy—the fact that I was a girl was irrelevant. Fromthe plains of the Wild West, I became a Knightof the Round Table, or I leaped into the futureto serve as an officer on the Enterprise.

Now, as an adult, I still get to live outthose dreams. It’s just that now those fantasiesare brought to life with words on paper. Theyare no less vivid and no less real to me. Theyare just as much of an escape as they once were.I can still become that Sioux Indian or Knightof the Round Table. That is the gift that writinggives me.

I have also discovered that writing isbetter and cheaper than psychotherapy. I onceread “Writing is thinking in slow motion.”Nothing could be truer. Whenever I am facinga problem or working my way through intenseemotions, I turn to writing. It clarifies mythinking. It vents those emotions before theysmother me. Sometimes, I simply journal or Iwork out my angst in a short story. There, I amfree to work through my anger or my grief oreven express my joy. There’s no judgmentthere. There’s no fear of others seeing the nakedtruth because it is disguised as a story.

Finally, it is better to give than to receive,and what better gift to the world than mywriting? My fantasies? My dreams? I re-createthose worlds in vivid detail, bringing them tolife for everyone to experience. For my lovedones, I am the family historian—both past andpresent. I tell our stories so that preciousmemories are never lost. I also share pieces ofmyself that I might otherwise never have hadthe courage to share. In essence, by using mygift, I am giving to others.

So whatever your faith may be, I hopeyou will take some time during this holidayseason to reflect on your greatest gifts. I’m sureyou will discover that writing is somewhere atthe top of your list—both as a receiver and asa giver.

By P.L.Scholl

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“Write what you know.” These famouswords by Samuel Langhorne Clemens, betterknown as Mark Twain, have been the mantraof many fiction writers for more than a century.The characters and the settings of Twain’snovels parallel his own experiences.

Raised in Hannibal, Missouri, on thebanks of the great Mississippi River, Clemenswas no stranger to the harsh realities of livingin a slave state. His father, John MarshallClemens, was a Virginian slave owner. At theage of twenty-two, young Samuel wasencouraged by steamboat pilot Horace E. Bixbyto acquire his own pilot’s license. Thus begana two-year adventure studying the evertwisting, turning path of the mightyMississippi. It was during these years thatClemens acquired his pen name: the nauticalmeasurement, or depth-sounding, for twofathoms is referred to as the mark of twain. In1859, he received his steamboat pilot licenseand earned an impressive monthly wage of$250.

This bit of biographical informationsurrounding iconic humorist Mark Twainproves his point: “Write what you know.” TheAdventures of Tom Sawyer and its sequel,Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, would neverhave been written had Clemens neverexperienced life as a steamboat pilot along theMississippi River in an era of slavery, Indianraids, railroad construction, and the emergence

of civil unrest with the presidential election ofAbraham Lincoln. Neither Huck nor Jim theslave would have embarked on an epicadventure rafting down the river—one toescape an abusive father, the other to preventbeing sold downriver where conditions forslaves were harsher than in the fictitious townof St. Petersburg.

Twain’s advice doesn’t mean you arestuck with writing only non-fiction biographies

and how-to books.Your exciting fictionabout a psychopathickiller in a high-riseapartment building isstill fiction, eventhough the villainclosely resemblesyour Uncle Harry inappearance andcharacteristics.Writing what youknow is about realisticexposition andcharacterization.  It’sabout natural voice

and dialogue. The more knowledgeable you areabout your characters and your settings, themore believable your story will be for yourreader. Mark Twain could not have made HuckFinn and Tom Sawyer come to life if he hadn’twalked in their shoes.

By Winnie Kay Davis

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I stand … frozen as winter’s breath

drifts ever softlytoward beauty rising,bringing hopeto trembling soulsand solemn trees.

I watch in awe,… dare not movefor fear this glimpseof warmth emergingwill not withstandan air so crisp,it fades forevermore.

How long it’s beensince I have feltcalmness stirringin my being,a rope of silenceto grasp freelywhen whispers circle 'round.

Now here I am,a flicker burning,like dawn’s eruptionfrom its darkness,needing strengthto rekindlea life beyond the haze.

So I remain … frozenlike snow-laced branchesbegging mercy,waiting stillfor resurrectionin the glorythat is now.

Warmth EmergingBy C. K. Ledford

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I was the new kid in David LivingstonElementary School's third grade class. The yearwas 1969, and I was eight years old. Everythingwas going fine. First report card had been senthome. Every box on the report card was markedVG (very good). My teacher's written commentwas Joel is easily distracted, as well as adistraction to others.    It was early November when our teacher, anice young lady—I don't recall her name, so I'llrefer to her as Miss Teacher—read aloud to theclass the poem ’Twas the Night BeforeChristmas. She read the entire long version ofthe poem.    The reason she read this poem in earlyNovember was to announce to the class that wewere going to be performing in our school'sChristmas Concert, and we would be presentingthe poem as a play.    She went on to say that we were going toput on the best performance ever, better thanany of the other classes. Better than the fourthand fifth graders and, yes, even the sixthgraders. She talked on and on and on—blahblah blah this, blah blah blah that.

The very next day, with about half anhour before final buzzer, Miss Teacher startedinto it again. This time she began listing all thethings that had to be done such as sets to bebuilt, props to be acquired, costumes to bemade, characters to be assigned, a script to bewritten, painting, decorating, invitations,rehearsals, and on and on. Miss Teacher dronedon and on—blah blah blah blah blah—asvisions of sugar-plums danced in my head.  Thebuzzer sounded, waking me from a deepdaydream sequence and alerting me to the factit was at last time to go home.

Every day after that, Miss Teacherwould, at some point, halt our regular third-grade curriculum, and we would begin workingon producing this Christmas play. One day,Miss Teacher assigned us all characters fromthe poem. She wrote the names of all thecharacters on the blackboard, and then, besidethat character's name, she began writing thename of the student who would play that part.     "Who wants to play the role of SantaClaus?" she queried.      "Me! Me! Me!" all of the boys, includingme, shouted out. We were going nuts, wavingour arms in the air like lunatics. She picked thefat kid for Santa. The rest of us let out acollective groan of disappointment.    Then she asked, "Who wants to be one ofthe eight reindeer?"    I had my hand up, but wasn't chosen.    "Who wants to be a sugar-plum fairy?" wasnext.

"Don't you write my name down forthat," I shouted out.       Miss Teacher replied, "Don't worry, Joel,I already have a part in mind for you."      My thoughts were consumed withwonder. What part could she possibly have inmind for me? Whatever it was, it has to begood. It was obvious to me that I had beenhand-picked for this part due solely on the factthat Miss Teacher recognized my superioracting ability and wanted to maximize thequality of the production by tapping into mycreative genius. I patiently waited as thecharacters in the play were assigned to the restof my classmates.    Then Miss Teacher revealed to me the partI would be performing. “You know the poem,

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right, Joel? ‘Not a creature was stirring, noteven a MOUSE.’”

And so it was determined that I wasgoing to play the part of...THE MOUSE!

Day after day Miss Teacher went on—instructions on this, schedules on that."Costumes!" she announced loudly, once againdisrupting my daydreaming.    "Joel, can you get a mouse costume?"     "No, but I can make one. I'm excellent atmaking costumes," I told her.     "Can you get your mother to help with it?"      "No, she's pretty busy. Besides, I'm reallygood at making costumes. You'll see. It'll begreat."    Miss Teacher suggested again that I shouldask my mom for help with it. I got theimpression she didn't believe that I was as goodat making costumes as I had claimed to be. Ishould have told her that I had made my ownclown costume for Halloween just a few weeksago. I made it out of old clothes right out of ourclosets at home. I even did my own make-up,using a stick of my mom's lipstick. At each andevery door that I trick or treated on, I wasgreeted with an excited remark, such as “OhMY! Look at the funny clown!” I probablymade the best costume of all Halloweens ever,but I never mentioned any of my costumedesign experience to her. I decided that MissTeacher would be all the more impressed withmy costume once she sees the finished product.     Each day we spent a bit of time working onthe production. When we were scripting ouractions on stage to sync up with the poem, Iasked, "What about me? What do I do?"    "You're the mouse that doesn't stir. Youdon't do anything" was Miss Teacher's answer.It took a while for that to sink in, but when itdid, I realized my part would not offer muchopportunity for me to showcase my actingability. At that point, I pretty much lost interestin the whole production.    It seemed to me like November passedquickly. Miss Teacher kept reminding us thatthere wasn't very much time left before the

Christmas Concert, and there was still a lot ofwork to be done. We still had to build sets andprops. We still had to get our costumescompleted. Because I had pretty much lostinterest in the whole project by this point, I haddone nothing in the way of making a mousecostume.

During the days of December, our classtime spent on the production increased. MissTeacher would go over her need-to-have-donelist in class. We all had things we wereresponsible for, like props and costumes. Onestudent arranged to have his uncle come to theschool and cut out a plywood sleigh and arooftop for the set. The kid who was playingSanta brought in a, store-bought Santa suit. Itlooked real good. What kind of kid has his ownSanta suit? Other students were involved withpainting the sets and sleigh as well as pullingon ropes back stage to move Santa, his sleigh,and eight tiny reindeer across the stage as heflew out of sight. There was a lot of activity thatseemed to be happening around me, but I didn'ttake much interest in it other than to offersuggestions on how to make things better. Myonly responsibility was to have a mousecostume ready for the big day.    "How's the mouse costume coming along,Joel?" Miss Teacher would ask.    "Good. No problem," I would answer.    With a week to go, we started havingafternoon rehearsals on stage in the gym. Ourteacher would pace across the stage with a copyof the poem in hand. As she read through it, wewould all perform our scripted actions. MissTeacher would read, “’Twas the night beforeChristmas, when all through the house, not acreature was stirring...” Then I'd walk on stageand take my spot, kind of curled up in a littleball to the front left side of the stage.  Then thenarration would continue, “not even a mouse...”    "If I walk out onto the stage, wouldn't thatbe considered stirring?" I asked.    "That's right," Miss Teacher agreed. "Okay,Joel will already be in his place when I startreading. Then when I say the line, ‘not a

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creature was stirring,’ we'll spotlight Joel onthe stage."    When I heard that, I was instantly excitedabout the play again. Cool, I thought, I'm goingto be spotlighted. Now, I was motivated tomake the best mouse costume ever.    My part in the play required that I lay on thestage, facing the audience and not stir. Everyrehearsal started the same way with MissTeacher announcing, "Joel, on your spot. Okay,let's start." I had no involvement at all from thatpoint on.    On the second rehearsal, I asked if it wouldbe okay if I faced the opposite direction. Thatway, I could watch the rehearsal as I did notstir. Miss Teacher granted my request,reminding me, though, to remember to face theaudience when we performed the liveproduction.    I had to lay on the stage from the beginningof the rehearsal  through to the end withoutmoving a muscle. I got to watch all the goings-on: the choreography of the dance of thesugar-plum fairies, the logistics of getting Santafrom out on the front lawn and up to therooftop, and then for Santa, the sleigh, and theeight tiny reindeer to fly out of sight. In allhonesty, I don't recall a lot of the details, andalthough there was a lot of activity, I'll admitto possibly dozing off during a rehearsal or two.    So I remember thinking to myself, don'tlook like you had no idea it was today, whenMiss Teacher said, "Today is the big day, dressrehearsal this morning and then the concert thisafternoon. Everybody get into your costumesand let's go down to the gym… Joel, where isyour mouse costume?”    "I forgot it at home," I lied.    "That's okay,” Miss Teacher said. “Makesure you bring it when you return this afternoonafter lunch."    During the dress rehearsal, Miss Teacherwas all over everyone. "Dance! Dance, sugar-plum fairies! You have to be jollier. Santa!Shake that belly like a bowl full of jelly. Dothis, this way! Do that, that way!" This went on

and on and on and on—blah blah blah.    I hurried straight home at the lunch break.As I came through the door, Mom called out,"What do you want for lunch?" In my family,that meant, what flavor of Campbell's soup doyou want?    "No time to eat today. I have to make mycostume."    "Costume?" Mom inquired.    "Yeah… costume… Can I use this cerealbox?”    "What do you need a costume for?" Momasked.    "It's for the play. Where's the tin foil?”    "Play! What play?" Mom asked. That washer thing, always with the questions.    Mom was starting to get flustered, so Icalmly explained to her, "It's the big ChristmasConcert at school. It's this afternoon, and I haveto make a costume to wear in the production.”    “I didn't hear anything about a ChristmasConcert,” my mom said. “Why wouldn't theyhave said something sooner?”    "I know," I said, "I just found out about itthis morning. That's why I have to get thiscostume together now. I need something tomake a tail with."    I went from room to room gathering all thethings I needed to make my costume. I piled allthe materials I had gathered on the kitchen tableand began to work. I cut large circles out of thecereal box, then covered them entirely with tinfoil, thus completing the ears. I used a pair ofmy sister's brown leotards to make my tail. Bystuffing one leg with T-shirts and tying theother leg around my waist, my tail was thentaken care of. For the nose, I attached rubberbands to a toilet paper roll which I covered intin foil. Then I made whiskers by rollingten-inch lengths of tin foil into rope. Everythingwas brought together by wearing a brownturtleneck sweater and brown pants. The onlything left for me to do in order to complete mymouse costume was to figure out how to attachthe mouse ears to my head and the tinfoil-noseto my face. I stretched the rubber band around

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my head so that my toilet-roll/tinfoil-nose wasfirmly in place over my actual nose. I tucked afew whiskers under the toilet-roll. Two thickrubber bands were pretty much stretchedaround my head. It was a bit painful, and I'msure I cut off the blood flow to my brain, butthe show must go on. Next I tried to attach mytinfoil-ears by utilizing the rubber bandsstretched across my cheeks. When I did this,my toilet-roll/tinfoil-nose failed. Good thing,too, because I was just about to pass out fromthe rubber bands stretched around my head, soI tossed the toilet-paper-roll-nose and fashionedone out of a large sheet of tin foil rolled into acone. Time was running down. I went andchanged into my brown shirt and pants. Therest of the costume would come together.    I was pretty pleased with the whole thing.The tin foil would sparkle and shine in thespotlight. l'll probably be the star of the wholeconcert. Dazzling, I thought to myself.    "Mom, I need some gum so I can attach mynose."    "What the hell is that?" Mom asked.    "It's my costume for the play."    "What are you supposed to be?"    "A mouse! See? Here's my tail; those are theears, and this is the nose. I'm not sure how I'mgoing to attach the ears to my head, but I canjust push the nose on like this…if I had somegum," I explained.    "Well I don't have any gum. You kids gothrough my purse and take all my gum. Getyour teacher to help you with it. You better getgoing or you'll be late for school. I wasted a canof soup, cooking for you. They have a concertand don't tell anybody until the day of theconcert. I can't believe they would do that.What's the matter with people? Why wouldthey have a concert in the afternoon? Doesn'tanybody in this neighborhood work? Are theystupid? What's the matter with people? Youdidn't even have time to eat. Get going or you'llbe late. You used all of my tin foil. Now I haveto buy more tin foil. You kids think I'm madeof money, and don't you forget to bring your

sister's leotards back..."    Mom was still ranting while I was half waydown the block. When I arrived back at school,the teacher had the costumed students lined upand was fussing with their costumes. She wasfitting antlers on some poor kid's head whenshe spotted me.    "Where's your costume," she snapped at me.    "It's in the bag," I held it up triumphantly.    "Go put it on. Hurry up,"    The classroom had a cloak room / coat room/coltrume—I was never quite sure what theycalled that area. The only time I heard the wordsaid in a sentence was, "Joel, go sit in the cloakroom / coat room /coltrume.” I knew what wasmeant. I just didn't know what word was said.It was usually spoken in a higher pitched voiceand at an increased volume. I knewinstinctively it wasn't a good time to ask, "Howdo you pronounce that name?”    As luck would have it, I found a black headband in the C room. I'll use it to attach my earssomehow. I was already wearing the shirt andpants, so I just had to tie my tail in place andattach the ears to the head band. That beingdone, the last thing to do was to find a way forthe nose and whiskers to stay in place.    "Ask your teacher to help you,” Mom hadsaid, so I walked out into the classroom to ask.    "I need a little help with getting my noseand whiskers to stay in place." I almost had toshout to be heard.    Miss Teacher was hollering, "No-No-No-No-No." I quickly searched the room to seewhat it was that had disturbed her so. I didn’tsee anything going on that would upset her.Everything checked out. I looked back at MissTeacher, but she was already on top of me.    "What is that?" she shrieked.    "M-m-me? M-m-my mouse cost—" Istarted, but she just went back to hollering.    "No-no-no-no! This isn't happening. Wehave less than five minutes. No-no-no-no-no!"    I took a step back, and, with the ears in onehand and the nose in the other, I held them inplace to demonstrate. "See! A mouse." I added

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a little "eek eek" to sell the whole concept.    Then as fast as she was upon me, she wasgone. Miss Teacher was flying through thesupply cupboard pulling out paper and tape; herhands were a blur. She called me over. When Igot there, she started wrapping paper aroundmy head; then she started into cutting paper. Asshe worked, she was muttering, "Whoeverheard of a mouse with silver ears? We have tobe on stage in less than five minutes. I can'tbelieve this." In seven seconds she had the earsdone and attached. Next, Miss Teacher askedme a question that made me think she had losther mind. She asked, "Where is the rest of yourcostume?"    "It's all here," I said calmly, the way youwould respond to a suicidal bridge jumper.    "No-no-no-no-no!  Where is your mousesuit? You should be wearing a mouse suit."    "I am," I answered, adding a self-displayinggesture to attract her eyes to my completelybrown attire.    "No-no-no-no-no! You should be wearinga mouse suit, gray, with a tail."    "Well, I'm a brown mouse, and here's mytail." Then I proudly held up my T-shirt stuffedleotard tail.    There was a knock at the door. The doorpopped open a crack and someone said, “Weneed you all on stage.”    Seconds later, Miss Teacher had us all walkdown the hallway towards the gym whilemaking and dressing me in her mouse creationas we walked. She pressed tape onto my facetrying to attach the nose she had remade. Shewasn't even looking at me as she pressed tapeinto my eyes. She didn't seem to  care that Icouldn't see. Miss Teacher grabbed hold of myhand and half-guided, half-dragged me to myspot on stage where my nose promptly fell off.I picked up the nose and handed it up to MissTeacher.    “My nose fell off—ppppffft, ppppft," I spat,blowing dangling strips of tape which werenow hanging down from my eye sockets.    Miss Teacher yanked the tape from my face

and handed me back the nose and hissed, "Justhold it with your hand. We have to start." Asshe walked away, I heard her mutter, "I'venever heard of a brown mouse." Just then thecurtain began to open.    Miss Teacher began. “’Twas the night before Christmas, when allthrough the house…”    I was trying to adjust my vision to the lowlight. I held my eyes open as wide as I couldand still couldn't see a thing.    “Not creature was stirring, not even amouse…”    Just then, BAM!  I was blinded by thisbrighter-than-the-surface-of-the-sun spot light.I held my eyes shut tightly and tried my bestnot to stir. Crap, I dropped my nose. I gatheredit up quickly and held it back in place. Therewas a sound of muffled laughter. I lay therewith my eyes closed, not stirring. Somethingfunny must have happened, but I couldn't seewhat. I was a bit disappointed that my tin foilcreation didn't make it to the stage. Oh how thelight would have been reflected back into theaudience for all to rejoice in its splendor. Theshow must go on, and so it did. “The stockings were hung by the chimneywith care…”    During all the rehearsals I was able to watchall the action as Miss Teacher read through thepoem, but today I was facing the audience withmy eyes closed and all of the action went onbehind me. Still I wanted to see what was goingon. I attempted to open my eyes a couple oftimes, but the spotlight was blinding andpainful, so I kept my eyes shut.    I formulated a plan to enable me to see as Ilay there not stirring. I would shade my eyeswith my left hand, which was currently holdingmy nose on my face, then quickly employ myright hand to hold my nose in place. Okay, 1-2- 3—switch. Now, with my left hand actingas a sun shield, I was slowly able to open myeyes. There was another outburst of muffledlaughter. Something must have gone on behindme again.

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    Soon I was able to regain my vision andfocus. I was shocked to find the gym was fullof people—not just students, but actually realpeople. Was my mom right? Doesn't anybodyin this neighborhood work?    Miss Teacher plowed through the poem. “In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would bethere…”    It was killing me not to see the action onstage. I stirred just a bit, just enough to turn myhead to see behind me. The sugar-plum fairieswere dancing their collective hearts out. That'swhen I noticed that my tail was lying behindme, out of sight of the audience. I would haveto fix that. I moved quickly so that nobodywould notice that I stirred. I reached back andpulled my tail up towards my face. I totallyscrewed the move up. I let my nose fall offagain and whacked it a couple feet away withmy tail which I pulled too hard.    Another outburst of muffled laughter arosefrom the audience.    After I shoved the nose back in front of myface, I glanced over at Miss Teacher. She wasglaring right at me, but still reading throughthe poem. “When out on the lawn there arose such aclatter…”    The show must go on. I stirred. I figured itwas okay; there was still a lot of poem to go. Iwould be extra still from here on.    Soon it occurred to me that Miss Teacherforgot to re-make my whiskers. I felt bad aboutthat. It was as if the audience was beingcheated. I was watching to see if Miss Teacherwould look my way again. I was going tomouth the words, you forgot my whiskers.When she did finally look my way, it was onlyto flash me another angry glare. I decided itwas best to just not stir. I closed my eyes again.    Lying on stage motionless with my eyesclosed, I listened to Miss Teacher read throughthe poem, and soon I drifted off to sleep.    The next thing I knew, the audience wasapplauding, and we were being directed to lineup on stage and take a bow. My nose was

laying on the stage next to a small puddle ofdrool. Our entire cast was supposed to yell thelast two lines of the poem:

Merry Christmas to all, and to all agoodnight.     I missed that part. I picked up my nose as Istood up to take a bow, at the same time wipingthe puddle of drool by spreading it with myfoot.    Our play was a success.    A classmate and friend of mine namedJoyce asked me as we walked home togetherthat afternoon, "Were your mom and dad at theChristmas Concert?"    "No, my dad works, and my mom didn'teven know about it."    Then Joyce asked, "Didn't you give her oneof the invitations we made?"    Instantly I recalled my uncompletedinvitations. I had tucked them away inside mycluttered desk drawer a month or so ago andhad forgotten all about them, until now.    "Yes, Joyce... Yes, of course I did."

AndJoyce

smiled at meas she walked up

To her house.“Merry Christmas, Joel.

You were a real cute mouse”

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What giant birds are these called treeswith feathers in their arms and kneesthat flap and flit and flip and flutteras to the wind they chirp and sputter?Although they stretch into the skythey will not, cannot, do not fly.

What tall birds are these so greenthat into forest paths they leanupon one leg against ravineswhere a liquid ribbon intervenes?Although they sway and rant with easethey cannot move away these trees.

What kind of birds are these with leavesthat lift and spread with every breezeyet never lift a wing to flightbut perch in one spot day and night?Although they reach above our heads,upon the ground they make their beds.

What awesome birds these bottle treesand candlebarks and coral treesthat flock in forests sparse or dense,far or near to path or fence.Although their feathers are called leaves,what giant birds are these called trees!

By Cathe Ferguson

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In her eighty-fourth year and the last of herlife before the nursing home, Delia took twiceweekly sessions of aromatherapy to cure whatshe called the metallic dyspepsia. She didn’t know much about the ailmentexcept that it confused her words, stole partsof her memory, and caused a ringing in herears much of the time. Before it got too bad,her son took her to the doctor, who diagnoseda condition called metal poisoning. That madeno sense to Delia and didn’t sound like it mademuch sense to the doctor, either. He called ituncharted territory and recommended a seriesof long, expensive treatments. The truth was, since her husband Javier’sdeath at 9:30 Tuesday morning on Julyseventeenth, fourteen months earlier, Delia’swhole life had become uncharted territory.From the day he died, she forgot how to bakepies, and a week later got lost walking to herbest friend Katherine’s house only three blocksaway. She’d been walking to Katherine’shouse for fourteen years. Now the streets alllooked different. On that Friday, Delia set out for Katherine’swith clear purpose. Her thoughts bubbled witha recipe and the items on a grocery list, and ifa coconut cake was a better choice forKatherine’s upcoming birthday party. Theyhad talked earlier of a lemon cake, but thinkingabout it now, coconut sounded better. It wasn’talways easy to grate fresh coconut with the

arthritis in her fingers, but she could get thepackaged kind and hope no one would notice.Turning the corner, she decided she would alsomake a surprise pecan pie. Walking along with a steady pace, Delialooked up to see an unfamiliar house. Shestopped and examined the house beforeturning her attention to the one across thestreet. She wondered when they had painted itthat unfamiliar blue. A strange woman workedon her hands and knees in the flowerbed bythe front porch. Delia walked the half blockback to the corner where she stopped andlooked at each of the corner houses, searchingfor the one with a boat parked in the front yard. A half hour later, confused and worn outfrom walking up and down the same streetthree times, Delia sat crying on porch stepsthat she knew weren’t Katherine’s. Her friendhad a sea grape tree in the yard. More thananything else, she was embarrassed to beteary-eyed and befuddled on a stranger’s frontsteps. It wasn’t long before a woman stepped outonto the porch, surprised at the sight of Delia.A younger woman, she was dressed in awell-worn blue kimono and had little silverbells dangling from her ears. She leaned overto get a better look at the woman sitting on hersteps, and then slowly sat down beside Delia,putting an arm around her shoulders. Her name was Estelle and in time, she

By William Leet

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became for Delia an angel sent from Javier.Whatever it was she gave to Delia, it could notbe measured on charts, or clarified byexplanations bounded in logic. Delia drewcomfort from the woman’s quiet assurance.Later, after the start of Delia’s aromatherapy,Estelle would take no payment, more oftenthan not sending the old woman off with a potof soup or an armful of flowers from herbackyard garden. Estelle was unmarried and lived alone,though to Delia’s eyes people were alwayscoming and going, sometimes even husbandspicking up a sweet-smelling potion for theirhousebound wives, or wives picking up brightbottles of extract to bring the bloom back totheir cheeks. Delia didn’t think her “perfumedoctor” ever had time to be lonely what withall the people coming by. From the day sheended up lost on Estelle’s steps, it became hercustom to visit Estelle every Tuesday andFriday morning for an hour of aromatherapytreatment. These days soon became the best ofher week. At those times, her confusion wasless, her memory more resilient. Delia nowhad no thought of doctors in white coats withcold instruments and rooms decorated withcollege diplomas. She would tell anyone whoasked that she had the finest doctor in town. The first Tuesday after meeting Estelle,Delia walked the two blocks to her house,arriving as Estelle was watering pots ofgeraniums that colored her porch in splashesof red, purple and pink. “Estelle? It’s Delia. Is this a good time foryou?” She waited shyly halfway up the walk,unsure if the young woman was expecting her. Estelle paused with the watering canextended and spoke. “There you are, Delia. Ofcourse, it’s a good time. Come on up on theporch and have a seat. I’ve made sometea…Come on up.” Delia stepped onto the porch and saw asmall, green-painted wicker table. Two wicker

chairs, fluffy with big cushions patterned inbright cabbage roses sat on either side. On thetable, a teapot steamed between two cups anda small plate of cookies. Estelle held both hands out in welcome,“Delia, you've got the most beautiful applecheeks. Do you like herb tea? Let’s sit out inthis wonderful fresh air and have some teawhile we get to know each other. I’m happyyou came.” “I like a cup of tea, but these days can’t everget over to the store that has the one I like. Ican’t drive the car, and it seems when Rogercomes I always forget to ask him to drive me.Katherine takes me in her car sometimes.” “Well, I’ll tell you what, you write the nameof the tea you like on a slip of paper and I’llpick it up for you when I’m at the store.” “I’ll write it down if you’re sure that’s okay.”

Z

But that was then. Delia now had a differentdoctor, an unsmiling, matter of fact man inthick-framed glasses, with little faith inunconventional notions of scented candles andother remedies that smacked of metaphysics,avant-garde diets, and holistic healing. Helooked at Delia in a way that seemed to gobeyond the reach of his probing fingers, hiseyes magnified by the glasses, the press of hisstethoscope against her heart a cold eyeprobing the secrets inside. Delia could neverremember his name and felt uncomfortableunder the cold and clinical inspection, neverconfident that his concern put her past thecategory of another specimen. After Javier’s death, her memory lapsesand confusion became more frequent, and thesimple actions of caring for herself each daygrew more difficult, and then one day theybanished Estelle and took Delia to a placewhere she didn’t know anyone. She didn’t

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know when it happened--couldn’t rememberhow long ago it was. The symptoms of thatmysterious metal poisoning were finallyoverwhelmed by the more voracioussymptoms of old age. In Delia’s memory, she lived in a smallhouse in Edgewater with her husband Javier.Their three children were grown and living athousand miles apart in different worlds. In theautumn of their life together, Javier and Deliahad discovered the little cottage not too manymiles from the sea, and lived a happyretirement there. Delia adored the feel of a seawind against her hair, a thick, silvery whitemane that caught the breeze, giving off alemony fragrance that made Javier yearn topress his face into it. They moved north to live in the cottage ayear before the youngest boy went off toschool in California. Even from childhoodElián had been something of an odd boy, andafter high school had settled on a music schoolout in California, one that taught the unusualart of artistic whistling. Choosing a collegethat boasted of a sixty-member chorus ofartistic whistlers sounded strange, but motherand father were pleased enough that the boyhad a gift that made him happy, and theywouldn’t dream of threatening that happinesswith lectures about more practical fields ofstudy. Elián had been out in California foryears now, returning to Edgewater briefly onceevery year or two. The second boy, Esteban, was in everyonebut Delia’s eyes a dropout, a son who movedand changed telephone numbers morefrequently than an undercover agent. Estebanrarely came to Edgewater, failing even toappear for his father’s funeral and for much ofthe time no one knew how to reach him, or ifhe were keeping life and limb together. Deliaheard things from the other boys but chose tolabel those stories rumors. Roger was three years older than

Esteban, and still lived in Miami. He was agood son, and a month never passed that hedidn’t spend time with his mother and fatherat the cottage in Edgewater. It was thehighlight of Delia’s month to shop and cookfor Roger on those days he spent with them.Knowing his love for pork with papaya-mangosalsa, she had Javier drive her in their wide-hipped old Buick to the Cuban market on DixieHighway where she could get the ingredientsshe needed to cook for her son. A year after his father died, witnessing hismother’s quickening decline, and having toadmit that she was unable to any longer lookafter herself, Roger made the decision to puthis mother in a nearby facility. He describedit to his mother and himself as a rest home. Itsofficial name was Ocean View Nursing &Rehabilitation.

Z

Before Ocean View, Delia relaxed,comfortable in the snug armchair in Estelle’ssunroom. The walls and floor flickered withlight weaving a pathway through the leavesand branches of the mimosa tree which rustledagainst the window. The light itself became anointment, an elixir for the mind. Throughhalf-closed eyes Delia watched the sunlightdance on her lap and hummed rememberedbits of song from before her marriage to Javier. Estelle stood behind her at a work counterwith a hotplate, bottles of oil, and rows of tinybrown bottles holding scented essences. Sheheated a small amount of sweet almond oil,adding at the last moment two or three smalldrops of lavender essence. The fragrance wasstill faint and barely diffused into the roomwhen Estelle put soft hands against Delia’stemples and with slight pressure moved themdown to her jawline, then to her neck. Deliafelt at once the oil’s warmth and caught the

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stirring scent of lavender. A flicker of light, trembling and temporaryignited in exquisite clarity a spark of memoryfrom a time years ago. “I was a young girl withflowers in her hair. My father was manager ofthe Hotel Inglaterra on the Paseo del Prado,and we lived on milk and honey in a house ofyellow stone, built between two hills in thewest of the city.” Wrinkles of sunlight in herlap flickered and resettled themselves acrossthe rusty pattern of her dress. “At my father’shotel there was a young man who worked onsome days at the front desk. He was a goodboy, an excellent worker and my father’sfavorite. Many times Papá asked him to comeand work at the hotel full time, but the youngman always declined. He was taking classesat the university and dreaming of one daybecoming a lawyer.” Words came slower now,a rationed flow as if anticipating a closingdoor. “…He was my father’s favorite, but whatPapá did not know was that he was also myfavorite.” Delia’s eyes focused on a wobblysphere of sunlight near her shoe. “His namewas Javier and I felt certain we were meant tofall in love. … Dónde puse las cartas?” Estelle’s hands had stopped moving, caughtby surprise at the spill of words. Then fearfulthat the stillness of her fingers might silenceDelia, she continued gently massaginglavender oil into Delia’s temples and forehead,waiting for the story to continue. A minute passed, but there was nothingmore from Delia about the young girl withflowers in her hair. The shifting light reformedinto other shapes; the memories faded. Estelle leaned over and spoke softly intoDelia’s ear. “Please try to keep those thoughtsfor now. I’m going to raise your feet onto thecushions here and let you sit for a while in thisroom.” She arranged a mound of pillows at thefront of Delia’s chair. “Can you lift your feetup and put them on these pillows? I’ll leaveyou to rest for a few minutes. Try to think

about the girl with flowers in her hair.” On a table near Delia’s chair, Estelle placeda small candle. It sat on a purple dish, the flamesmall and unwavering, and like the oil,carrying a faint fragrance of lavender. Left alone in the light-dappled room besidethe mimosa tree, Delia struggled to rememberthe girl and the flowers, but things came andwent, and scratching at her memory opened nowindows. And so, she sat in the chair waitingfor Estelle’s return, her mind bumping againsta shuttered past. For the remainder of that Tuesday afterleaving Estelle’s, Delia wandered around herhouse, moving from room to room, peeringinside first one carved wooden box, thenanother, turning through the pages of booksand looking up at closet shelves now out ofreach. Her movements were fretful and attimes agitated, and her mumbled words moreand more punctuated by Spanish. She waslooking for something, but if asked, would beunable to say what it was, only that when shesaw it she would know. “Delia! You in there, honey?” Katherineknocked on the door, peering in through thescreen. “It’s Katherine. I’m gonna come on in,okay? Where are you, out in the back?” Shepassed through the living room into a smallhall leading to the kitchen, where she foundDelia stirring a big bowl of what looked likecake mix. From the doorway she lookedaround a kitchen powdered and hazy with flourdust, at spills of milk and egg yolk, buttersizzling on a hot skillet, and at Delia, so intentupon her mixing bowl she had not noticedKatherine in the doorway. The sparkly gritunder Katherine’s feet told a story of spilledsugar. “Delia?” Katherine took a few steps intothe kitchen and reached over to turn off theflame under the burning butter. “Looks likeyou’re making a cake. Can I help? Nobodymakes a better cake and I’ve been wanting to

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know your secret.” “I’m sorry, Katherine. I didn’t know youwere here. Come on and sit down. I’ll makesome coffee. I got all tangled up making thiscake and my ears must’ve just turned off.” “No, no, I’ll make the coffee, honey.”Katherine picked up a cloth by the sink andwiped the flour and spills off the table. “Sitdown here at the table and take a rest.” Shewiped a smear of flour off Delia’s apple-redcheek and spooned coffee into the filter. “There’s some lemon pie in the refrigeratorEstelle made. She brought it over yesterday.You ought to get her to show you how to makepies. I can’t make pies anymore.” “What kind of cake you making?” “I can’t remember now. I guess a coconutcake. That’s the one I make the best, the oneJavier likes.” She opened the refrigerator andtook out the lemon pie. “Just got it in my headto make a cake this morning.” “Cut me just a little sliver, Delia. I can’t eatmuch.” The two friends sat with their coffee andpie at the kitchen table, enjoying an hour ofaimless talk and the simple comfort of beingtogether. Katherine began cleaning up theinterrupted mess of Delia’s cake making whileDelia sat at the table talking about the dayJavier came home with a 1955 Buick, proudas a peacock and talking about something hecalled Dynaflow.

Z

Two days later, Delia sat on Estelle’s frontporch looking out at an overcast sky, raindripping from the overhanging limbs. Estellestood behind Delia combing drops of lemonoil through her thick white hair. Delia balanceda cup of tea in her lap, the warmth of the cupslowly loosening the joints in her fingers.There were mornings now for the first few

hours after getting up when her hands weretightened by the ache of arthritis. Estelle hadgiven her some valerian oil to rub into thejoints, and sometimes she massaged Delia’shands with another of her oils. She didn’tknow the name of that one. She never said itout loud, but her favorite remedy was to sitwith either Estelle or Katherine and hold ontoa hot cup of tea.

“Javier wrote the most beautiful letters.Sometimes I thought he copied them out ofbooks, maybe even some parts of Shakespeareplays. But he was a writer, you know, andwords just came easy when he picked up hisold Montblanc fountain pen.” Delia turned thecup in her hands, watching slight ripples in thepale, gold tea. “It was a gift from hisgrandfather when he graduated fromUniversidad de La Habana.” Delia half turnedin her chair, taking hold of Estelle’s hand. “DidI give that fountain pen to Roger?…Remember to ask him when he comes onSunday. When we came to this country in 1974we were lucky and Javier was able to get a jobwriting for the newspaper. He was a smartman… people recognized that and wanted himto write for their newspaper or magazine.” Estelle, sitting beside her, asked, “Why didyou leave Cuba, Delia? Were you not happythere?” “In those days who was happy? There waslittle money and Javier was in trouble so often

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with the authorities because of his articles.Roger was…I forget how old, but smart likehis father. He was attending a school that wasdismissing its teachers, and this angeredJavier. The government called them liberal…Esteban was just a boy… tuvo problemas conel gobierno Comunista. And Elián… only abambino, a beautiful boy who sang to birds inthe garden… Javier said we were threatened.We had the chance and so we left.” Still holding onto Estelle’s hand, Delia wasquiet for a few moments before resuming herstory. “I have never spoken to anyone of thoselast days in Havana. May God forgive me; itis a secret I kept all these years from myhusband. But who can speak easily of suchshameful things? Who can confess that shameto the love of her life, to the man who makesher heart beat with joy? This darkness insideshut tightly behind the love for my husbandhas been my private demon since the week ofour departure from Cuba…I betrayedJavier…in order to obtain the exit visas for ourfamily I betrayed my husband with anotherman. ” She released Estelle’s hand and pressed thecooling teacup against her face, then placed iton the table. Unable to meet her friend’s eyes,she focused on tracing the delicate pattern ofthe cup and continued in a small voice. “Howdo you talk about infidelity to a belovedhusband? Many times I thought I wouldconfess my sin to Javier and beg hisforgiveness, but each time I was a coward.” Once again rain drummed hard on the roofand from across the street Estelle’s orange tomdashed up onto the porch, stopping at Delia’sfeet to lick its rain-slicked fur. Delia stared atthe cat for a while before continuing. “In thoselast weeks our lives were a nightmare ofdoubts and hopes…fear that some part of ourapplication to leave the country might bequestioned, chances crushed by a line leftblank, a lie suspected. Javier was still writing

for the magazines and that was a risk. One dayhe was unable to meet the government officialabout the tarjeta blanca, so I went in his placeto answer the next round of questions. I wasshown into the office of a man we had neverseen before. Right away he made meuncomfortable with roaming eyes…unasonrisa más lasciva que funcionario. For atime he looked at the file, sometimes frowningand mumbling about a problem, but then toldme he could guarantee the approval under onecondition. I wasn’t stupid. I knew what hewanted. How could I explain this to myhusband?” Delia rose quickly from the chair and movedtoward the steps. “I have to find those letters.I am sorry Estelle, I have to go home now.” “It’s raining, Delia. Wait just a minute andI’ll bring an umbrella and walk with you backto the house. Is that okay?” During the slow walk to Delia’s house, thewarm drizzle made a dull patter on Estelle’sbig golf umbrella, splashing on the sidewalkand onto their legs. Huddled together underthe nylon bowl of green and white, Estellelistened to Delia’s recollection of a telephoneconversation with her son the week before. “I thought I was seventy-four years old. Iwas talking on the telephone with Roger aboutmy doctor’s appointment, I think. There wassomething else, too, maybe about my grocerylist, but I think we talked for a long time. Andthen Roger asked me how old I was, and I saidI was seventy-four. He said, ‘Mamá, I thinkyou’re wrong about that. You’re eighty-four…’ I told Katherine the next day that wasthe longest phone call I ever had, that it lastedten years. I was seventy-four when it startedand eighty-four when I hung up.” Estelle lost her grip on the umbrellalaughing at the story, and the two of themstood there, faces shiny with rain, laughingtogether. When they reached Delia’s house, Estelle

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went in behind her friend, saying she wantedto use the bathroom. It was merely an excuseto have a look around, to assure her that Deliawas looking after things, that all was in acondition not to endanger the elderly woman.Delia seemed distracted and, pointing Estelleto the bathroom, went immediately into theback bedroom. Estelle looked around the living room.Nothing struck her as out of order, but shethought it odd that half the room seemedspotless, almost shining with polish, whilecorners and some surfaces were thick withdust. The wide-armed easy chair with its sidetable and lamp were pristine, the pipe restingon the magazine still shiny with the patina oflongtime use. Slowly Estelle unzipped theleather pouch beside it, and, raising it to herface, felt the twinge of guilty surprise at aremembered scent of Javier’s fresh, moisttobacco rising from the burning twists and

strands in his pipe into the air of her bedroom.The floor around the chair was scrubbed andbright with wax, standing out as an amberglow of life in the wake of a husband’s death.The framed photograph of Delia and Javiercaught her eye, another shiny refuge in theaccumulated dust. A slice of sunlight fellacross the dusty sofa, catching the mass ofchrome on the bulky car behind the two.Estelle reached out to the picture and placedthe tip of her finger on Javier’s face. Peering into the refrigerator and cupboards

in Delia’s less than tidy kitchen, Estelle sawlittle that could sustain a person for long—alarge bag of sugar, a pound of white flour,butter, a few eggs, an unopened bag of gratedcoconut. The refrigerator’s vegetable bin helda half-eaten cheese sandwich on a yellowplate. On the floor, she found a cellophane-wrapped caramel, one from a package she hadgiven Delia the week before. Delia was on hands and knees at the doorof her bedroom closet pulling an assortmentof shoes and shoeboxes out into the room. Shewas speaking Spanish, something Estellerecognized as a familiar sign of Delia’sconfusion. “Dónde puse las cartas?… Dónde puse lascartas? ” Estelle knelt beside Delia. “What are youlooking for? Let me help you. Tell me what tolook for.” “Ohhh, Estelle… I can’t find Javier’s letters.They are here, I know they are here, I put themhere by the bed and now they have fallen awaysomewhere, I don’t know. I can’t find theletters.” Estelle helped the old woman onto the bed,whispering assurances that were uncertain atbest, but worked to bring some calm to Delia’sturmoil. “Rest here for a while and then I’ll help youfind those letters.” In a bare whisper she said, “Would you askJavier to rub my feet?” Later that day, Estelle telephoned Delia’sfriend Katherine, explaining what she found,what she saw, and wondering if somebodyshouldn’t call her son Roger. Katherine saidshe had the number, would call him that night,and that she would meet Estelle at Delia’shouse the next morning. Estelle thought she would go to the storefor some groceries and later spend a couple ofhours cleaning Delia’s house.

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Z

Delia was unwilling to leave the little housein Edgewater after her husband’s death,wouldn’t agree to move away, to leave behindthe reminders of Javier, the rooms still coloredby lingering shades and smells of her husband.On a day that Roger had come to visit, she hadshaken her head, lips compressed into astraight line, refusing to go and live with himin Miami. But living alone became increasinglydifficult, and little by little, Delia lost herway—lost the will or desire to take care ofherself. Time, despite the tick of clocks andcalendar squares, was a forgotten concept—just another undefined confusion among thenames and unnamed objects that swirled in thefog of her days and brought nighttime dreamsshe swore were real. She wasn’t sure when it was, but one dayRoger brought her here, to this larger housewith unfamiliar people, and now she couldn’tfind the house in Edgewater, though shelooked for it every day. Roger came fromMiami to visit and took her in his car to seethe house, but when she saw people she didn’tknow through the windows it upset her. Shesat in the car twisting a tissue into shreds,cried, and wouldn’t let go of Roger when heheld her. So now, she roamed the hallways of theOcean View nursing home in her wheelchair,her still-thick mane of white hair falling intangles around her face and shoulders. Morethan once, she entered someone’s room andstartled them, and asked that they comb herhair or rub her feet. It was usually Baby Clyde,the nurse’s aide, who came and collected her.Mention of his name was usually enough tostop Delia, he being the only one in the nursinghome who had found some small clear windowinto her confusion. She responded to none of

the other aides. Last week she returned to the room with abottle of medicine found on a table in anotherroom. She was unscrewing the top when Jewelcalled out. “Don’t you drink that, Delia! That’ssomebody’s medicine, not for you.” “I know, it’s my husband’s medicine, andhe had to take it every day.” Jewel got herself over to Delia and put ahand over the bottle. “Delia, come on now andgive me that medicine so Baby Clyde can takeit back. It’s got somebody’s name on it, there.” “It’s probably my husband’s name.” “Stop now. You want some graham crackersand peanut butter?” Jewel knew that herroommate liked the crackers, because just lastweek she’d stolen a plate full of them offJewel’s table. “Well, I might try one. They sound good.Would you rub my feet?” Jewel slipped the bottle of medicine out ofDelia’s hand and said, “I’ll ask the nurse aboutthat when she comes.” “Why?” “She’ll be coming to get this medicine afterI push the button. Now you sit here while I goover there and get you one or two of mycrackers and peanut butter.” She brought the crackers over to Delia ona paper towel. Putting it down in her lap, shesaid, “You ain’t seen my Bible, have you? Iknow I had it in that drawer by my bed lastnight.” Delia looked at Jewel with eyes that madeno connection to Bible or peanut-buttercrackers. She was quiet again, lost somewhereamong the shifting bits of memory that heldthe house in Edgewater and her husbandJavier, the man who rubbed her feet andcombed her hair for all those years. She wassure it was all still there in her house if shecould just find it.

�

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Dreams sometimes happen at the mostunexpected moments in life. When I wastwelve years old, I saw the movie Star Warsat the local drive-in and found myself fasci-nated not only by the story and the specialeffects of the film but also by the fast-pacednew editing style of the film’s director.From that day forward, I had a dream ofbeing a director myself. It made me moreattentive of my writing in high school, andwhen I went to college, I selected a universi-ty that had a reputable film school, much tomy parents’ chagrin.

During my second year of filmschool, I was given the opportunity to internat a local cable station that produced pro-gramming for the community. I felt excitedby the opportunity and wanted to immersemyself in their program to gain the hands-onexperience I needed before seeking a careerin the entertainment industry. The cablestation ran on intern power. We providedfree labor as grips, camera operators, chryonoperators, and the technical directing of thelive talk shows that were the staples of thestudio while the few paid staffers oversawthe operation.

There were two live talk shows pro-duced by the studio: one shot on Mondaynight and the other on Wednesday night.The Wednesday night program was a funentertainment show highlighted with inter-esting local guests and a loud boisterousdirector that kept everyone in stitches withhis jokes. All of us interns wanted to workon this show because it was fun to be on theset, but because of this, there were limited

opportunities to find a crew position avail-able and to gain the hands-on experience wewere all there for. I would often be told bythe director, “We just don’t have room foryou this week, Wendy. Maybe next time.”I suffered disappointment when I was toldthat, but I was determined to continue toapply for crew. My reward was that once ina while I would find a position as a cablepuller or a camera operator out on the floor.The control room seemed out of my reachWednesday nights.

The other program was a sleepy polit-ical talk show that often had problems gain-ing guests; the host would sometimes givehistorical or political lectures to fill the allot-ted half hour. The director of the politicalprogram had trouble finding crew sincemost of us had trouble staying awake duringthis program. I was approached personallyby the director to join his crew. He playedon my sympathy by telling me how short-handed he was and asked me for my help. Iagreed to become a regular crewmember onMonday nights.

By Wendy Van Camp

Memoir

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Six months later, I had progressedfrom being on the camera, to working as afloor manager, and finally assigned to thecontrol room. On this particular Monday, Iwas seated at the switcher as technical direc-tor, feeling like Mr. Sulu from Star Treksince the blinking lights and the whirl ofsound from the equipment reminded me ofthe command bridge of the Enterprise. Ilooked into the triple monitors before me.Each monitor displayed a different cameraview from the television studio just beyondthe heavy insulated windows at the front ofthe control room. Although we were record-ing the talk show in color, all the seven inchmonitors were black and white. The centermonitor was a wide shot of the two people,the host and his guest, seated in chairs witha low table before them. This camera waslocked on the tripod, unmoving once it hadbeen set, and unmanned. We jokingly re-ferred to the camera as Larry Lockdown.The other two monitors had closer shots,one of the host and one of the guest. Occa-sionally, the camera operator would beasked to switch to a tighter two-shot or toshoot a graphic card that would be placed onan easel by the floor manager.

To my left in the control room was thechyron, a huge metal box of circuits andwires attached to a keyboard and televisionmonitor. The electronic words that weresuperimposed on our program were createdthere, and a crew member needed to beavailable to bring the graphics in on the cueof the director. When we had enough crew,the chyron operator would input the infor-mation before the show and then update thegraphics on the screen so that I could super-impose the name of the host or guest duringthe program or any information that the hostor guest wished to put on the screen. We did

not have a remote control for the chyron,and the machine was four feet from mystation, too far for me to reach. When we didnot have enough crew, as was the case thatday, I would input the information beforethe program went live, and the directorwould scroll to the proper graphic himselfduring the show and then cue me when tobring the graphic in at the switcher.

To my right were the engineering pan-els where the final images got color mixedand white balanced. These were the largestmachines in the studio, being three feet wideand going from floor to ceiling. I was fasci-nated by the science behind what they did,but the complexities of engineering tookmore technical knowledge than I possessedat the time. Behind these large machines wasa bank of VTRs, huge cassette players thatused three-quarter inch U-Matic tapes. U-Matic was the analog standard for broadcastquality recording back then; although, tapenewcomers such as High-8 or Beta SP werealso becoming popular and starting to seeintegration into our systems. The top deckrecorded the live program we were produc-ing that night, and the others were playerdecks that we used to insert commercialsand PSAs during the segment breaks. At theproper time, a tape would be inserted andcued up to three seconds before the start ofthe commercial block, and then the VTRoperator would wait for the director’s cue topress the start button at the proper time.Digital technology was still a fanciful rumoron the horizon during the mid-eighties, andwe were all quite comfortable working inanalog format on equipment that by today’sstandards would seem rather antique.

The host and his guest were seated onthe set, and the floor manager was clippingtiny lavaliere microphones to their shirts.

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The final sound checks were completed. Iglanced up at the clock and noted that wehad five minutes until the program went liveto the city. My director had entered thecontrol room and was making the finalchecks on the equipment: color and whitebalance—check, chyron loaded and correctfor that day’s program—check, commercialreels lined up on the floor before the VTRbank—check, U-Matic tape labeled with itsred record dot in place—check. He loadedthe U-Matic tape into the upper VTR andrecorded thirty seconds of color bars andfive seconds of black. He paused the tape.We were the only two people in the controlroom since our other two crew memberswere on the floor as camera operator andfloor manager.

The clock moved to one minute be-fore seven p.m. The director and I put ourbulky earphone and mic headsets on, and Iheard the orders both behind me and in theearphones. “Standby to cue talent. Standbyto take fade up on camera two.” Our directorwas not in his chair in the center of the room,but stood beside the VTR rack. From therehe would switch on the cablecast so that ourprogram would go live.

“Three.” The director started the re-cording VTR and stepped forward in frontof the button that would cablecast the pro-gram live on the cable system to thousandsof potential viewers in the city.

“Two.” I heard the soft click of thebutton. On the machines to my right, lightscame on to indicate that the program wasnow being cablecasted. My director contin-ued forward and stood behind me at thecenter of the control room. I always feltnervous at this moment in the count-down.If something went wrong, it would be seenby the entire city.

“One. Fade up to camera two.” Ipressed the camera-two button to let theswitcher know where to go and used the barto fade up from black into the image on mymiddle monitor. My movement was sureand steady, something that I had practicedso that my fades would have the propertiming. “Take graphic.” I pressed the properbutton and the name of the program super-imposed over the wide shot. “Lose graphic.”The graphic faded away at the press of an-other button. I heard the director go over tothe chyron machine, and he advanced to thenext page. The name of our host was dis-played.

“Standby to cue talent. Standby todissolve to camera one.” I pressed the buttonthat let the switcher know which camera totake at my command. On the other side ofthe window, our floor manager was givinghand-cues to the host. “Cue talent and dis-solve to one.” I pulled the bar down in asmooth and steady motion, and the programdissolved between the two images.

In the studio our host gave the usualscholarly greeting that he did at the start ofevery program. While we did have the pro-gram on in the control room, we kept thevolume low so that it would not interferewith our work. I never listened to the pro-gram other than to make sure that there wasaudio being recorded.

“Standby to show tag. Tag him.”I pressed the button to bring in the

chyron, and the name of our host displayedon the lower third of the screen. “Lose tag.”

I heard the chyron advance as thedirector pressed a few of the keys. “Standbyto take three.” I waited for the verbal-cue,this time not bothering to set up the switch-er’s board since it was not necessary for acut between two shots. “Take three.”

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The guest of the program was in amedium shot. “Tag him.” I once againpressed the chyron button, and the guest’sname appeared in the lower third of thescreen. “Lose tag.”

My director moved back to the centerof the room, but this time he took his chair afoot or two behind mine. The busywork wascompleted. For the next eight minutes,things would be simple. We would do cutsbetween the host and guest, and the directorwould monitor the audio on the board to myright. Since there were only two peopletalking on the program, once we set thegeneral levels, there was no additional workto be done. We got by without an engineerto handle the audio board on a regular basis.There would be three segments to the pro-gram, each one eight minutes long with twocommercial breaks between them.

The program had progressed to itsmiddle segment when both the director andI noticed an odor. Since the program waslive, I did not look away from the monitors,but I heard the director shift in his chair.

“Is that smoke?”I sniffed. A faint smell like burning

rubber was in the air. “I smell smoke too.”The director stood. “There is no one

else in the building but us. I better check thisout. Wendy, take over.” Those final threewords echoed in my brain as I froze in mychair and stared at the three monitors beforeme in utter shock.

I was now the director of this livetelevision program with no preparation, oth-er than the months I had spent as a technicaldirector, and completely alone in the controlroom. It was a good thing that the air condi-tioning was on, because I’m sure that Iwould have broken into a sweat otherwise.Don’t panic, I told myself. You can do this.

I took a deep breath and concentrated on theprogram. When the host asked a question ofhis guest, I pressed the proper buttons,moved the transition bar, and kept the prop-er camera on the action. I forgot the voiceprotocols the first few times, but I recoveredmy senses within the first few switches onthe board and started to give my cameraoperator and floor manager the cues theyneeded to do their job on the set. Within afew minutes—which seemed like hours—Ibegan to breathe again. I was directing! Andas far as the world outside was concerned,everything looked normal on the air.

There was one problem. At the end ofthe program segment, I would need to fadeto black and then take the commercial reelthat was at the back of the control room. TheVTR decks were too far away in the roomfor me to cue up the tapes and punch themin while still working the switcher. I startedto go over scenarios as to how I was goingto be able to throw to the reel, but nothingcame to me. I continued to direct the televi-sion program, not knowing what I was goingto do when the time came to end the segment.

One minute to the end of the segment,I gave the one-minute cue to the floor man-ager. The host was flagged with a handsignal and a cue card on the set. I switchedto the host’s camera as he began to do hissegment wrap up. What was I going to doabout the reel? All I did was stare at themonitors and work the switcher. My mindwas a blank.

“Commercial reel is cued. On yourmark.” It was the voice of the director. I wassurprised that he did not take over the pro-gram. Instead he stood by the VTR deckswaiting for my command, as if he weresimply the VTR operator. I had no ideawhen he had entered the control room or

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how long he had been standing behind me. Iissued the commands to the crew as neededto wrap up the segment, cued the propermoment for the reel to play, and then fadedthe program to black before cutting in thereel. It was over. I had done it! I swiveled inmy chair to look at the director, free for thethree minutes of the reel before the nextsegment would begin. In television time,three minutes is close to an eternity.

The director smiled at me. “You did agood job there, Wendy. Maybe next weekI’ll have you direct another segment of theshow?”

“I’d like that.” My own face had ananswering grin. “So what caused thesmoke?”

“Oh, someone had left the coffee potburners on, and one of them had caught onfire.” My director grimaced. “We are allalone here at night. It could have burned thebuilding down! I’ll have to talk to mainte-nance about it tomorrow.” The companycoffee pot was just around the corner fromthe studio, tucked away in a passage be-tween two empty corridors where it waseasy to miss.

The commercial break was nearing itsend and we needed to get back to putting ourlive television program on the air. The direc-tor took over the program at that point and,to my relief, I was simply the technicaldirector once more.

True to his word, the next week I wasallowed to direct a full segment of the polit-ical show, but under the director’s supervi-sion. The week after that, the director of thepopular Wednesday night entertainmentshow stopped me in the hall. “Why don’t wehave you come and direct a segment on myshow next week?” I was stunned. I remem-bered all the times when I was either turned

down to crew or only offered a simple posi-tion on that set. I tried not to stammer as Iaccepted the opportunity, but I suppose thatI must have looked rather foolish, becausethe director just grinned at me. The follow-ing week I directed the entertainment pro-gram, again under the supervision of anexperienced director. I was the envy of therest of the interns.

I did not consider myself a director atthat point. I was merely an intern gaining mydegree in Radio/Television/Film and stillhad plenty to learn. Eventually, the cablestation would hire me, and this would be-come my first paid job in the industry. I washired as a commercial insertion editor—notas a director. However, the title of Directorwould come to me years later through muchhard work and patience.

It is funny how this event has stuck inmy mind the way that it has over the hun-dreds of other directing gigs that I per-formed over the next two decades. I wasonly the director of the talk show for sixminutes, but, in my memory, it seems like ithad been hours. It must be true that youdon’t forget your first time. I will neverforget my baptism by fire into the career ofdirecting live television.

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Pen ink stains the papers of my mind.Creativity beckons me.Images of perfectionbind me, gag me. The soulstruggles to be free.Released spiritinspired tocreatelife.

By T. A. McCarthy

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I’ll never forget the sleepless ChristmasEves I lay in bed trying to wait for Ole SaintNick. I heard reindeer bells on every blow ofthe wind and would almost jump from undermy warm quilt when a tree branch scraped theroof! Of course, here in Texas we never hadsnow, but I still believed in the Magic ofSanta’s sled. I also believed he’d get down thechimney we didn’t have, too, because thosegifts appeared every year, somehow. ButChristmas Eve was not when the Magic began. Back in the fifties, Christmas Magic beganthe day after Thanksgiving on what we nowcall Black Friday. Most people stayed homeand visited with family while all the big storesstayed closed and decorated for Christmas.Here in Fort Worth, there were LeonardBrothers, Monnigs, Striplings, Cox’s, Ellisons,Red Goose Shoes, and so many other storesdowntown. They all had large windowdisplays that had to be made up, and paper wastaped over the glass so no one could see untilSaturday. It would certainly be terrible ifsomeone else stole your store's window idea.The competition was great, as was the entiretown’s eager anticipation to shop. The City couldn’t be outdone either.Outside, there were silver, red, and green tinselbanners hung, and Christmas lights strungfrom corner to corner, welcoming everyone tothe city. This was a time when insurance wasreal instead of HMOs (Human MiseryOptions) or PPOs (Pure Painful Options,), andour doctors were paid instead of discounted.Times were simpler then, and people cared

about one another. Anyway, after our relaxingday on Friday, we all would get on the bus andtake a ride downtown... Saturday! We stepped off the bus ontotinsel streets and newly decorated windows.We would walk up and down the sidewalksbefore all the stores opened and window shop.Leonard Brothers had a giant window with thegrandest animated Santa Claus and reindeer.He looked almost real, and his mouth movedas he talked to us on the street, inviting us toToy Town in the basement of the store. AtEllisons, there was a Santa dressed in a man’ssuit, tempting us with a waving arm and awinking eye. At Woolworth, a barking dog,dressed in a knitted sweater, looked up at aman and woman in holiday clothes. Thewindows were marvelous and alluring, and thebest thing about them was we would be in eachof the stores before the day was over. The first store we went in was LeonardBrothers. I’ll never forget this store and all themarvelous decorations they had throughout.There were aluminum Christmas treeseverywhere, with spotlights and coloredrotating lenses. And there were tinsel garlandsand tree lights strung about between storedisplays. The store sections I remember mostclearly were Toy Land, Sporting Goods, andMusic.

The Music department had its guitarsdraped in tinsel garlands, and the men workingthere would smile from ear to ear when youwanted to play one. In sporting goods, the menwere real friendly with the long guns and

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would help Granddaddy hold and feel the newweapons. But the department I remember bestof all was Toy Land… Wow! When you walked into Toy Land, you weresurrounded by a decorated ChristmasWonderland with a train that ran around thetop of the twenty-foot walls. First, you wouldgo sit on Santa’s lap and tell him what youwanted for Christmas; then you would go ridethe train around and around with Toy Landdown below on one side and animated elvesmaking toys on the other. Of course, we neverlooked down into Toy Land where parentswere shopping. We were always interested inthe small animated spelunkers singing andhammering while making toys. The angel-hairsnow around their workshop was so real, andthe special toys they made had us feeling likewe were at the North Pole.

This Magic ran on and on throughout myyounger years, especially when we placed ourtree up and hung the lights at home. There wasthe blue and silver tin star Daddy always puton top of the tree that shone brightly across theliving room, as did the tree lights. Our ownangel-hair tree-skirt simulated snow under thetree, and I was the one who got to set upSanta’s sleigh and reindeer underneath. It wasall so beautiful. There were children at schoolthat tried to tell me that Santa wasn’t real, butI knew different because the Magic was alwaysat our house. Mother and Daddy never let itdie. You could see it in their eyes and feel itin their spirit each season, and you could feelit in our home. We knew the real Magic ofChristmas was the baby Jesus, and wecelebrated Him, but we didn’t let the otherMagic fall from the family traditions. Then things changed… It happened theyear I turned seventeen. We buriedGranddaddy that October. Thanksgiving camearound, and we all had our celebration, but wedidn’t go downtown on Saturday. Granddaddywasn’t with us, so it didn’t seem proper. It was1969, and I was helping my mother put up thetree, and my little sister wanted to set up theSanta Claus and reindeer. Mom asked me toput the star on the tree because Daddy wasn’tfeeling well. So I got into the Christmas boxand began to look for it. I asked Mom wherethe tree-topper was. I couldn’t find it. Shecame in from the kitchen, looked in the box,and picked up the tin star. “It’s right here!” she said and shook herhead, surprised that I hadn’t seen it. Shehanded it to me. I took the old star from herand looked at it, shocked. The blue and silverfive-point star was made of thick and thin foils,some of it crushed and missing some platingwith a couple of torn points. It was terriblyugly. Just last year, this had been the most

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beautiful tree-topper in the world. Whathappened to it? “Mom...? Is this the star we’ve alwayshad?” “Yes. It’s the same star you’ve insisted onthe last seventeen years.” “I can’t believe it. It has aged so much thisyear.” “No, it’s looked like that for a long time,son. I told you we needed a new one.” I gently bent and reshaped the star as bestas possible, then reached up and gently placedit on the tree top. I worked a bulb inside of itso it would shine. It looked much better then. Diane, my eleven-year-old sister, came intothe room with Santa and his sleigh, butsomething was wrong. The sleigh wastarnished gold with a broken runner. Santa wastwice as large as the sleigh. Only two reindeerfit the harness, and two more reindeer weretwice that size with broken antlers. Thereindeer that stood in front with the red nosewas smaller than any of the others, and it hadno antlers at all. The last little reindeer had asilver harness and was covered gaudily withgreen glitter. I looked at the concoction as sheplaced the setup under the tree. They werehideous! Diane stood up with a smile from ear to ear.“Look, Santa’s coming!” She was so excited.Then she was off to her room.

I walked into the kitchen. “Mom, where didthat contraption come from?” She looked under the tree and said, "That’syour Santa and reindeer, honey. You shouldrecognize it; you’ve put it under the tree everyyear.”

I studied the setup, puzzled because Ididn’t remember this Santa and reindeer. Theone I remembered had an all-silver sleigh, withsix tiny reindeer and a Santa that sat in thesleigh. This Santa couldn’t do anything butstand beside the sleigh. I voiced this to Mom.

She turned toward me and said, “Son,you’ve grown up… you’ve lost the Magic ofa child’s eye. Don’t lose the Magic.Remember. Always remember!” I looked into her eyes and realized a child’seyes were something easily lost. I hadn't beenconscious mine had existed, and now theywere gone. It has taken me years to re-attain those eyes,and sometimes they still must be coaxed byothers. It’s not that I don’t yearn for them; it’sthe troubles of the times—gas prices, foodprices, lost jobs, war—they all come with theirown set of problems. But I'm reminded thatour parents had their problems in those yearsalso, similar in nature and just as stressful. Daddy’s gone on now, too, but thisChristmas was easier. I put lights in theBradford Pear tree outside of our house andhung large outdoor ornaments down from it soour neighbor’s children could see some of theMagic. Tonight when I get home from work,the lights will remind me of my childhood,Santa’s sleigh under the tree, and our old blueand silver tin star that shone brightly forseventeen years in our home. It is a nicememory—and warm.

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“Steven! Ben! Where are you? Why’s thehose running?” “Oh crap.” Steven popped up over thedirt-encrusted mound sitting on the dining-room table and scowled at his younger brother.“You didn’t turn it off?” Ben looked up and frowned. “Me? You’rethe one who turned it on.” “I was carrying the volcano inside.” “And I was holding the door open, like youtold me to.” The screen door rattled. Steven gave Bena warning look and put his finger to his lips.He dropped back into his chair and assumedan innocent expression while focusing hisattention on the volcano in front of him. Thetrailer door opened, and Steven stole a glanceout of the corner of his eye. Their fatherwalked in carrying a sack of groceries and agallon of milk. “When are you two going to be responsiblefor once?” Their father dropped the grocerieson the counter. “Water isn’t free, you know.” “Sorry,” Steven and Ben mumbled inunison. Steven shifted nervously in his chair,still not looking over at his father. “Sorry doesn’t cut it, Steven.” Steven could feel his father’s glare boringinto the side of his head. “Do you need me to keep dragging youaround wherever I go? Grow up. Why is thatin here?” Steven looked up. “It’s my volcano.”He added, “Remember I asked if I could start

on it this morning? For my science project?You said it was fine.” “Why is it on the dining-room table and notoutside?” Slumping down, Steven said, “I have totake it to school tomorrow morning, and Idon’t want it to get ruined.” “Excuse me? And how do you think we’lleat dinner with that thing on the table? Think,Steven!” He put the milk in the fridge. “It’llbe fine outside.” “But Carly’s dogs pee on everything outthere.” “Then put some plastic over it. Duh!” Steven cringed when his father reachedover and pinched the top of the crater. “What’sit made out of?” “Papier-mâché. And some flour, salt, andwater.” His dad straightened up. “What paper didyou use?” “Just some old homework.” “You better have cleaned it up. This stuff’slike cement when it dries,” he said, rapping hisknuckles against the side of it, which knockedoff some of the sticks. “We did.” They used the hose to dissolvethe paste into the dirt, but Steven thoughtbetter of bringing that topic back up. “You better be telling the truth.” “I am.” Their dad grunted and walked back into thekitchen. Ben tapped Steven on the arm andnodded to the glue. Steven handed it to himand picked up a Phillips screwdriver. With

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some twisting and pushing, he managed topoke a hole through the base of the mountain,where he wedged a small stick. The onlysound in the trailer was their father puttingaway the groceries and the ever-presentwhoosh of cars out on State Road 23.The other night, lying in bed and listening tothe noise of the highway through the openwindow, Steven had bet Ben he could identifyeach type of vehicle solely by the sound of itsmotor. “There’s a pickup. That’s a diesel.” “I knew that one,” said Ben. “Hey, how doI know you’re getting them right?” “Quiet. That’s a motorcycle. There’s asedan.” “What’s a sedan?” “Just a plain old car, like ours.” “Our car doesn’t sound like that.” “It would if it worked right.” “So why doesn’t Mom fix it?” “Because it costs a lot of money. What areyou, stupid? Shut up and go to sleep.” Ben turned over and pulled up the covers.Steven kicked him and pulled them back.They slept in the same bed – on opposite sidesof course – but that hadn’t kept Steven fromliving in perpetual fear his brother mightmention it to someone at school. For the pasttwo Christmases and birthdays, a bunk bedwas the only thing he’d asked for. Mom saidyes last year, but their dad overruled and saidthe room wasn’t tall enough. Steven had nohope for his approaching birthday, either. “Maybe we’ll hear another car crashtonight,” Ben said, flipping over again. “Thatwould be cool.” “Cool? What if it’s mom who’s in the nextcrash? Did you ever think of that?” Last time, the sirens went on for hours.Their father raged and swore in the other roomevery fifteen minutes. He was still swearingabout it when he woke up the next morning.

If Ben’s dumb enough to want to risk thatagain, he deserves whatever Dad does to him.See if I care. One of these days though, he better startthinking about Mom.

“What are you doing?” His father’s sharp voice jolted him out ofhis daydreams, and Steven dropped the leaf hewas holding, smeared with glue, onto the table.He looked up into his father’s menacing face. “Uh, my teacher said I can get extra pointsby making it look more realistic.” “No. Why haven’t you taken it outside likeI told you to?” “It’s really hot outside. Can’t we finish itin here? We’ll take it out when we’re done.I promise.” His father stood there a moment. “It hadbetter be out of here before dinner. And nomesses! Look, you’re already getting dirt onthe floor.” With a disgusted expression anda shake of his head, he wandered off to theliving room. Steven got a wet paper towel and wiped upthe dirt off the already dirty floor. I sure missour old house. He hated this place just asmuch as on the day they moved in. His momhad told him he’d learn to like it. He knew shewas lying; only he didn’t say anything becausehe didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Their old house was huge. The wholetrailer could have fit in the living room. Theyhad two big-screen TV’s; one had an Xbox,the other a Wii. The best thing about thehouse, though, was that keeping out of hisfather’s way was much easier. Ben was barely six when they moved. Butdespite that, Steven still liked playingRemember When with him during theirendless afternoons outside. Besides, therewasn’t much else to do. Their father rarely letthem watch TV. He said the noise botheredhim, yet he watched it nearly all day long.

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As much as he hated living here, his momhated it more. Before his dad lost his job, andbefore they lost their house, Steven’s momstayed home and took care of Ben. She waseven the room-mother in Steven’s first-gradeclass. Now she worked two jobs – one in theday and one in the evening. He still hadn’tfigured out why his dad wouldn’t workanymore. He asked his mom once, but sheonly said some nonsense about how peoplesometimes go through different phases. Ifbeing a worthless, abusive bum was a phase,he could agree. With school almost out for the summer, heand Ben would be home all day long. Ben hadbeen trying desperately to make more friendsso he could go over to their houses and playduring the summer. Unfortunately, the kidsSteven’s age were old enough to know he livedin a dump. They avoided him for the mostpart. Steven slid off his chair and walked intothe kitchen. “Where are you going?” asked Ben. “To get some baking soda.” “You’re going to do it now? Are yousupposed to?” “Can’t you keep quiet?” Steven said,glancing toward the living room. “I need toknow how it works before taking it to school.Anyway, I’m only going to do a little bit.” Steven searched a couple of cupboards, andthen walked back to the table with a bottle ofvinegar and a box of baking soda. “How does it work? I want to do it, too.” “Shhhhh.” Steven gave his brother awithering look. He set the soda down andunscrewed the cap on the vinegar. He smelledit and quickly pushed it away. Yuck. What dopeople use this for? He reached up and pouredwhat he figured was a cup into the top of thevolcano. He then picked up the small orangebox of soda and said to Ben, “Are you ready?” “I don’t know. What’s going to happen?”

“I don’t know, either. I’ve never seen oneerupt before. Anyway, here it goes. Three.Two. One.” He gave the box a gentle tap, butonly a dusting of soda fell out. Pulling up thelid with his index finger, he gave it anothertap. This time a quarter-sized chunk of sodadropped out. “Uh-oh.” He wanted to grab it back out,but the vinegar in the crater was bubbling tooviolently. “Cool!” said Ben. Milky vinegar rushed down the sides of themountain and straight onto the table. Oh crap!I forgot the barrier! “Get some paper towels. Quick!” hewhispered to Ben. Ben stood up, knocking hischair into the wall. Steven tried covering thecrater with his hand, but the liquid sprayedthrough his fingers. He grabbed a book off thecounter and set it on top. “You stupid idiots! What are you doing?” Steven cringed and Their dad rushed up toSteven and slapped him with the back of hishand, knocking him onto the floor. Ben dropped the paper towels and backedup against the counter, letting the vinegarspread over the edge of the table and splashonto the floor. “Is that a library book?” Steven’s stomachdropped when his father snatched up theschool library’s copy of Harry Potter. “Whatwere you thinking? Clean it off!” He threwthe book at Steven’s face. Steven ducked andfelt it skim the top of his head. He cringed atthe crash behind him and felt the dirt from oneof the potted plants land on his foot. “You’re going to clean that up, too,” hesaid, pointing at Steven. He grabbed Ben bythe neck, and, nearly lifting him off theground, pushed him toward the door.Slamming it open with his free hand, their dadroared, “Get out!” and threw Ben, tumbling,to the ground outside. Leaving the door open, his father cameback to the table and worked to get his fingers

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under the wooden slab the volcano was sittingon. “You said you were just going to gluesome leaves on this thing. Who said you couldset it off?” He lifted it gently, trying to keep fromspilling vinegar on himself, and carried it overto the door. With a sudden twist, he flung thewhole thing out into the yard. Steven stoodjust in time to see it shatter on the ground, theforce ripping off the support. Luckily, Benhad moved out of the way by then. His father came back over to Steven andgrabbed him by the front of his shirt. “Cleanthis up, then get out!” With a quivering jaw, Steven said, “Youruined my science project.” “You should have thought about that beforeyou decided to ruin the kitchen,” he said,yanking him around. “I don’t know how manytimes I have to tell you to think before you doanything.” “We’ve been working on it all day,” Stevensaid, managing to pull free. He wrapped hisarms around himself. It was mine! I made it.Why can’t he leave us alone for once? Heglared at his father. But he won’t. Ever. “Ihate you.” Faster than he could duck his head, his dadwhipped his hand around and grabbed Stevenby the hair and threw him back onto the floor.“If you don’t want to end up like your littlevolcano, you better show some respect foryour father.” He kicked Steven in the ribs andwalked off toward the living room. Beforegoing through the door, he turned around andpointed at him. “I’m warning you. This betterbe spotless when I come back in here.” Steven rested his head on the floor andrubbed his side. Hate overwhelmed him.Ignoring the pungent stench and sting ofvinegar on his arms, he closed his eyes andslammed his fists against the faded linoleum.I wish I had a baseball bat right now. I’dsmash him in the face with it.

Fifteen minutes later Ben poked his headin the door and looked around. “Are youokay?” he whispered. “Yeah, I’m almost done.” Steven gave thearea one last inspection. Satisfied, he turnedto leave. “Move it,” he said to Ben, andpushed him out. “Hold on.” Steven froze. See! Not once! He felt likebolting out the door and never stopping.Running and running until he collapsed. Buthe knew as soon as he passed by Ben, he’dstop. Why can’t Mom just leave? Take usaway from here. Anywhere. We’d even be finein a tent. He hung his head down, waiting. His dad walked into the dining room,running his hand along the bottom edge of thetable and chairs. He examined the potted plantand stooped low to get a closer look at the floor.“See. You can be responsible when you try,”he said, straightening up and walking over tothe sink. “You just need to try more often.”He washed his hands and shook the water off.“I’ll make a man out of you yet, Steven. Goodjob on the cleaning.” He rubbed his hand onthe top of Steven’s head. Steven flinched athis father’s touch and walked out, letting thescreen door slam behind him. After making sure his dad wasn’t comingout, he knelt to inspect the remains of hisscience project. All that work they did – gonein an instant. Without it, he’d probably get a‘C-’ in science. He picked up a piece andturned it around in his hands. Tears welled upin his eyes. He turned so Ben wouldn’t see.After gathering everything up, he threw thepile into the garbage can. His whole bodyshook as another wave of fury coursed throughhim. He slammed his fist into the side of theplastic can, nearly tipping it over. Pain racedup his arm, and his anger subsided intoresigned sadness. Why do I even try? The sun rode high above the two large oaksto the south. Neither of them wanted to go asktheir father for permission to walk the few

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hundred yards to shady Vernon Park, so thatleft wandering around the trailer, looking forsomething to do. With only sparse patches of weedy grass intheir yard, a physical line of dirt and well-keptturf separated them from the neighbors; theJohnsons’ yard was to the south, with thetowering oak trees on either side of their home;Crazy Carly with her annoying dogs was onthe north; and to the west was a vacant trailer.The old couple moved out last month soonafter putting it up for sale.

Near the end of their third lap around thetrailer, Ben kicked at a rock and sent itspinning over near the Johnson yard. Breakingoff from their current course, he walked overto give it another kick, but before his foot camedown, he stopped and squatted to look atsomething on the ground. “Hey, Steven! Come here!” Steven walked over and bent down to seewhat Ben was looking at. Hundreds of littlered ants were pouring out of a hole in theground. The boys watched for a while andnoticed larger ants with wings periodicallytake off into the air. “Hey, Ben, go get the magnifying glass outof the junk drawer.” “Why don’t you?” “Because you’re quieter than I am.” Ben stood up. “No I’m not. It’s becauseyou’re a big, fat ’fraidy-cat,” he said, butturned and walked off toward the trailer. A minute later, Ben ran back and handedthe large, metal-ringed piece of glass to hisbrother. “What are you going to do?” “Burn ’em.” “How? What do you do?” “First, you move.” Ben stood there, looking down expectantly. “Move it! You’re blocking the light.” Ben scooted over and knelt in the dirt towatch. Steven lifted the magnifying glass abovethe ants. “You have to focus the light into assmall a spot as possible,” he said. He

continually adjusted the distance and angle,while the beam of light on the ground waveredbigger and smaller until only a tiny brilliantdot slowly moved over the top of the swarm. “Now you hold it as steady as you can.”Steven rested his arm against his leg. The antsunder the light twisted and shriveled. Withinseconds, a tiny wisp of smoke rose from thewithered ants, while more crawled over thedead ones and onto the pyre. “Die, die, die!” Steven said, laughingmaniacally.

“Let me try!” said Ben. “Here.” Steven handed him the glass. He struggled to angle it properly untilSteven grabbed his hand to guide him. Within half an hour, all that remained wasa pile of blackened corpses amid a forest ofoddly angled and still-twitching legs. “What are you kids doing now?” Thescreen door slammed shut behind their dad.Steven looked at Ben and saw the fear that heknew must be visible in his own face. Henodded to the magnifying glass, and Ben slidit under his leg. With his hands on his hips, their fatherwalked up and asked, “What’s going on?”

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Looking around the ground, but unable tothink up a lie, Steven finally mumbled,“Killing ants.” “Good. Kill them all so they stop cominginto the house.” Steven felt the tension within him drainaway. “Do you know how to burn ants, Dad?”asked Ben, looking up hopefully. “Why don’t you show me?” Ben grabbed the magnifying glass and heldit above an ant that had managed to escapethem. “See, the sun magnifies the ants andburns them. There’s smoke and everything!” “Is that right? The sun magnifies the ants.You sure about that?” “Hey!” Ben looked over at Steven, his eyeswide. “I wonder if we can catch a stick onfire.” Their father bent down and put his fingerright in Ben’s face. “If I ever catch you doinganything like that, your butt’s going to catchon fire. What do you want to do, burn downsomebody’s house?” With the palm of hishand, he smacked Ben hard on the forehead,knocking him over and onto his back. Benlooked up at his father in confusion and fear,tears streaming down his face. Steven tensed, watching his father’s everymove, ready to jump to his brother’s defense,but knowing that would only make thingsworse. What can I do? What can I do? Throwa rock at him? I hate this! With a shudder, their father broke eyecontact. He turned back to the trailer, butabruptly stopped and called back, “I don’twant to have to keep checking on you kidsevery five minutes. Stop doing stupid things!This is your last warning.” The boys waiteduntil he went back inside. “You okay?” Steven asked. “I think so.” Steven stood and grabbed the magnifyingglass out of Ben’s hand. “Let’s go.” He tookoff west along the Johnsons' yard, flippingover the rocks he’d seen Mr. Johnson kick over

into their yard when he thought nobody waslooking. He glanced back. Ben was wipinghis eyes as he stumbled up beside him. They were finding only small, uninterestingbugs that shriveled up into tiny, black balls,until Ben found a long, fat slug under a rockin the shade of a bush. Steven pretended thewhite-hot beam of sunlight was a laser andkept trying to cut the slug in half. Theylaughed at the loud popping sounds it made asits insides boiled. While walking by the sliding glass door atthe back of the trailer, Steven noticed a flytrapped between the flattened curtains and theglass. They never used this door because ofall the boxes stacked up against it. He watchedthe fly crawl around for a bit, then moved on. Not finding any more worthwhile bugs toburn, they sat in the cool grass next to thespigot. “What do you want to do now?” askedBen. “Are we going to make another volcano?” “For what? So Dad can smash it again?” “What about your science project?” “I guess I’ll just get an ‘F’. If Dad doesn’tcare, why should I?” Steven lay down on hisback, crossed his legs, put his hands behindhis head, and closed his eyes. “In fact, whyshould I care about anything?” They listened to the sound of the cars outon the highway, and the birds high up in thetrees. They watched an old man drag a largegarbage bag over to the waste bin, and withconsiderable effort, manage to maneuver it upand in. Ben inspected his fingernails through themagnifying glass, but soon got bored. “Let’sgo find some more bugs.” “Hold on, I’m thinking.” “About what?” “Nothing. Now shut up.” After a couple of minutes, Steven openedhis eyes and found the sun in the sky. He stoodand scanned the neighborhood. “Stay here.I’ll be back in a minute.” Ben looked at himquizzically.

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Steven gently opened the door and tiptoedover to the entrance of the living room. TheTV was on – a basketball game from the soundof it. Peeking in, he saw his father asleep onthe old, dirty couch. What if he wakes up? Steven bit his lowerlip. So what. What’s the worst that canhappen? He kills me? No. No one will know.Not even Ben. We won’t even be here. I’msure I can do it! If it fails, so what? I honestlydon’t care anymore. What’s the point of livingif it’s always going to be like this? Even shehates him. A Karpet King ad suddenly blared on theTV, startling him out of his thoughts. His eyessnapped to his father’s face, but he lay there,quiet. Steven frowned. Do it. Now’s the time.He stepped back into the dining room and gaveit a last look around. His eye caught on theHarry Potter book and he wondered if heshould grab it, but decided that might look toosuspicious. He tiptoed back outside.Ben stood when the door opened and lookedat Steven expectantly. “Well?” “Well, what?” “What are we going to do?” Steven stared at a bruise on Ben’s face.What if Dad hurts him bad one of these days?What would I do then? “What are you waiting for?” Just do it! No one will know it was me.And anyway, if he does it, I won’t be lying. “How ‘bout we walk around the traileragain,” Steven said in what he hoped was aninnocent-sounding voice. When they reached the patio door, Stevenscanned the curtains until he spotted it, thengrabbed Ben’s sleeve and stopped him. “Look.See it?” he said, pointing at the fly. Ben walked over and brought themagnifying glass up to his eye for a closerlook. “Do you think it’ll work through here?”he said, placing his hand on the window. “I don’t know.” Steven’s heart poundedwildly in his chest, and he thought he couldhear the blood rushing through his ears.

Ben maneuvered his whole body intodifferent positions while attempting to shinethe light onto the fly. “Move the glass higher,” Steven finallysuggested. “Between the fly and the sun.” It worked. However, the intense heat madethe fly buzz around. Ben attempted to follow,but the fly kept moving as soon as the beamhit it. “Shine the light a little bit ahead of him,”Steven said. “Maybe it will walk into it.” Ben positioned the beam half-an-inch infront of the fly. “Now hold it there. I wonder if there’s anyother bugs in here?” Steven said, inspectingother sections of the curtain. Ben joined in thehunt while still holding the magnifying glassin place. Steven glanced down and noticed a blackspot on the curtain. “Is that one?” Steven said, pointing up andto the left. He looked closer. “Dang, it’s justa stain.” The flame started quicker than Stevenexpected. His heart jumped. Don’t let himsee! “Hey, there’s a grasshopper!” he said,spinning around and leaping away. “Where?” Ben said excitedly. “It jumped over there,” said Steven,dashing farther away. “Come on! It’s a bigone!” Ben took off after his brother. Glancingback, Steven saw the flames reaching halfwayup the curtain. Don’t stop. Don’t think aboutit. It’s done. Just keep him from seeing. Keephim moving. Something’s definitely going tochange now, for better or worse. Focus on anew life. Focus on Mom. She’s the only onewho loves us, anyway. “It jumped over here!” Steven called out.He turned and took off again, laughing andbounding away toward Vernon Park.

�

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The tiny wooden train fit nicely in thepalm of her wrinkled hand. Each miniaturecar was painted a different pastel color, andsmall, gold sequins made up the train wheels.To suspend the ornament, one end of a pieceof heavy thread attached itself to the front ofthe little red engine; the other end fastened tothe rear of the blue caboose. Marge reachedto a prominent spot on the end of a branch tohang the little train, and a memory ignitedwithin her. The vision of the night so long agowhen she and her husband had bought the tinytrain flickered in her mind.

Marge and Harold had been in Germanywhen Harold served in the army. They livedtogether in a small house in a little Germanvillage outside the base where Harold wasassigned, and for two years, they traveledevery chance they could. On a cold Decembernight in Nuremburg, they visited an outdoormarket where they bought the hand-carvedornament.

Marge breathed in the scent of pine andsighed. “That little train was Harold’s favoriteChristmas ornament,” she mumbled to theempty room. Then she stood back andadmired the warm colors of the train perchedon the end of the pine branch. Her shoulderssagged at the memory, so Marge tried to thinkof something else.

Christmas had been Harold’s favoriteholiday of the year. Even last year during hisillness, he had still gotten excited about thedecorations and gifts. Celebrating without himjust didn’t feel like much fun, and it would

only make her sad. But her son had urged herto put up a few decorations.

“Put up a small tree,” he had encouragedher. “It might help you to feel a little festive.”

“I’ll put up the tree,” she had said toFrank, “but I’m not sure I can be very festive.”

Her son smiled at her and said,“Remember what you used to tell me when Iwas young and Christmas was coming?” Hiseyes twinkled.

“Remind me, sweetheart,” she said,“I’m getting old and my memory isn’t what itonce was.”

“When I would ask about Christmas andwhat presents I was going to get.” He smiled.“You’d always say, ‘You never know whatChristmas will bring.’”

“Yes, I do remember.” She had smiledand kissed her son’s cheek, and promised thatshe would put up a tree.

Now Marge bent down next to the tree,and holding the plug snugly between hertrembling fingers, she put the prongs into thewall socket. She turned and took a breath asthe tree lights shimmered above her. She stoodand took a step back and thought, Haroldwould have loved this tree. Her lips curled intoa sad smile as she saw the little train softly litbetween two branches.

. . .

On Christmas morning, Marge wokeearly and put the kettle on to heat. Her friendMaryann planned to join her this morning, soshe put out two holiday tea cups and saucers—the ones with the snowmen painted on them—

By Angelo Dalpiaz

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then went to the tree and plugged it in. Thestrings of lights twinkled brightly along thefragrant branches, and she remembered whatHarold used to say: “The Christmas treealways looks so magical on Christmasmorning.” Marge looked at the tree, and in aquiet voice she said, “Yes, Harold, it certainlyis magical.”

Through the frosted windows, she couldsee Maryann coming up the walkway. Sheopened the front door just as her friend arrived,and as she moved aside to let Maryann into thehouse, a large, brown truck pulled up to thecurb. Before she could close the door, a youngman bounded from the truck and walkedbriskly to her door.

“Mrs. Ellington?” The young manlooked at the packet he held in his hand. “Mrs.Marge Ellington?”

“Yes, I’m Marge Ellington,” shereplied. “How can I help you?”

The young man handed the large, tanpacket to her. “Merry Christmas,” he said andturned and walked away.

“Merry Christmas,” she said softly asthe man hurried along the walkway. Shelooked at the packet, read her name, and thenlooked out as the truck drove off. Sheshrugged and closed the door.

“What’s that?” Maryann asked.“Some kind of envelope.”“I can see that!” Maryann said. “But

what’s inside?”“I don’t know.”“Well get in here and open it up. It’s

Christmas so it must be a surprise.”“Yes… I guess I should open it and see

what it is.” Marge stepped into the kitchen andsat down at the table. Her shaking fingersfound the edge of the flap, and she pried itopen. Inside she found a long colorfulChristmas card and pulled it out.

Printed on the front in flowing scriptwere the words Merry Christmas! She opened

the card and a folded sheet of paper fell ontoher lap. Unfolding it, Marge could see that itwas a typewritten letter; the letterheadannounced it was from the Go EverywhereTravel Company. She tossed it aside andturned to Maryann.

“It’s just an advertisement for a travelcompany.”

“An advertisement… hand delivered onChristmas morning?” Maryann came aroundthe table and sat next to her friend. “Are yousure?”

“That does seem odd, doesn’t it?”Marge picked up the letter again. Hereyebrows moved up and furrowed her brow asshe read, and then her eyes widened and tearsbegan to fall.

“What is it, Marge?” Maryann askedand moved closer to her friend.

“It’s from… Harold!”“Harold? What are you talking about?

That’s not possible.” Maryann peered overher friend’s shoulder and began to read alongwith her. When they finished reading, theyboth sat in silence, the hum of the refrigeratorthe only sound.

Suddenly the whistling tea kettlebrought Marge and Maryann back to thepresent. Marge stood and shuffled to the stoveand turned it off. Then she brought the kettleto the table. The scent of oranges rose fromthe cups as they were filled with steamingwater. The two friends sat in silence while theysipped hot tea from the delicate porcelain cups.

. . .

“It came early this morning,” Margesaid into the phone, when her son called to lether know he would be coming by to pick herup. She told him about the letter—and aboutthe tickets—from Harold.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said. “It’s a giftfrom your father. Two plane tickets to Madrid,Spain…the place I’ve always wanted to visit—

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ever since I was a little girl.” She looked atthe tickets again just to make sure they werereal.

“And you’re sure they’re from Dad?”Frank asked. And then with a voice filled withconcern, “Are you okay, Mom?”

“Yes, Frank, I’m fine.” She drew outthe words. “There’s a note written in hishandwriting, and it’s attached to the letter fromthe travel agency. He must have arranged forthem before he…passed.”

“Two tickets…?” Frank’s voice trailedoff.

“It’s not what you think, Frank.” Margesaid. “The note says that one ticket is for me,a Christmas present, and one ticket is to sharewith a friend so I won’t have to go alone.” Shepaused. “We both knew he wasn’t going tolive till Christmas, so he didn’t intend thesecond ticket to be for himself.”

“I’m surprised he thought to do thiswhen he was so ill.”

“So am I. But there’s more.” Shebrought the letter up to her eyes and squinted.“He says that he wants me to be happy, andthis is a first step toward me doing that.” Therewas silence on the phone. Then, in a voice justabove a whisper she added, “He also says he’llbe waiting for me to join him when the time isright, but until then, he wants me to live life tothe fullest.”

“That’s very sweet, Mom.”Marge’s voice wavered as she spoke.

“Yes, your father always was a sweet man.”Her gaze returned to the letter in her hands,her tears spotting the paper.

“Yes, Mom, he was. But even so, I’mjust so surprised by this. I guess you were rightall those years.”

“What do you mean?”“Remember? ‘You never know what

Christmas will bring.’”Marge wiped away a tear and asked,

“What time are you picking me up?”

After she hung up the phone, Margewalked to the tree and examined the littlepastel train hanging from its perch on the endof a branch. She thought about that day solong ago when she and Harold had bought thelittle ornament as they strolled, hand in hand,drinking hot wine at the outdoor market. Onlythis time, she realized the memory brought herhappiness, and it filled her heart with joy. Shereached up and touched the miniature trainwith the tip of her finger and watched thegolden wheels reflect the colored lights of thetree and thought, You never know whatChristmas will bring. Then with a smile thatreached into her eyes, she said, “Thank you,Harold.”

. . .

That was three years ago, and since thatfirst Christmas after Harold died, Marge andMaryann travelled not only to Madrid but alsoto Rome the next year and Paris last year.Each year at Christmas, Marge received aspecial packet containing airline tickets to anexotic destination. And each ticket wasaccompanied by a card signed by Harold, withthis simple message: Enjoy Life.

And enjoy life she did. Maryann’sbrash sense of humor added a bit of personalityto each trip. Marge had no idea how manytrips Harold had scheduled, but it didn’tmatter. She knew one day she would take thattrip—the one that would reunite her withHarold, where she would thank him formaking her years without him more livable.

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Fall passed; spring yet weeks away.Silently, a swing set stands,

reminiscing of summer days.

Slide slick with fallen snow,missing the feel of childrenand the sun’s glorious glow.

Monkey bars now poles of chill,aching for kids’ grimy hands

and longing for screams of thrills.

Swings sway idly in the wind,wishing for just one push,

feeling little legs stretch and bend.

Hibernating in winter days,a playground patiently waitsfor seasonal friends to play.

Seasonal FriendsBy Audra L. Ralls

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When the sun disappears, and the clouds are ablaze,And the moon is a sliver of white,With a rumble and roar, through curtains of mistA ghost train tears through the night.

The wailing whistle echoes and moans,And black smoke pours from the stack.Showers of sparks fly up from the railsAs the ghost train roars down the track.

The steam engine wheezes, the warning bells clang,And night birds cry out in fright.At a dark, empty station, the brakes squeal and shriekAs the ghost train stops in the night.

Unseen hands throw open the doors.Silent riders embark, one by one.The engine breathes fire, and into the nightThe ghost train flies off and is gone.

When the sun disappears, and the clouds are ablaze,And the moon is a sliver of white,Stay away from the tracks, lest you be called to rideOn the ghost train that tears through the night.

Ghost TrainBy Carla Ralston

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         A corduroy-collared, blue denim coathung on his closet door, smelling of earth andOld Spice. I could never fully fit into the coat,just as I could never fill the shoes of theirowner. But one man filled it properly until itwas threadbare; then I wore it some. Thememories surrounding it and its scratchy woollining will go with me to my grave, thoughmany times I can't remember to shave, takeout the trash, or comb my hair. It must be nearforty-five years old now—maybe closer tofifty, come to think of it. After all, I'm fifty-four, and I don't ever remember mygranddaddy without it.          The first time I can remember himwearing it was when he and Mom took mebank fishing at Arlington Lake in Fort Worth,Texas. He carried the worm box in one of thelarge pockets, and I caught the first fish thatnight. There were many fishing trips. Wormdirt still stains its pockets. We sat quietly withcane poles at our sides, watched our bobbersin the light of our foil-lined Coleman lantern,and listened to Granddaddy as he murmured,calling fish. "Here, fishy-fishy. Here, fishy-fishy." I went through plenty of worms andminnows in those years, and caught fish too,when he wore that coat and called them in. Onetime, after running a trot line, he came homewith a catfish that seemed to fill the rearfloorboard of his 1956 Chevrolet. We had afeast that night. I thought that coat was so lucky.         He wore it again when I was eleven, andhe took me on my first squirrel hunt in EastTexas near his cabin. Shotgun shells weremade of paper back then. He put a few 12-

gauge shells in one side pocket and somesmaller ones in the other. Then we walkeddown the bank to a small Jon boat and pushedoff into a body of water that I no longerremember the name of. From where welaunched, it was thin, like a stream, with mossyCypress tree branches overhanging the smoothsurface. A thin fog stretched from shore toshore. The water seemed still, but its flow overrocks and downed trees could be heard off inthe distance. After a slow five-minute tripdownstream with our quiet 3-horsepoweroutboard motor, we beached on the oppositebank, disembarked, and tied up. ThenGranddaddy tossed a blanket off two long guncases, uncased one, and handed me a new boltaction single shot .410 along with one of thesmall shells from his pocket. I was so excitedI could hardly keep my feet on the ground! Ihad been raised around long guns and taughtfirearm safety by Mom and Granddaddy, sonothing was said when he handed it to me. Wewalked safely away from the Cypress banksand up a small animal trail, stomping leavesand small branches like two bull elephantsclearing a two-lane highway, and entered asection of Oak and Pine trees with ourweapons pointing in opposite directions. Hiscataracts had been removed, but I'm sure thosethick glasses were hard to see out of, and Ididn't know the first thing about hunting. Ofcourse, the bright new shotgun that glared inmy eyes didn't help me see anything.         We came home empty handed that day.I was so busy looking at the new gun I didn'tsee a single bird in that forest, much less a

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squirrel. And it was ideal squirrel country.When we got back to our cabin, Granddaddysaid I should shoot the little shotgun to knowhow it kicked because I hadn't shot anythinglarger than a .22 rifle. He stood me over by atree, handed me a 3-inch shell, and then hadme point high across the water and pull thetrigger. It almost knocked me down! He andMom laughed at my reaction, and we watchedas the number six pellets fell gently into thewater.         The week did not leave us empty handed.A few days later, we visited a relative in thesame area of East Texas. I shot my firstsquirrel on her property, which went promptlyinto the same pocket the worm box would havebeen in had we been fishing, and I'm sure othersquirrels had been in it before. I'll never forgetthe smile on his face or the stifled "tee-hee"laugh as he lifted the fox-furred rodent fromthe ground. We brought in three squirrels thatmorning and had squirrel dumplings fordinner, a real treat for us in those days!         Granddaddy left us in 1969 to be withour Lord and Savior, and I miss him dearly.Although more than thirty-five years havepassed, I know he has witnessed many fishing

and hunting trips throughout my life as I tookall my firsts in different game and fish species.I have felt his presence, his patience, and hislove throughout each adventure. It has been acomfort to know he was there with me,teaching life through the memory of hispatience and understanding—and, of course,while I experienced the wonders of God'soutdoors. These memories of growing up withGranddaddy's love hold firm, and althoughmany times I feel I've failed, I still struggle tobe worthy of existing as a branch of his tree.         Today, his threadbare coat, now barrenof its wool lining, hangs on my closet door,embracing stains of past fishing and huntingtriumphs, including faint odors of forest, lake,and earth. But if you were to look, if you wereto look close, you too could see those bannersof my youth—the trophies of our memories,Granddaddy's and mine. You could also findsome of the paper shot shells in its pockets.You might even sense some of the love leftbehind in what is normally viewed a uselessgarment, along with remnants of other life-memories and possessions passed on byJoseph "Willis" Day.

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By John Grey

holy shrine hummingbirdI study from side window

tiny angel in the dusk glare,black wings sawing,body throbbing,feasting on another seasonof hollyhock and golden juice

needle beakpatiently preciseby beak steadied,no drop missed

kind of miniature life,beauty’s most modest assignation

reflected through bright glass,halved and quarteredso rare, trapped easyby the fading light

to only bear it up,this humming leaf,a grand assimilation,

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The torque in the air wrenched so tight itwas nearly impossible to breathe. Electricitypulled on the spirits of all who watched,drawing them in, tossing them out, scorchingthe nerves of those who remained to witness.

Caza’s eyes remained closed, her bodyrelaxed, not reflecting the dire situation. It wasas if she were merely considering what colourpants to wear rather than formulating a plan tosave her living hide. Only the slow, controlled,curling and uncurling of her fingers, a nervoushabit since childhood, gave any indication thatshe was actually alive and not just a realisticstatue.    Her dark hair twisted in the air defying alllaws of physicality because there was

absolutely no trace of a breeze. Not a naturalone at least. Not one anyone else could detectother than Caza and her hidden opponent.  Caza’s eyes slowly opened, as if wakingfrom a deep, restful slumber. Her hair floppedsuddenly down her back, limp, dead and wetwith concentration-induced sweat. Her handsfroze mid-clench, looking for all the world likethe talons of a vulture rather than her small,feminine fingers.    For a moment no one breathed. For amoment, it was as if nothing else on the entireplanet lived. Time seemed to pause, the worldoff kilter, as if even the sun in the sky hadshifted in its course, waiting to see what wasabout to happen below.

By Kat Hawthorne

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  The beast's continued victory in the Arenawould mean its redemption, its wager fulfilled,its potential release. Legions of the king’s mostdangerous had faced it seeking historicalvalour, but all had failed. Besting the monsterwould keep a warrior's name vibrantthroughout the thick cataracts of history, andthey all craved that fame. For a warrior to diein the Arena was to die with honour, butvictory would mean immortality long aftertheir physical return to the mud. Often, oldmen, leathered and bent, crippled by age andinsignificance, were driven mad, lusting withdesire to complete their Test. Everyone wantedto die with the envy of the population, notsimply of old age, and the fact that a girl ofonly seventeen years had been selected was,to many, something of an outrage.  With no obvious preparation or movement,something radiated out from around Caza thatmade the air visibly waver. It lifted the dirt ather feet, hurling the world’s natural refuse upand into the stands where the stunned audiencesat, mouths agape, coating them in a thicklayer of dirt and decaying foliage.    The one Caza fought was impossible tosee—literally.  It had been captured twentyyears before and charged with an act soheinous the details had never been publicallyrevealed. The beast was sentenced to death,but on the day set for the punishment, the kingagreed to a deal. He was forever looking fornew and entertaining ways to occupy himselfand his subjects. The creature was so powerful,the king agreed that if the monster could defeatthe king's ten best warriors, he would set itfree. But when the monster proved the task tooeasy, the king reneged on the bargain, andbegan randomly throwing his trained fightersinto the arena, the fulfillment of bloodlust ina time of peace too appealing. The beast wassimply far too entertaining to release.    The monster had a distinctive diametricsweeping force that furled out from around itlike a cape trimmed with hundreds of deadly

reaper’s scythes. The victim’s demise wasalways instantaneous. Before the challengereven knew to be afraid, they were nothingmore than a pile of finely butchered meatstacked at the feet of the fiend. No one eversaw it coming, or at least, no one ever lived totell the tale if they did.

*~*~* The monster screamed, harsh andvoluminous, and the sound ripped through theair with the gravelly tone of a metalshovelhead scraping earth, the sound of agravedigger hard at work. No one had everheard the beast speak; no one knew it could,its silence a solidifying part of its disguise. Butthis time, due to the hazy silt Caza had sentswirling, the fiend's body was fully visible. Ithad lost the ability to hide, so, stripped of thatdefense, it spoke for the first time.    “You are the king’s niece,” it spat, statingthe obvious. “I have waited a long time to meetyou. Though I must admit, I am a littledisappointed. I thought the king’s strongestwould be a little more… Well, I thought you’dbe a little more.”    Once again, thick coils of Caza's hairwhipped in a maddening frenzy, caught in asudden nonexistent wind and doing a fairlyconvincing impression of angry serpents notyet placated by the charmer’s mesmerizingsong. The beast began to move too, weavinga track in the dirt, stepping to the side and backagain as if considering something verycomplicated. Its lips rolled back revealing amouthful of discoloured fangs. "I know whoyou are," it said. "I know who you really are."    Caza made no effort to move, her body asstill as a hunted animal frozen with fear anddenial. The monster continued. "Your mother,"it said in a soothing tone, "did you know her?"    Caza's voice was controlled and calm whenshe answered, "My mother died of a feverwhen I was an infant."    The fiend nodded, "Of course, of course,

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very common. And your father?"    "Was killed in this Arena fighting you."    The fiend stopped its motion and fixed itsglare on the girl. "An orphan," it hissed, greatstrings of saliva dampening the ground. "Howsad. Nothing to lose then. But tell me, if younever knew your parents, how sure are you ofyour heritage?"    "What reason would there be to lie?" Cazagrowled as a fresh gust of silt flew up in thebeast's face, angering it. She was incensed, andthe very ground beneath her feet seemed torespond to her emotion. "I am not here to talk,"she added, and, flinging her wrist at a pacebeyond that of even the most skilled weaponsmaster, she let her blade fly.    It flipped through the air, cutting a glintingpath in the inexplicable chaos. Caza’s aim wasdeadly accurate, her force bone-splittinglyhard, but rather than the satisfying sound ofmetal ripping flesh, the knife froze mid-twist,mid-air, its tip mere inches from slicing themonster's face, as if it had come against a vatof congealing mud. The beast laughed, a soundso repulsive several of the viewers coveredtheir ears, nausea sweeping over them. Then,with a gentle puff of the monster’s breath, theblade fell harmlessly to the ground. Theaudience gasped, confusion warping theirability to accept what they were seeing.    The king, who until that point had been inand out of an alcohol-induced slumber,suddenly stood up, sprayed an impressiveamount of wine-tinged spittle on everyonenearby, and hollered, "Good show! Splendid!"before he fell back into his seat, snoring at anear-splitting decibel. The fiend took advantageof the distraction and spoke again, "The kinghas been manipulating you all these years. Hedoes not want the shame of your creation onhis hands."    Caza froze, her bravado faltering slightly."What do you mean?" she asked, her voice amonotone rumble.    "The man you thought was your father, the

one who raised you, loved you, cared for you.That man you are here to avenge was not yourfather."    Uncharacteristically, Caza broke herintense stare-down and looked at the king, stillsleeping soundly in his plush chair, his piggishhead doing nothing to keep his overly-decorated crown in place. The fiend continued,"Have you never wondered why you arecapable of controlling the elements, girl? Didyou not think it odd that, even though you areby far physically the weakest member of theking’s troop and not yet finished with yourtraining, you were selected to face me? A girlof your size and experience would be nochallenge for me, if not for your heritage."    Caza took a moment to consider heropponent's words. Then, she cleared her throatand shook her head, causing her airbornetresses to writhe wildly. "I'm listening," shesaid.    The monster continued, "Do you know whyI was charged, child?  Do you know the detailsof my sentence?"    "Treason." Caza spat, hunkering downdefensively at the reminder.    The beast laughed again and grinnedthreateningly, offering the disgusting displayof animalistic weaponry that lined its mouth."Yes! That is so, I suppose. After all, I amresponsible for the queen's death. That couldbe considered treasonous behavior if youchoose to see it that way."    "The queen died in childbirth as did herinfant," Caza said, the dust beginning to stironce again. "What's your point?"    "My point is that I am not guilty of thecharges given me. The stories you have beenlead to believe are false. Your gelatinous kingis the one who decided the queen’s fate, not I.I was merely a symptom of her death."    Caza's lips peeled back in an unattractivegrimace, her displeasure apparent. She glancedat the king again who was now sufferingblatant jostling at the hands of his subjects who

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were trying, unsuccessfully, to rouse him. Shetook another knife from her belt and hefted itonce in the air, catching it by the blade, readyto fling. "I don't care about you. You havekilled courageous men in this arena, my fatheramong them, and for that you must die."    The beast splayed its hands, a fine array ofearth now swirling at its feet. "Fine, we willend this, but know highness, I did not kill yourfather or the queen, you did."

~*~*~  It was difficult to see exactly what washappening. The earth physically responded tothe actions of both fighters, skewing thedetails, making the viewing murky. Withoutany contact whatsoever, rocks and sticks lifted,flinging themselves of their own volition, andlanded on the bodies of each fighter in equalparts. The carnage sprayed in grisly patternson the ground and arena walls. The sound ofcollapsing bones and ripping flesh echoedthrough the nerves of all who watched. No onehad any question that death was soon to come.    All at once the action stopped, and the dustbegan to melt away, revealing two writhingbodies through the thick curtain of filth. Cazawas on top of the beast, although it did not looklike a position she had gotten into on her own.On closer inspection, it became obvious thatshe was levitating, an invisible force holdingher suspended in the air, unable to defendherself.    "Let me go!" she screeched in jaggedbursts, raw anger distorting her voice.    Slowly the creature began to rise,contorting in unnatural ways as its limbsstruggled to find their rightful place on itsbody. When it spoke, its voice was slurred withexertion and physical wreckage. "I do not wishto kill you, child. I only want to explain andthen be free. But I will end this if that is whatit will take. I will kill my own kin."    The creature moved toward Caza'ssuspended form in a gait that could only bedescribed as broken. It reached out a gnarled

hand, blood trickling through the thickwebbing of its fingers, and harshly gripped ahandful of her hair, turning her head sharplyso she would have no choice but to look at itsface. "Listen to me now," it growled, "and thenI will be free. It is not me you should hate, butyour own selfish king. When I was captured,it was not coincidence. I was summoned underfalse pretenses. My species is dwindlingquickly. We have only one female left ofbreeding age, and she can only reproduce onceevery fifty years. Your king offered his queento us as an experiment, wanting to create forhimself a bloodline of royals so powerful theywould never be defeated. And if thereproduction was successful, he promised usfemales of your kind to help us regenerate ourpopulation, if only of halflings. We weredesperate. We are desperate. I accepted thedeal."    Caza’s voice was a groan. "What does thishave to do with me?"    The monster paused before it responded,allowing the gravity of what it was about tosay to be framed in clarity. "Everything, mydaughter. It has everything to do with you."

~*~*~  The king, who was now awake enough tosputter out a few unintelligible words, gawkedstupidly at the scene before him. Suddenly themonster coiled itself and sprung into thestands, tottering over its own busted limbs. Itspun in the air, performing some feat ofacrobatics the likes of which had never beenseen by human eyes. It raised its arms aboveits head, and as it did, a drape of loose fleshdropped and skirted out, bellowing a widediameter. As it got closer, the monster whippedaround so blindingly fast its features becamenothing but a blur.    And as the beast disappeared over the wallof the Arena, the king, who had just begun toregister his grave predicament, fell in greatchunks of gory meat to the floor of the stands.

~*~*~

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Angelo Dalpaiz (You Never Know What Christmas Will Bring)

Angelo Dalpiaz is a retired police detective. After 25 years in law enforcement he now lives in centralFlorida with his high school sweetheart and wife of 43 years. Angelo has had two short stories published inan anthology released in August 2011 for the commemoration of the 10th anniversary of September 11th.He writes fiction, non-fiction, romance, and historical fiction short stories. He is working on a novel aboutthe interesting last years of his grandmother's life in Italy before and after World War II, a story of poverty,improper incarceration, and unrequited love.

Cathe Ferguson (What Giant Birds Are Trees)

Cathe Ferguson began writing as soon as she started reading; stories and poetry just naturally blossomed inher imagination, writing themselves as she gained greater skills as a reader. She composed her first shortstory in the fourth grade and derived such pleasure in the endeavor that she became hooked, developing alife-long joy in writing from that day forward.

She grew up loving horses as well as writing, so many of her stories and poetry reflect that passion. Many ofher poems have appeared in the monthly newsletter, The Stampede. She has received various awards for herpoetry including one from the "Iron Chef" poetry contest. Her short story, The Fever Tree, will be featuredin The Rusty Nail magazine later this year.

John Grey (Hummingbird)

John Grey is an Australian born poet and works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in BryantPoetry Review, Tribeca Poetry Review and the horror anthology, What Fears Become with work upcomingin Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Osiris.

Brad Hainsworth (Focused)

Brad is a happily married computer programmer. His interests are reading, writing, photography, cooking,and listening to high-quality music. He decided to take up writing as an outlet for some pent-up creativitythat’s been building up his whole life, and he finds it a blast so far.

Michael Hanvey (Christmas in a Child’s Eyes; The Coat)

Michael Hanvey is an avid reader. He is a retired Police Sergeant from the Fort Worth Police Department.He is now working as a sergeant at Texas Christian University. Michael’s interest in memoirs sprang fromthe old family stories told by his grandfathers. When they died, the stories died with them, and Michael wasmoved to write their tales—some in the form of fiction, some fact—so that his children would havepermanent access to their history.

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Kat Hawthorne (The Test)

Kat Hawthorne likes to be mysterious. She tends to lurk (somewhat menacingly) in the darkest folds oflesser-travelled corners. Or at least, that is the image she portrays. In reality, Kat is a friendly person whoonly eats human flesh once per week – if that. Most of her writing is dark, although the genre shifts betweenyoung adult, dark fantasy, and occasionally poetry.

Kat’s other published works include the poems “Nonconformity,” “For Me, Not You,” and “SleepingSickness.” She also has a short story published entitled “The Pain Merchant.” Although relatively new to thepublishing aspect of writing, she has spent much of her life sifting through her creepy little thoughts andwriting them down, then snobbishly not sharing them with anyone. Obviously, that is about to change. Howlucky for the whole of humanity.

C.K. Ledford (Warmth Emerging)

C.K. Ledford lives in Ohio with her husband, three children, five cats and a dog. She is the author of Tearsin Bloom, a collection of emotional poetry, and is currently writing her first novel.

William Leet (Girl with Flowers)

William Leet recently returned to the U.S. after almost thirty years in Japan and is now living in Florida.The experiences, travel and journal notes of the years living as an expatriate in Tokyo have become fodderfor a book he is currently writing. He has written and translated for the UCLA Journal of Asian Studies, withother work appearing in American Athenaeum, The Rusty Nail and Literary Orphans.

T. A. McCarthy (Blocked)

T. A. McCarthy is an emerging poet. Although she loves to play with words, photography and drawing areher passions.

Audra L. Ralls (Seasonal Friends)

Audra teaches English, Current Events, and Speech/Drama at Jones Middle School. She has a wonderfulson, Reese. Most of her activities revolve around work, family, and creative expression.

Carla Ralston (Ghost Train)

Carla Ralston is a wife, mother, grandmother, biologist, teacher, writer, and editor living in Grand Forks,ND. She loves stories with a twist and poems that rhyme. On Writing.com, she is known as Arakun, anAlgonquian name for raccoon, her favorite animal.

Joel Spearman (The 1969 Christmas Play)

Joel Spearman is a proud Canadian who calls the city of Winnipeg home. He currently lives outside of thecity in the woods alongside a lake in Sunset Bay with his two amazing and talented children. Because of hislove of nature, he began a successful landscaping business in 1999. At fifty-one, Joel maintains his boyhoodcuriosity and his joy of discovering the lighter side of life which he shares through his many humorous shortstories and poems. He is a talented author with a rare ability to capture the hearts of his readers with hisanimated characters. You can read more of his work at Brother’s Blog

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Wendy Van Camp (Baptism by Fire)

Wendy Van Camp began as a municipal television director of city council meetings, parades and localchurch services. Later, she developed two television performance series, one for musicians and the other forpoets. Wendy currently writes articles and short stories for magazines and is at work on a trilogy of fantasynovels while continuing her work as an artisan jeweler and gemologist. She is married and has one furbaby.

Graphics

Cover: Image courtesy of Brian McNulty, morguefile.com

Write What You Know: Image is in the public domain. Huckleberry and Jim. The Adventures ofHuckleberry Finn By Samuel L. Clemens, Published 1884. Original from Oxford University. Digitized June12, 2007

Warmth Emerging: Image courtesy of Iván Melenchón Serrano, morguefile.com

What Giant Birds are Trees: Image courtesy of Daniel Hatch Dorantes, morguefile.com

Girl with Flowers: Teacup image courtesy of mconnors morguefile.com Pipe image courtesy of mnp, morguefile.com

Baptism by Fire: ‘IN USE’ sign courtesy of jdarwin, morguefile.com Reel image courtesy of mconnors, morguefile.com

Blocked: Image courtesy of xandert, morguefile.com

Christmas in a Child’s Eyes: Vintage Santa image courtesy of phaewilk, morguefile.com Child’s eye image courtesy of Carmem L. VilanovaFocused: Image courtesy irkingerdib, morguefile.com

Seasonal Friends: Image courtesy of Brian McNulty, morguefile.com

The Coat: Image courtesy of Michael Hanvey, personal collection

Hummingbird: Image courtesy of Rodney Campbell, morguefile.com

We thank the wonderful people at morguefile.com who allowed their creative endeavours to grace ourpages. It just would not be the same without your contributions.

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PublisherS. Randez enjoys taking new writers under her wing, encouraging them to work hard toward achievingtheir writing aspirations. She is an avid novice poetess and also enjoys writing flash-fiction and short storiesin many genres.

Managing EditorK. Wall returns to editing and mentoring after a ten-year hiatus. She is excited to lead an incredible team ofprofessionals assisting new writers as they grow, soar to new heights, and achieve their dreams. In her sparetime, she writes fiction delving into relationship dynamics and the human condition.

Fiction EditorPL Scholl is a professional writer and educator.  A member of WDC since 2009, she has won numerousawards for both her writing and her reviews.  She holds a BA in English, a BS in Education, and a MS inLiteracy.  Currently, she is an adjunct professor for Sinclair Community College.  When not writing orteaching, she enjoys spending time with her two children and husband of 22 years.

Non-fiction EditorWinnie has been on the Staff of Shadows Express for a two years. She is an instructor for New HorizonsAcademy, an on-line writing school associated with the global writing community Writing.Com  and hastaught the fundamentals of proper comma placement and sentence structure for over two years. Winnieenjoys writing traditional poetry and short-stories designed to stir the emotions of her readers. But hergreatest delight is polishing and editing promising works for new writers in preparation for possiblepublication. She established  Walrus Editing and Proofreading in 2010. In addition, she is a member of theediting staff of Wynwidyn Press

Poetry EditorIn his youth, Liam O'Haver was taught that with diligence you could reach any dream. This has generallyproven true. In his life, he has been a student, paperboy, soldier, private detective, printer, technicalconsultant, and teacher. As a husband and father, along with his wife, he has raised four children, enjoyedseven grandchildren so far, and has looked into the eyes of one great-granddaughter. Despite being anaccomplished poet, even in his wildest dreams, he never anticipated being a poetry editor.

Editorial Assistant L. Byus, a dedicated advocate for quality in literature, believes in nurturing new authors. She joined thestaff of Shadows Express in September 2012. Her freelance editorial business, Cicero Grade, wasestablished in January 2012.

From our family here at Shadows Express to yours,we hope 2013 brings you all the blessings you deserve.

We look forward to being part of your literary journey next year.

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