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A Painting features Forever

20 October 2022 / Editor

Nonfiction by Meredith Escudier

A woman, pear-shaped and clad in a modest swimming suit, edges her way into the
water. Her toes sink into the wet sand, partially disappearing into a cushiony
softness as a few gentle waves ebb and flow. Despite her tentative approach, her
stance gives off a certain determination. Clutched securely in her right hand is the
left hand of her grandson. Together, in a kind of cross-generational unison, they
advance into the gentle Mediterranean.

Little by little, the waves ripple and swell. By the time the water swirls around her
knees, he will already be waist deep. Mindful of this, she goes no further, not for
now. This will be just a teaser, a taste, an awareness of why a beach holds sway,
why they are here today. The sky, in a wash of orange watercolors, gradually
transforms as the day wears on. The light brightens, nearly blinding in its
luminosity before it recedes, as the day proceeds, as life proceeds, gradually
darkening into another palette of grey and purplish navy blue.

Though the watercolors, light and lovely, maintain their transparency, something
has changed. The grandson will come to approach the water on his own one day,
arms held aloft in greeting, a young expectant heart soaring. She knows this. As a
promoter of life, she somehow hungers for this and yet, looking at the horizon, she
also knows she is enacting a certain lesson, a teaching for him, yes, but also for
her.

He will go on, a member of the future, embracing life on his own. And she, the
grandmother, will follow him along with her eyes, quietly drinking in his wonder
and waving to him, tenderly, from afar.

Meredith Escudier has lived in France for over 35 years, teaching, translating, raising a family and writing. She is the author of three books, most recently, a food memoir, The Taste of Forever, an affectionate examination of home cooks that features an American mother and a French husband.

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Lydia Palmer: Redwing, 1888

18 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Katharyn Howd Machan

Old idea, a hope chest. Girls already
diligent wives in fond imagination.
No dreams of travel, friendship, books,
deep treasure of solitude.

My mother’s mother started mine:
wedding quilt, baby blanket,
dainty towels with crocheted edges,
tablecloth hemmed with her love.

Oh, I understand her gifts!
She wants her world to be mine.
And I’ll lay them all aside with care
as I repack that flowered trunk.

My future’s shaped by a wide hill
overlooking Cayuga Lake.
There I’ll study more than she
could ever think a girl should need–

but in my sleeve, to honor her,
I’ll tuck the handkerchief she’s stitched
with tiny violets, purple and bright,
small daisies opening into sun.

Katharyn Howd Machan has been writing and publishing poetry for half a century. She lives and teaches in Ithaca, New York with her beloved spouse and fellow poet Eric Machan Howd. She directed the Feminist Women’s Writing Workshops, Inc., and served as Tompkins County’s first poet laureate. She belly dances.

close up photography of green and brown bird flying over body of water with catch on its beak — Photo by Andrew Mckie on Pexels.com

Afternoon by the Brick Pond

16 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by K.L. Johnston

The fisherman left his folding
chair under the oak in leafy
coolness where occasionally
it’s borrowed to mind the pond.

Content to view its mysteries,
passed by, to watch the young parents
with their daughter discovering
mud, laughing as she finds something

startling that splashes and flicks
away. They scoop her up, strolling
on unmindful of fingerprints
and red clay. They pass the dragon

elm that is far from home, but thrives,
happy to be surrounded by
the wild natives, cinnabar heart
visible through its shrinking bark

next to sycamores flaunting pale
green and white skins. At their dark roots
the bumblebee sits unmoving
on the swamp sunflower, so tired

by afternoon, with few blossoms
left unvisited, he sleeps on
in the acute angles of stem
and sun while pollen shimmers,

a dust of fantasies on the
waters of the pond where carp rise
up from green and purple shadows,
grazing in brilliance, uncaring.

Fierce, the kingfisher darts by blue
and shaded. Not the most brilliant
or the biggest or most deadly
of hunters unless you are small
and a fish! a fish, a fish.

K. L. Johnston‘s favorite subjects are whimsical, environmental and/or philosophical. Her poetry appears in journals ranging from Small Pond magazine in the 1980s to work recently appearing in Humana Obscura and Pangyrus. She is a contributor to the recently published anthology Botany of Gaia.

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A Special Place

15 October 2022 / Editor

Fiction by Laurel DiGangi

Judith and Marlon sat on their veranda, sipping Château Lafite Rothschild and nibbling chunks of a divine French brie. The setting sun painted the clouds above and ocean below in iridescent strokes of color. But they didn’t know what specific ocean they viewed, nor could they describe the colors since they didn’t exist on the spectrum.

A year earlier, Pastor Ned had told Judith, Marlon, and the rest of his congregation that there was a special place in heaven for those who put their total faith in the Lord. Believers, true believers, did not need masks, vaccines, seat belts, safety razors, smoke alarms, carbon monoxide detectors, or non-slip bathmats.

Now, here they were, the both of them.

A trio of humpback whales breached in the distance.

“Magnificent creatures!” announced Marlon.

“Yup,” said Judith, but they only reminded her of their three grandchildren. She tried not to miss them because she felt guilty when she did, as if wishing for their early demise.

Suddenly Marlon sprung from his lounge chair. “I think I’ll go for a run,” he said.

“Have fun,” said Judith, but she was thinking, “Don’t come back.” If it weren’t for Marlon, she could be jangling her hip scarf at belly dance lessons or helping her grandkids look for seashells and hermit crabs on a real, living beach. Instead she’d spent her last semi-conscious days traumatizing them, their parents, and her friends—including a special friend who couldn’t visit her in intensive care because their friendship was, well, secret.

Judith felt achingly lonely. Sensing this, her lifetime’s accumulation of dogs, five mutts, a dachshund and a Lab, ran out the back door to join her. A plate of doggie treats and chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies appeared. The dogs sat in a row on their haunches and waved their forepaws in the air like little beggars. They were never this well-behaved when alive, but rowdy or polite, they were now one of her few joys.

She tossed treats at the dogs. She ate the cookies. And no matter how many she ate, more would appear. She tried a dog treat, just for fun. It tasted like ambrosia.

Judith leaned back and cracked open her book, a tell-all memoir written by her favorite actor after his death. The dachshund jumped on her lap, waves churned in the distance, and by page 12, she had fallen into a light slumber.

When she awoke, Marlon was hovering above her, scowling.

“The people down the shore have a gazebo,” he said. “And a fire pit, hot tub, and swimming pool.”

“Cool,” said Judith. “Maybe they’ll invite us over.”

“No. Not cool. We deserve everything they have, plus maybe a fifty-foot catamaran and our own private pier!”

“What makes you think we deserve anything?”

“We were specifically told, a special place in heaven!” Judith had no words. All she could do was glare at her husband. She glared for a long, long time, as time was now mockingly irrelevant.

Laurel DiGangi’s writing has been published in The Chicago Reader, Denver Quarterly, Fourth Genre, Asylum, Atlanta Quarterly, Cottonwood, Two Hawks Quarterly, and Under the Gum Tree, among others. A Chicago-born, former graphic designer and illustrator, she now teaches and is coordinator of tutoring services at Woodbury University in Burbank, California.

The Unboxing

13 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Jennifer Campbell

Recalling craftsmen
and cobblestone streets,
I may be the apprentice,
laying rice paper
between leather straps
in a protective shield.
I slide slips over leather pulls
and foam circles
over grommets
and buckles.

I give myself permission.

I leave no fingerprints
on silver. The scent
of earth lets go
with each fold and tuck,
wrap and smooth.

The finished product
grows incrementally smaller,
an act of love
expressed one too many times.

Jennifer Campbell is an English professor in Buffalo, NY, and a co-editor of Earth’s Daughters. She has published two full-length poetry books and a chapbook of reconstituted fairytale poems. Jennifer’s work appears in The Healing Muse, San Pedro River Review, The Sixty-Four Best Poets of 2019, and Paterson Review.

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Cradling

11 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Andy Oram

I stand in a room without walls. Strips of hung paper from the
Past seventy years quiver from the joists.
In the center, a rough oak table is pressed by grinning friends and relations.
The table is scattered with treats
Carried from a scarred porcelain stove.

I feel the bundle’s warmth gradually intertwine with mine,
My forearm greets the churning of small legs,
And I accept them as my own.

Through the streaked pane of a solid double-hung window,
Recently bared of its weary paint,
I envision the eleven paces one year ago from the car to the house,
and my urgent grip on the papers embossed by a lawyer.
I race against the downpour with bent head and sole-squeals.

More precious than my grizzly head were these papers,
More worthy of a legacy than the leather shoes I dredged from the closing.
Arrived finally in my new home, raindrops from my coat still pommeling the pine floor,
I uncradled the packet to make sure nothing was smudged.

One is drawn to gaze at what one cradles.
I retrieve the child from some well-wisher,
Slip a palm beneath his head and become the whole universe of this unfamiliar creature,
Become a presence to the wide pupils that sweep me into their field of vision.

Now we share points on a simple harmonic scale,
The overtones traveling through my chest and arms and lips.
And the baby responds to my resonance.

Andy Oram is a writer and editor in the computer field. Print publications where his writings have appeared include The Economist, the Journal of Information Technology & Politics, and Vanguardia Dossier. He has lived in the Boston, Massachusetts area for almost 50 years.

Lines

9 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Christine Andersen

I don’t want to be the person
who colors outside the lines.

I want to be the one who lifts them from the page

scallops and twists and folds

until there is a butterfly
perched on my outstretched palm.

Be the one who blows the parting kiss.

Christine Andersen is a retired dyslexia specialist who hikes daily through the CT woods with her hounds. The changing New England seasons inspire her poems. Publications include Comstock, Octillo, American Writers and Awakenings Reviews, Glimpse, Dash, Months to Years and upcoming in Glassworks and Evening Street Press.

Never Too Late

8 October 2022 / Editor

Nonfiction by Nick Wynne

I had no experience with fatherhood, nor did I have the kind of experience with my father that would have helped me to be a better one. My father was an alcoholic, and I and all my siblings bore the brunt of that. He could be kind, but he could also be harsh and emotionally abusive. Despite his shortcomings, he and my mother made sure that we grew up with strong moral values and work ethic. Although we went through periods of severe economic stress as a family, they sacrificed to ensure that we were fed, clothed, and loved. Tragically, as a family we didn’t articulate our love for each other until after his death. It was there, but we didn’t express it.

I must confess I never really understood my father until I was in my mid-30s. Only then did I understand that he was a brilliant man who could have been anything he wanted to with an education but was forced to leave school in the third grade and work to support his mother and family. We, his own family, were five in number, and he worked hard to support us despite knowing that every job he took involved hard labor and minimum wages. Nevertheless, he persisted. It is no wonder that he took to drink to relieve his frustrations at not being able to provide more. Hard to understand, but understandable.

I do know that I never told my father I loved him until he was on his death bed. My brother Joe and I were in his room where he was in a coma. Joe left for some reason, and I was there alone with him. He briefly opened his eyes and looked at me. I felt compelled to tell him face-to-face, “I never told you this, you old sonofabitch, but I love you.” He blinked his eyes, smiled a little smile, closed his eyes, and died.

Nick Wynne is a retired educator and published author. He is a native of McRae, Georgia but lives in Rockledge, Florida. His latest book is Cousin Bob: The World War II Experiences of Robert Morris Warren, DSC. His website is www.nickwynnebooks.com.

Pain Management

6 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Carol L. Gloor

A generic woman smiles
from the poster in the exam room,
her body wired with red nerves.
Mine’s the one running
down the right leg,
the one that’s caught fire.
A plastic spine stands
at attention on the shelf,
bristling with vertebrae.
The white coat points
to the bottom two,
this is where I will
insert the needle,
with very small risk
of spinal fluid release
or paralysis.
While I sign the release
I have no time to read
he’s still talking.

Carol L. Gloor has been writing poetry since she was sixteen. Her work has been published in many journals, most recently in Abandoned Mine. Her poetry chapbook, “Assisted Living,” was published by Finishing Line Press in 2013, and her full-length poetry collection, “Falling Back,” was published by WordPoetry in 2018.

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Bridging

5 October 2022 / Editor

Nonfiction by Kate Marshall

“So many of my patients love the bridge,” the new bone doctor says, readjusting his lowriding mask.

“All well and good, but I’m really not a bridge person.” We’ve just talked about bone-enhancing medications after and I’ve brought up how if I succumb, I might not be eligible for certain dental procedures should the need arise.

The doctor tells me about other options; self-administered daily shots, twice-a-year infusions, and a once-a-month new-improved coated esophagus burner.

I nod and stare at a series of anatomical charts of urogenital and skeletal systems, predominately male, anchored to the off-white walls, while the doctor types into his web portal. I don’t say that copays for the shots and infusions could run 50 grand a year with insurance.

“Hmmmmmm. We wouldn’t want you to fall and break a hip.”

“No, we wouldn’t want that.” I think of my aunt who’d fractured a hip after being knocked over by a neighbor’s Irish Setter after a bird club meeting. Aunt’s final bedridden years bemoaning life’s unfair burdens and cursing the neighbor and her horrible red dogs before her lungs gave out in the middle of a particularly dark night.

“Let’s take another peek at your results.” He readjusts his mask while he studies my longitudinal DEXA scans, which peg me as having the bone mineralization strength of an eighty-five-year-old woman despite my being twenty years younger.

As I wait for further wisdom or elaboration, I slide back that day in Nepal. My Ph.D. reward trek that included a four-week stint in a Buddhist monastery. On that day the wind was up, the river wide and the canyon walls high. The slated wooden footbridge swayed over the water. Most of our group had decided to cross upstream beyond the canyon. Three of us hefty Americans and a Nepali guide elected to walk the bridge. We ignored the sign in Nepali, English and French, forbidding more than two at a time on the bridge at the same time. I followed the marathon runner, and my pot-smoking friend, Big Jake from Fraser, Colorado who lumbered across with the help of some black market weed he’d secured in Kathmandu. From the far side, he and the runner waved, shouting encouragement.

If they could do it, I certainly could. I was prepared for the wind-sway and could fight the urge to look down. Don’t slip, don’t fall, eyes on the prize. Don’t look down. Don’t look down. One step at a time. As the bridge shook, I brought in every self-help cliché until I came to a section where loose and missing boards had opened a one-meter gap. Was that what Big Jake was trying to convey with all his shouting? I looked back at the guide who watched silently from the start side.

Just do it, the marathon runner yelled. Three feet is nothing. You can’t give up now. Give up? I was at least fifty percent in, and I wasn’t even sure that turning back was a safer option. Up the creek without a paddle. I spat out Buddhist mantras like I was on a timed game show. May all beings have safety including me and be spared suffering and come to equanimity, especially the equanimity part.

The doctor looks up from his computer screen. “If it was my mother or sister, I would definitely recommend medication. Life in a rehab center is not pretty.”

Forward or back. A plunge seems inevitable.

I scratch my cheek through my KN95. “Do you have a sister?” I know I’m playing gotcha. But what else can a woman do when she’s up against a “Good Doctor” and “Doogie Howser” combo?

“I’ll think about it,” I say, after he blushes, shakes his head, “no” and admits he’s an only child.

But I know when I leave, I’ll do my best to move beyond charts and pills. I’ll practice ass-falling without hands until I rewire my instincts. I’ll spend an hour a week one-foot balancing on a yoga block, while repeating the same damn Buddhist mantras that helped me over the chasm in Nepal where in the end I backtracked to the place where I started, joining the upstream group, where we cold-water forged the river, abandoning poor Jake and the runner to finish off the last of the pot.

Kate Marshall is a freelance writer living in Boulder, Colorado. She has been published in 50GS, Iowa Writes: The Daily Palette, The Selkie, The Ravensperch and The Chalice.

The Bluebird Word