Shadows Express

Volume 5: Issue 1 Spring 2013

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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

While I write this, winter is still flexingits muscles. In fact, we have a winter stormwarning, but by the time this issue is released,it will officially be spring.

Despite the cold, harsh winds and deepsnow, a plant outside our office is bravelyputting its head above the ground, stretchingits leaves to the sun. For the past six years, thisplant has bloomed every Easter without fail.It knows spring is coming even if we havetrouble seeing it.

What does this have to do with this issue?As we began pulling the stories and poems

together, we noticed a prevailing theme:perception.

How we perceive the world affects us. Inthis issue, you will read about a womandealing with grief, a man gaining a newunderstanding of his friend, and a writerdiscovering his muse.

When we look beyond the obvious, wefind treasures, secrets, and blessings. We can,of course, choose to only see the storms andthe hardships, or we can reach out and seekthe sun. We hope this issue inspires you topursue the latter.

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ColumnsBurning the Midnight Oil ~ With Every Breath You Take………..………….………………….……...4

Rhythmic Reflections ~ From the Toolbox……..………….…………………………………………………..5

Fireside Conversations ~ The Dance of Revision……………………………..…………………..………...7

In the Spotlight ~ Who Needs Punctuation ……………….…………..…………….………………………..8

FictionGod’s Telephone by Anne Warchol.….………….…………………………..…………………………………..…10

Survival of the Strongest by Colin Shaw……......….………….…..….…..…….……....….………………..16

Parkie, Tanker, Tiger of Tobruk by Tom Sheehan..….…………….……………………….……………..….19

PoetryWanderer by Bob Buckner…………….………………………………………………..………………………………...9

In the Spotlight by Linda M. Price……………………………..……………………….………………….…………15

Snows of Portrayal by D.R. Smith.…….…………………….……………….………………………….…….……22

Prairie Crocus by Dennis Cardiff………………………………………..…………………..………………………..29

You by Bob Buckner…..…………….……………………..……….………………………….…………………..…….33

Non-fictionBlavatsky’s Bus by D. R. Smith……………………….………………......….……………………………..………16

Every Soul has a Story by Charles E. J. Moulton…..…………………………………………….……………….30

Contributors…….......….…………………………………………..……………………………………………34

Staff………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….36

The ideas and opinions expressed in the stories, articles and poems belong to the authorsand do not necessarily represent the views of the staff of Shadows Express.

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Our lives, parenthesized by our firstinhalation and last exhalation, consist of pairings.We breathe in, and we breathe out, each equallyimportant to our existence. On average, during ourlives, we will take six hundred million of thesebreaths. We will have moments that take ourbreath away and moments when we hold ourbreath, but they always come in pairs. If we thinkabout it, pairings make up our lives.

Love and hate, passion and indifference,joy and sorrow, laughter and tears—we arecreatures of extremes. With balance, all of theseemotions belong. Sometimes, though, we loseourselves absorbed by the negative. Yes, life canbe tough. It can give us difficulties we believe wecan’t bear, but that is when we need to find ourbalance. For every inhalation, there is anexhalation. For every sorrow, there is joy.

Lately, I have witnessed people facingminor setbacks and others facing great tragedies.The way these individuals handled their problemsspeaks volumes about their character.

A young man receives several rejections ofhis novel, a devastating blow to any creative

individual, but instead of facing this down byrevising or setting himself back on track throughmore education, he riles at an industry that doesnot appreciate quality. Now, this is not abnormal,but at some point, he needs to move on. Twoyears of immersing himself in his negativeattitude, fighting back against any encouragingwords, is too long. What could he haveaccomplished if he had turned that energy to apositive attitude? With so much breath wasted innegativity, we will never know.

A woman facing her husband’s diagnosisof terminal cancer first falls apart, as can beexpected, but then she reaches out, seeking somemeaning in life. She finds joy in the days she andher husband will continue to share. She discoversthey are closer than ever before, and she revels inthe memories they share between the laughter andtears.

Which way do you want to go through life:embracing the special moments or miring yourselfin difficulties? It is your decision—with everybreath you take.

With Every Breath You TakeK. Wall

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We have previously talked about how using sound enhances the beauty and pleasure of readingwell-written poetry. Another characteristic that distinguishes truly great poetry is the effective use offigurative language.

There are numerous poetic devices that fall into this category. Of these, some of the morefrequently discussed (and used) include metaphor, simile, personification, hyperbole, oxymoron, andmetonymy. Since much has been written on these devices, I needn’t elaborate on them in this article.

Rather, I would like to mention a pair that is far less focused upon—that is, denotation andconnotation. Denotation is a literal meaning or the dictionary definition. Connotation is when youmean something beyond the literal that is often inferred or may be partially hidden.

Denotation and connotation are very effective devices when used in poetry because theydetermine the meaning of your words and help to set the tone of the poem.

Consider how the denotation of the word “nature” is used here to support the dichotomic tone(like opposing sides of the same coin) in the poem “Harmony”:

From the Toolbox By Liam O’Haver

I pluck a flower as the sparrow singsBut I think of those who shovel snow.For all too soon the seasons shiftAnd winter's wind will chill the spirit.

Hope and despair; fruit of the same tree,To know one is to possess the other.As a final breath caresses cold lipsSomewhere new life emerges.

While an old man sits aloneRegretting the loss of his youth,A child celebrates with friendsAs he blows out candles on a cake.

Such is the nature of harmonyAnd the harmony of nature Continued on page 6

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There is no frigate like a bookTo take us lands away,Nor any coursers like a pageOf prancing poetry.This traverse may the poorest takeWithout oppress of toll;How frugal is the chariotThat bears a human soul!

I hope that these examples will help you better understand denotation and connotation andencourage you to use them to elevate your poetry.

One of my favorite examples of connotation is found in Emily Dickinson’s poem “A Book”1.In this poem, she compares literature to transportation—a boat, horses, and a vehicle—but she usesromantic connotations to describe them so as to romanticize the poem and show the beauty of literature:

Continued from page 5.

1 The poem “A Book” was published in the third series of Poems by Emily Dickinson (edited by MabelLoomis Todd) in 1896 by Roberts Brothers.

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In 1958, Ernest Hemingway told a writer fromThe Paris Review that he had rewritten the last pageof Farewell to Arms thirty-nine times. When askedwhat the problem was, Hemingway replied, “Gettingthe words right.”

I wonder what would have happened ifHemingway had not felt such a compulsion to get itright. Would this iconic American classic haveendured for all of these years? Would it have beenpublished at all? Of course, we will never know, butI do think we can learn some valuable lessons fromHemingway’s attitude toward revision.

First, let’s be clear about something: editingand revising are two different things. Editing iscorrecting errors in grammar, spelling, or punctuation.Simply put—there is a right and a wrong. Certainly,an author had better understand this, or his work willbe buried in a slush pile somewhere.

However, when an author revises, he danceswith the language. He trades this word for that word.He deletes this phrase, or he partners those words withanother. The dance doesn’t stop until the author canfeel the rhythm and hear the melody. For the last pageof Hemingway’s Farewell to Arms, that meant thirty-nine revisions!

Why? Because revision is where the languagecomes together to form the music. Hemingwayunderstood that his first attempt would not paint thepicture. He understood that his first attempt would notelicit the right emotions. Instead, the author needs the

dance of revision. He needs to twirl the words arounduntil the picture forms. He needs to play the notes untilthe words elicit emotions from the reader. So ifHemingway were here today, he would tell you not tostop until you get it right.

To his advice, I would like to add a couple ofpractical suggestions. First, give yourself time betweeneach revision. When you come back to the piece, youmay be amazed to find what a fresh perspective canreveal. Second, seek feedback from others you cantrust for an objective opinion. The feedback will letyou know if you are indeed getting it right.

Finally, for a glimpse of the power of revision,check out two of our stories in this issue of ShadowsExpress. The first is “God’s Telephone” by AnneWarchol, and the second is “Survival of the Strongest”by Colin Shaw. While our acquisitions board sawpromise in both pieces, neither of the first submissionsproved ready for publication. However, at our urging,both of these talented authors agreed to revise, and Iam so glad they did. Both stories exceeded ourexpectations. While I will not spoil either of them foryou by going into detail, I will tell you that “God’sTelephone” will leave you in tears, and “Survival ofthe Strongest” will run chills down your spine.

So the next time you write your first draft,remember—you are not finished until you feel therhythm and hear the melody. After all, if it tookHemingway thirty-nine times to write a page, howmany revisions will it take the rest of us?

The Dance of RevisionBy P.L.Scholl

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In a rare interview with Oprah Winfrey in2007, the famous author Cormac McCarthy dis-cusses his views on punctuation—or the lackthereof—as he professes, “If you write properly,you shouldn’t have to punctuate.” McCarthygoes on to say that it’s important to punctuate forpeople to read and understand, but there is noneed to “block the page with weird little marks.”His novels do not contain quotation marks, semi-colons, or apostrophes (for contractions), andcommas are used only when the occasional com-plex sentence needs clarification.

So if this guy can win the Pulitzer Prizefor Fiction with a punctuation-starved novel, thenwho needs to learn proper punctuation? Well…anyone who expects to be taken seriously in theliterary world needs to learn and use properpunctuation. Don’t be fooled into thinking thatMr. McCarthy’s eccentricity is a result of anyform of arrogance, laziness, or illiteracy.

In order for McCarthy to create his post-apocalyptic masterpiece The Road—with its un-orthodox style of sparse punctuation—he had tofirst completely understand English grammar andpunctuation. Many of his fragmented sentencesare devised to eliminate the comma needed to

connect an absolute phrase or non-essential ele-ment to a complex sentence structure. His quota-tion-markless dialogue is precisely arranged onthe page so the reader has no doubt who is speak-ing. His lack of apostrophes for certain contrac-tions doesnt confuse the reader in the least,though I’m sure his spell-check tool had to bethrust into overdrive.

Before you can get away with an uncon-ventional literary style, you must be an expert inthe conventional. Before you can chop up com-plex sentences into comprehensible fragments,you need to understand the technical intricaciesof linguistic dissection.

Ernest Hemingway shares his views oftaking literary liberties in this famous quote:

“My attitude toward punctuation is that itought to be as conventional as possible.The game of golf would lose a good dealif croquet mallets and billiard cues wereallowed on the putting green. You ought tobe able to show that you can do it a gooddeal better than anyone else with the reg-ular tools before you have a license tobring in your own improvements.”

Who Needs PunctuationWinnie Kay Davis

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A wanderer in spirit and in heart,I walked a lonesome path and found you there.I knew at once the wisdom you impart,the essence of your soul, so sweet and fair.

I searched the distant reaches of my love,where sorrow and delight have seldom gone.I heard you in the trilling turtle dove,and saw you in the sunrise of the dawn.

I loved you when the morning saw your face,and when the evening paused and kissed your hand.I knew what I had longed for in my space.I loved you when we dwelt in distant land.

When love takes flight for all the world to see,your tender smile shall set my spirit free.

WandererBob Buckner

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"Mrs. Davenport?" A fist rapped on thekitchen door. I cringed. "Shea, is that you?" Whenever Sheashowed up, I knew he brought trouble—troublein the form of my son, Max. I opened the door tothe garage. A gaggle of twelve-year-old kids,pushing, hollering, and laughing, silenced whenthey saw my face. Shea spoke up. "Max's got somethin', Mrs. D."

What now? “Another alligator?" Max called from behind Shea's back, "Nope,no alligator, Mom. 'Sides, it's puny, can't biteanyone." I massaged the back of my neck, calming aspasm. "Capturing alligators is a felony forHeaven's sake." "Sorry, Mom." His tone brightened. "He likeshis cage.” I clapped my hands over my ears. "Don't tellme." I stretched up on my toes and tried to seeover Shea's shoulder, but the kids shifted andblocked my view. I sighed and hazarded anotherguess. "It's a dog, right?" Last month, he had comehome tugging a red pit bull. I had noted herswollen belly. "Found her in the park, playing with a ball.Nobody around. Had to bring her home," Maxhad explained. The next day, I tracked down theowner, who offered me a pup. Lucky for me, Maxwas in school. Saying no to him is like defyinggravity. Andrea, one of Max's many girlfriends, said,"No, Mrs. D. No dog."

How can a twelve-year-old boy have so manygirlfriends? We had to install a dedicated phoneline. I lost five pounds one month, running fromplace to place trying to find him.

A popping sound leeching from under thekitchen door caught my attention. I twirled on mytoes and ran back inside to pull boiling soup fromthe microwave; it splashed on my hand. The backdoor to the past yawned and an image formed.Was Max only two when he tried to microwavehis plastic book? I laughed. Maybe I should writea collection of short stories. Story one: Max andthe Microwave. All I needed was a title for thebook. Max called from the garage. I wiped up thesoup and delivered my mind and body into thehands of my son. "Okay, okay." I surveyed theheads of the kids. They looked too happy. Whatcould it be this time? My mind whirled back tolast summer: Max and the Horses. Last August,horses neighing in my backyard woke me. Ipeered out the window and saw four horsestethered to trees. Max said he found them strayingin the field behind our house. Later, I found outMax had knocked down a section of the corral ..."No more horses, right?" "No, Mrs. D. My parents kinda said Max can'tcome anymore." This from Lisa. Her parentsowned the horse ranch that butted up to ourproperty. "A snake?" Another story for my collection:Max—Dances with Snakes. That's what myneighbors call him when they find a snake on their

Anne Warchol

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property. My son claims he knows the differencebetween poisonous and harmless. But every timeI watch him rip his T-shirt off and ensnare thereptile by its neck in one magnificent motion, Itremble. What if…? Max stepped forward, armsbehind his back. How bad can this be? I wantedto run away, to not be this child's mother for justa few seconds. "You wanna hear all the story or just theending, Mom?" These questions kill me. He always offers theabbreviated version, but tells you the whole thinganyhow. Resistance is futile.

“From the beginning." He grinned. "Ya know the lake behind Mick'shouse?" I crossed my arms and scowled. "Your fathersaid to stay away from there." "Thought you said from the beginning." Somehow he manages to look contrite andirresistible at the same time. It's in his eyes, brightazure, like his dad's. "Okay, let's hear it." "We found a turtle. I captured it." He held itup for inspection; I backed up through the openkitchen door and plopped down at the table. "Out. Everybody out." The kids drifted away.The world needs replacement mothers for peoplelike me—clones to take a shift or two ofmotherhood. Max had not captured a turtle. Theturtle had captured him. His left thumb wasimprisoned under the turtle's shell. Are there guidebooks for kids like this? Do manuals exist wheremoms can look in the index and find solutions forthumbs trapped in turtles? New story: Max andthe Turtle. "We'll just wait for the turtle to relaxand open his shell." I questioned more thancommanded. Max shrugged and collapsed on the floor, theturtle nestled in his lap. He flipped open his celland started calling friends. For twenty minutesnothing worried me. I stared at Max—thisglorious, horrible boy who brings joy and disasterinto my life—and just breathed. The miraculous

moment passed when the turtle opened up andreleased my son's undamaged thumb. He jumpedup, tucked the turtle under his arm, and calledback over his shoulder. "Amy saw a water moccasin in that creekbehind her house; gotta go catch it." "Water moccasins are poison—" "Don't worry. Got my lucky stone Dad broughtfrom Colorado." He was gone. Dinnertime passed and shadowshunkered down behind trees. Max's phone rangsix times and went to voice mail. "Max, pleasecall." Five minutes later: "Max, where are you?Please call." I hung up and dialed again. "Max,you're scaring me. Call back." Thirty minutesticked by while trying to reach him. I called Shea,then Lisa, and then Andrea. I called Shea againand asked for his mother. Why had I relied on akid for information? "No, I'm sorry, Bridgette—" The doorbell chimed, and I hung up mid-sentence. Thank heavens. Max lost his keys andcell phone. That's all. But when the door swungopen, two police officers stood on the front porch. "Mrs. Davenport? I’m Officer Bridges, andthis is my partner, Officer Hanson. May we comein?" Their uniforms were crisp, their eyes acalculated neutral. I hesitated. "It's about yourson." "Max?" My fingers curled around thedoorframe, and I leaned on it for support. "Yes, Ma'am." My voice quivered. "Please come in.” Igestured toward the living room and followedwith reluctant steps. The two officers flanked thefireplace. I focused on the shelf above and thegaps where Jake’s photos had been before I boxedand stored them in the attic. The female copstepped forward and squeezed my hand. “Mrs. Davenport, I'm sorry. We have somebad news.” My heart hit the pit of my stomach beforesoaring into my throat. The scene before me

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blurred; I blinked several times before responding.“Officer Hanson—” "Call me Wendy." I swallowed hard and nodded. “Wendy, Maxis full of mischief, but he’s never done anythingwrong. He’s not in any trouble?” “No, nothing like that.” Her voice trailed off,and she placed a hand on my back, guiding me tothe rocking chair, but I perched on the edge of theseat, desperately unwilling to abandon my wildhope. I planted both elbows on my knees andleaned forward. “The snake bit him?" The male officer—Officer Bridges—clearedhis throat. "Is there anyone we can call to sit withyou?" I shook off Wendy’s hand and asked Bridges,"What the hell happened to my son?" "What about your husband? Can you reachhim?” "No. I already told you. Just me and Max."Wendy looked at me like she appreciated a singlemother's pain. My words came out on a sandedtongue. "Jake . . . he’s . . . he was my husband,died last year. Rare brain tumor. Gone in sixmonths." Wendy passed me a tissue and Icrumpled it in my fist. "For God's sake, tell mewhat's going on." The man officer—forgot his name already—said, "Your son cut through a neighbor's yard onhis way home. Jumped out of a clump of bushesonto the street." He paused and locked his eyeson mine. "Near dusk." I catapulted from the rocker, grabbed myjacket and purse, and squeezed the keys in mypalm, gouging the skin; I wanted to inflict pain,to prepare my body for the oncoming train wreckof truth. "He was running for help after the snakebit him. You got him to the hospital in time?"Wendy resisted my tug toward the door. I yankedmy wrist from her grasp. “Come on. I gotta go.He's probably scared to death."

"Please, Mrs. Davenport, sit back down." "No. I don't want to sit down. I want to getMax. He needs his mother. What's wrong withyou people? Can't you see we're wasting time?" Ishoved a knuckled fist into my mouth and bitdown with my front teeth, damming tears beforethey spilled. "The driver”—Officer Bridges flipped throughhis notes—“a Mr. Blake Carrington, said Maxcame from nowhere." My brow furrowed. "The driver? What're yousaying? This . . . uh . . . Mr. Carrington took himto the hospital?" If I continued my mind game,Max was still alive. Wendy and her partner exchanged looks. "Itwas an accident." "Accident? What accident?" I swiveled on myheel and peered from one to the other, my fingerslaced together, clenching and then unclenching. Ilicked salted drops that escaped the dam andcascaded, unheeded, down my face before poolingaround the corners of my mouth. A cold finger ofcertainty traced down my spine. No more time toplay with. I was forced to accept the message Iintuited the second the cops appeared at my door.Still, Officer Bridges’ words were gut punches. "Vehicle vs. pedestrian. Mr. Carrington's SUVhit Max dead on. He was DOA when we got there." "Don't say that—‘DOA’—like you're fillingout some routine paperwork." Visions sprang tomind. Max smashed in the road? Zipped up in abody bag? Was I expected to identify the body?My throat ached from the strain of suppressingemotions; if I maintained my composure, thetragedy would remain undefined. Unreal. Myfingers shredded Wendy’s tissue—all the specksdrifting like people amiss. "You're wrong. Mixedhim up with some other kid." I loosened thetwisty-tie holding back my hair and raked fingersthrough it. "Please, not Max. He's my life. Myson."

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Wendy fished around in her purse and pulledout a plastic evidence bag. She rattled the stoneinside. "We found this in his pocket." I plucked the bag from the air. "Oh, God, no.Please, no." A sob escaped. Both officers lowered their voices. "We'resorry for your loss." The floor rushed up, but Wendy caught mebefore I fainted. "You're sure there's no one wecan call?" The need for solitude engulfed me. "No, no.It's fine. Please, just go." I ushered them out thedoor and when it closed, a void opened in mysoul—a hole where Max had lived.

I sat dry-eyed in shock, feeling nothing, whilemy foot pushed the rocker to and fro, Max'spicture album clutched to my chest. What waswrong with me? I should be wrecked, a sobbingwretch. No more snakes, alligators, or dogs—nomore Max. If only the turtle kept his shell closed—holding my son captive for more than twentyminutes—he might still be alive. Did I say ‘I loveyou’ enough? Tears splattered the album and Ibrushed them away with my sleeve. Was lifeworth living without Max? Without Jake . . .without anyone? I sequestered the anguish, sameas when Jake died. Upstairs, I found the anti-anxiety medicationmy doctor prescribed after Jake’s death andjiggled the bottle. Five, maybe six. I scroungedaround in the back of the drawer and pulled out arefill. Thirty-seven pills total. Sufficient to endmy life? I emptied the contents into my palm andfilled a glass with water. So easy, never facing thedouble-deaths, but so wrong. The faucet drippedafter being turned off, but underneath thattrickling a sound drifted up the stairs . . . my cellphone? Wrong number, probably. Let it ring. Theessence of my son filled the room, so real I

extended my hand to brush his cheek, but sweptempty air. Max? The glass slipped from my fingers andshattered; the pills scattered across the bathroomfloor. I clambered down the stairs two at a time.Where did I leave the damn phone? Kitchen?Living room? Five rings, six— How many beforeit goes to voice mail? I switched on the light—there, under the rocker. I popped open the cellphone on the seventh ring. "H . . . Hello?" "Hey, Mom." "Max?" I clamped the cell to my ear. Myvision narrowed to black spots. Breathe. In. Out."The police just left. They said you were—" "Dead, I know. But it was fast, like turning offa light." The lone lamp in the living room extinguished.My breath hitched and I twirled around the room,searching for Max. The gloom glared. "I don'tunderstand . . . how is this possible?" "I'm calling on God's telephone." "Calling me on God's . . . Wait, what?" "Can't talk long. Sorry for all the trouble." My body trembled and I grabbed a sweaterfrom the back of the rocker. "Oh, God, Max. Younever caused trouble. Can you come back?" "Mom, I'm in Heaven. Dad's here. Be strong.We love you." Embracing the ethereal realm was horrifyinglytempting. Maybe Max wouldn’t be forever lost."Wait, don't go." My throat constricted. "I love—"Static, then silence—only the vacuum of thetranscendent beyond remained. With the cellphone pressed to my chest, I picked up his photoalbum, sat on the floor, and let my fingers tripthrough the years. The last picture taken sixmonths ago. I should have taken more. His babypictures swam before my eyes. If time passed, it passed unaware, out of syncwith me, out of sync with the universe. I

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surrendered myself to the River Cry, and with nota soul to witness, I broke. My shoulders heaveduntil my ribs ached under the assault of punishing,gulping sobs. I punched the wall and licked theblood glistening on my knuckles; my stomachuncoiled and I retched. My vocal chords wereravaged from screaming. Words disappeared intoinhuman sounds. Sunshine pricking my eyelids woke me. Mybones ached from sleeping on the floor, my facesore from resting on the picture album. Iswallowed past a rock of pain lodged in my throat,and a few seconds ticked before yesterday camebarging in. Max. The phone call, was it real? Ilifted my gaze to the mantelpiece and rubbed myeyes. I crept closer. Front and center, a framedsnapshot of Jake holding Max—one I had nevertaken—gazed back at me. I picked it up and randisbelieving fingers across their faces. A rosy

glow permeated the room, chasing away thedespair. Jake and Max wanted me to live. I kissed thepicture, and a melodic surge of energy strummedmy body. No, not just live, they wanted me tocelebrate life. My son's smile shone brilliant inmy mind, and with the grief I suppressed aftertheir deaths embraced, came a paradigm shift—life refocused I shuffled to the kitchen, started coffeebrewing, and booted up my PC. The word-processing program flashed its virgin pages. Asmile chased across my face, and I blotted tearsbefore they splashed down. Inspiration lit. Myfingers found their rhythm as I started typing thetitle page: Maximum Mischief by BridgetteDavenport. Somewhere, Max is laughing….

Embracing the ethereal realm washorrifyingly tempting.

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September 2nd, 1988was the day I gained a sister,lost a mother,hated my father,and fell in love with my aunt.

I’m not sure if it is becauseshe was the youngestof my mother’s sistersand envied all those older ones,but she introduced meto the world of favorite childthat very nightas the new baby was put into ICUand I was put onto a pedestal.

My father threw me a basketballshowed me what an assist is.My mother smiled as I made the shot.My aunt told me she loved meand carried me down the hall,away from attention,and said to allow the new one some spotlight.

Linda M. Price.

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Don’t be shy. Step aboard. Mind you, this is noordinary bus, but neither is our chauffeur. The fare?Why, you need only touch the tip of her unfurled handto experience a most extraordinary voyage—awondrous itinerary filled with enlightenment that willtingle the very core of your psyche.

Me? Oh, I’m a regular; been with her a while. Infact, the arm hairs still stiffen, thinking about theuncanny moment we met. It was pure happenstance,a random act with no reason to suspect that myhither-dither years of early adulthood were about tochange. But, oh, was I ever wrong.

I remember like it was yesterday. I was threemonths shy of twenty-one and had left the nest to beon my own. I'd secured a job and rented a cheap roomin a rundown walk-up at the base of Beacon Hill, itscrest, the gold-domed Capitol overlooking BostonCommon. The Back Bay area is also home to PaulRevere’s North Church, Faneuil Hall, Old Ironsides,quaint taverns of yesteryear, ethnic delis andrestaurants, Chinatown, and dozens of retail storeswithin the heart of Boston’s hub. Curious and havinga thirst for living in a big city, I was anxious to explorethe wonders of my new urban turf.

I awoke to a sunny Saturday morn, perfect for acasual stroll through Haymarket Square where dozensof Italian vendors hustled meats and produce frompush carts and open stalls. After sampling fresh fruitsand delicious, char-grilled Italian sausages, I movedon, crossed the Common, and turned north onto ritzyCharles Street. I was content with window-wishingfor exquisite things in a dozen high-end curio andantique shops when I ambled upon a fusty used bookstore—ah, things I could afford.

The place was a potpourri of print; shelvescrammed with books filled every nook and cranny. Ileisurely browsed, looking for nothing in particularwhen, suddenly, I was infused with an oddsensation—as if some unseen, but gentle force wasguiding me to a certain bookcase. I didn’t resist, andwithout hesitation or distraction, I went straighttoward it and stopped. There, just above my head,about mid-shelf, I spotted a two-volume set: IsisUnveiled.

I reached for Volume One and thumbed it opento a photograph of H.P. Blavatsky, taken in 1888.Something about her eyes—the most intense, piercingeyes I’d ever seen. They were beyond alluring, morelike bewitching when locked with mine. The eeriesensation seemed to intensify, as if I'd come under thespell of a mystic, perhaps a true Gnostic who’d beendead for nigh on a century.

Whoever she was, I seemed to have heard hervoice, an enchanting voice whispering to me. She heldme captive. I had to have those books, though I hadnever heard of Isis or dozens of other names such asEn-Soph, Osiris, Kabala, Sanskrit, Vishnu, Bhagavad-Gita, and the like. I couldn’t shake the strange senseof intrigue when glancing at subtitles and content, butI understood enough to know I’d been shanghaied,destined to be her newest disciple for a wondrousvoyage back in time—way, way back in time—to thecradle of civilization, and perhaps beyond, for aprivileged peek at the roots of cosmology.

The weeks ahead were spent slowly, butmethodically, getting acquainted. The miles clickedaway, but the initial going was no easy jaunt trying tograsp even the most basic of tenets. I was mesmerizedby the sheer magnitude of her work. It wasincomprehensible how one person could locate,decipher, cross-reference, and unravel the coremeanings of so many ancient documents, arcanewisdom, and mystic symbolisms. Yet, somehow, shehad managed a monumental synthesis of science,religion, and philosophy—all marching to the beat ofa single drum.

Though I never expected to fully comprehendmuch of the scenery, I nevertheless had embarked ona fabulous journey that would ultimately rule muchof my persona. The more she fanned the flames ofdormant curiosities, the more I began to see thingswith my heart and not my eyes. Cobwebs of confusionand customs were swept aside, the mind cleansed ofchildhood indoctrinations. Hordes of abstrusequestions roiling within since high school weresatisfied. After having devoured Isis Unveiled, Iswitched gears and laboriously chugged along withThe Secret Doctrine, one of her more difficult, esotericworks.

D.R. Smith

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Weeks later, a complete change of venue fromcivil engineering to the fast and frenzied world of theBoard of Trade sent me to Chicago. Oddly, less thana month after settling in, another incredible meetingwould shift the bus into overdrive.

I took the el-train into Chicago’s loop every day,often keeping company with Blavatsky during rushhour commutes. One afternoon, I was seated next toa middle-aged woman who had noticed my travelcompanion. We chatted and soon learned we livedonly a half-block from each other. Shortly thereafter,she invited me to tea at her place, a nicely appointedcondo shared with her elder sister. I was stunned todiscover both were advanced scholars of Vedicastrology, metaphysics, and had logged more mileson this cryptic bus than I could fathom. They readilyadopted me as their student, I savoring the tutelage aswe rolled along.

What were the odds of such an encounter,considering the millions who ride the CTA? Don’t getme wrong. I wasn’t corralled into becoming a crusaderfor some cult or other, nor was I a pious zealot orrepentant lost soul claiming rebirth. In retrospect, Iwas not averse to wine, women, or song and likelycould have been branded a heathen at times, but neverin lieu of shunning ethics or compassion for my fellowman. I simply gave and I received. On and off the bus,I meandered through life as it came until five yearsago when one of its blind curves wrought unexpectedtragedy—I lost my son.

The bus wrecked; my world turned upside-down.I wasn’t prepared for that treacherous stretch oftarmac, yet the winding road ahead had more surprisesin store. Two weeks after the funeral, I spotted thewife standing atop the stairs, looking down at me witha kind but forlorn face. It was only a moment, butseemed like an hour we stood eying each other insilence. She spoke naught, yet so much was said withlove in her eyes. She was worried about me, my grief.I, too, welled with emotion. My God, what if I’d losther?

The death of a child can send one spiraling intoan abyss of despair. Yet for me, it was also aneye-opener, for only then was I able to fully grasp howdeep an espousal love can be. I am convinced true soulmates transcend mortality, an eternal union enjoinedby a divine golden thread that reverberates with eachbeat of a celestial heart—such as what has alwayspulsed between us.

The burden of grief lightened. That night mysubconscious was again wakened by the soothingchant of a siren: You are to write; it is to be a novel,an epic ride. The bus had returned and we were offagain.

This time, we motored headlong into theuncharted realm of the literary craft. Dubious andnervous, I hesitated. I feared inadequacy if adjudgedby seasoned talents exposing me as a rank amateurhaving never been down this road before. But theimpulse to write remained strong. The following day,the opening pages of Tree of the Great Long Leaveswere penned, its multi-layered themes preordained toreflect the depth and consequences of humanrelationships no matter how casual or intimate the ties.

Months zipped by when another unexpecteddetour spawned Beaches of Belmont. Sans the goreand dry dust of history, the novella was a fresh lookat an old subject inspired by, and dedicated to, a WWIIveteran who had befriended me, and of whom I hadcome to admire as my own father. Sadly, I had to setaside Tree to devote every hour in a rush to finish hislegacy. But I was too late. Dad died of a sudden illnesstwo days after I’d placed the rough draft on his sickbed.

Here I am today, my mettle tested but hungry formore after forty-three years on this caravan. I’ve beenuphill and downhill, through thick and thin, grief andglories—and still no end in sight.

Carl Sagan once said something akin to thefollowing: “One glance at a book and you’ll hear thevoice of another person; to read is to voyage throughtime.”

How apropos. Yet to be chasing whales withCaptain Ahab or to fall in love with Rhett Butler isone thing. Such excursions may prove entertainingand memorable, but they’re finite in contrast to thisride of perpetual surprise and reverence.

Who would have thought I’d be a passenger intoancient history, recondite lore, or visit every ‘ism’ onthe planet; my mind opened to freely question, torefute hypocrisies and to seek knowledge of thingslying latent within the subconscious that would moldmy character, cause me to cherish people as I do, orset in motion karmic events that would forever impactlives around me?

Now, Blavatsky's bus is quietly idling at the curb,destined for who-knows-where or what-lies-ahead. Idon’t have a clue either, but having laid bare the sheerfabric of my being, I stand before you metaphoricallynaked. You now see me as I am; my thoughts, mystyle, my themes—all gleaned from such travels,stamped and documented throughout my portfolio.

So what do you say? Care to kick a tire to see ifeither of us is for real? Take her for a spin. Whetherfor a block or trek around the planet, our chauffeurmay not be for everybody, but she certainly has beenright for me. Come on, step aboard; it's literally thevoyage of a lifetime.

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I lie quiet, my eyes squeezed shut. Thesilence bearing down on me is a physicalpresence, and my mind whirls with thoughts,pictures, ideas, and sounds. They collide witheach other in my head—no start and no finish. Isense movement around me.  My ever-presentanger builds within. How dare anyone do this tome! Prying apart my gummed eye lids, I can justmake out two man-like shadows materializingwith the strengthening light. A noise intrudes intothe stillness, subdued but pervasive. It is a crossbetween the slow clockwork tick of a metronomeand the rhythmic thud of a heartbeat. The level oflight increases enough for me to examine myconfederates in more detail. We are dressed in asimilar fashion: blue long- sleeved shirt, fadedjeans, and ankle high walking boots.  The othertwo could have been brothers with their blondhair, green eyes, and pale skin. We scrutinize eachother with laser-like intensity, as if our lives

depend on it. Without knowing why, I realize thisis true.

I spring to my feet to face them, incensedby a rage I know not from where.

“Who the hell are you? Why have you broughtme here?”

My voice comes out scratchy and dry fromlack of use. The taller and more muscular of thetwo strides forward, making conciliatory gestureswith his hands.

“Calm down. I’m Michael. I’ve no ideahow I came to be here either. It’s probably best ifwe stick together for the time being and try tofocus our energies on finding the way out of here.”

He says this with surety, energy, andaffability; I hate him. No one tells me what to do. He thrusts out his hand in greeting; I ignore it andturn towards the other.

He is no more than a boy. He is seated. Hisarms wrap tight around his legs, which he pullsinto his chest. He raises his face and blurts out anundecipherable word and lowers his head onto hisknees.

“He says his name is Sammy,” Michaeloffers.

The two of us stand looking at each other,lost in our own thoughts. Sammy sits huddled onthe floor.

I grunt in the general direction of theothers, “My name is Simon.”

“SAMMY, ARE YOU THERE? CANYOU ANSWER ME?”

The ear shattering voice issues from thevery air itself. Two of us jump at theunexpectedness of the noise. The one namedSammy closes even more into a fetal ball. Michaeltakes a stand in front of him and looks around for

Colin Shaw

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any physical threat. I stand to the side and glareat everything around me.

The question is repeated with no reductionin volume.

Michael yells into the air, “Sammy’strapped in here with us. He can’t speak at themoment. He’s terrified.”

I don’t know if the voice is aware ofMichael or not. The only noise I can hear is thesteady beat which has been present since I woke.

“SAMMY, I’M TRYING TO GET TOYOU, BUT YOU MUST COME PART OF THEWAY.”

Someone is coming to help us—or Sammy,at least. If there is a way out, I’m the one takingit. Michael pulls Sammy to his feet and herds himtowards the upward incline of the tunnel exitingthe cavern. I follow behind. The overhead lightscome on as we progress and those behind dim andfade to nothing. We move forward within aself-contained bubble of light.

I don’t know how long we travel.  Secondspass like minutes, minutes like hours. There islittle change in our surroundings—a rocky, debris-scattered pathway climbing to freedom. That’swhat I tell myself. I am isolated and alone. Theother two blend together into a cohesive unit.Each draws from the other to find the strength and

the will to go on. Michael is the stronger andtherefore the more dangerous to me. He hasassumed guardianship over the weaker lad, and Ihope that will be his Achilles. I trail at the back,watching their every move. I look for anyadvantages that I may find useful later. Let themsolve the problems we encounter. I am going toget out, no matter what the cost to those aroundme. We continue climbing.

Michael, who is of course leading the way,comes to an abrupt halt and kneels. He tries tolower the exhausted boy, but he just crumples tothe ground. Michael moves forward and signalsme to join him. This annoys me. Who appointedhim leader? I control the rising bile that threatensto erupt. I drop and crawl forward on my stomachto ascertain the impasse that is in front of us. Thefloor of the tunnel has collapsed and left a gapingcrevasse. Even with the lights, nothing can be seenexcept for the inky blackness below. It may aswell be bottomless. I spy a small ledge whichcircumnavigates the chasm. It varies in width, asnarrow as six inches and as wide as a foot. Itprovides a chance. We return to Sammy, andMichael tells him what we now face.

Michael instinctively steps forward whena volunteer is needed. Who am I to deny him? It’sa win-win situation for me. If he manages to finda safe way, I’m one step closer to getting out. Ifhe fails, there’s one less person for me to worryabout. With his back pressed hard against therugged wall of the tunnel, Michael inches his wayalong the rock shelf. One foot slides forward inchby inch, clearing the debris into the gaping mawof the pit. The sounds of the falling rubble recedeinto nothingness. He accesses the far side withlittle difficulty and turns to face us.

“Sammy, you come next. Just take yourtime, and you’ll have no problem.”

Sammy lifts his head, looks at Michael onthe far side, looks at the ledge, shudders, andshakes his head. Not a word is spoken. I curl mylip in a sneer. The little coward's true colours arebecoming apparent. With a look of disgust, I steppast him and manoeuvre my way across. A mantraplays over and over in my mind: Don’t look down,and I will survive. Don’t look down, and I will

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survive, again and again and again, until Michael'shands grab my arm and swing me forward. Theanger flares once more. I do not like to be man-handled.

I turn to Michael, but he is on his way backto Sammy’s side with all the aplomb of someonewalking the centre of a four lane highway.

Bending over Sammy’s recumbent form,he whispers to him, “Come on, Sammy, we’re onthe final leg. I’m sure of it. Just one more effortand we’ll be on our way out. You can do it. Youknow I’m always here for you.”

Sammy looks up into Michael's eyes,reassurance, trust, and strength passing betweenthem. Michael helps him to his feet. Once more,he begins to cross. He clutches Sammy’s hand ina death-like grip. They reach the half-way pointwhen from the very air and rock comes thatunknown voice.

“I’M GOING TO TRY SOMETHINGDIFFERENT TO GET THROUGH TO YOU.KEEP TRYING, SAMMY.”

Silence fills the void. A delicate crystallinesilence which echoes a sense of fragility and thatyou know cannot last. The whole world holds itsbreath. Everything is still. The end that you knowis coming… begins. My very essence is shakenby an onslaught of sound and vibration. The light,which we have taken for granted, flickers anddies. The very earth rises and falls with the madgyrations of a bucking horse. I lie winded on theground. As it starts, so does it finish—withsilence.

I look back to where Michael and Sammyhad been. They have disappeared. Elation riseswithin me. I have survived. I look over the edge.Hanging from one hand wedged into a crack inthe wall is Michael. The limp form of Sammydangles from the other.

“The ever vigilant protector and guardianof the weak,” I mutter to myself.

Michael spies me and sings out, “Simon.Simon. You've got to help us!”

I look at them and stay silent. Pleasantscenarios play out in my mind. My raising a rockand smiling as I bring it smashing down on hisunsuspecting head is one that catches my

attention. Two birds with one stone. His hand isin reach. I do not move.

“Simon, I can’t hold on. I know you won’tbe able to lift both of us, but you might be able tohelp Sammy.”

I can hear the strain in his voice. He isfinding it harder and harder to maintain his gripon the semi-conscious form below him. Gazinginto Michael’s face, I sense that he has alwaysprotected the boy and shielded him from whateverthe world has thrown at him. It is obvious to methat Sammy will soon have to fend for himself.Something shudders deep inside of me. I don’tknow why, but I reach down. His eyes lock withmine. He takes a deep breath and tenses. Strainetches itself across his face and beads of sweatburst from his forehead. His face undergoes achameleon change of colours as it transcends frombright red into the purple spectrum. The boy startsto rise up to meet me. Michael's breathingdeepens, heavier and faster. He drags in largeamounts of oxygen to fuel the last super-humaneffort of a dying body. Sammy is now flappingaround like a fish out of water. One hand flailsout and I grasp it. I hold him steady. Michael’seyes lock once more, and I garner a sense offulfilment; his whole body relaxes and falls. Ilisten but do not hear his body strike as itdisappears.

“Bye, bye, Michael,” I whisper.The boy hangs below me, his pale face

turned in my direction. The pupils are open sowide, black moons against the whites of his eyes.His mouth gapes open and a low, almost subsonickeening issues forth. I draw his limp body up andlay it on the ground. Once there, he struggles tohis knees and peers over the edge, searching forany signs of life.

“WHEN YOU SEE THE LIGHT, MAKEYOUR WAY TO IT. SAMMY, IT ISIMPORTANT ONLY YOU SURFACE. ONLYYOU MUST GET OUT.”

With that pronouncement echoing aroundme, I get to my feet, raise my foot and with a senseof freedom and release, I put it into the middle ofSammy’s back and push.

I scream out, “Bye, bye Sammy.”

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The last I see of him is his wildly wind-milling arms as he plunges into the abyss. Theoverhead lights flare into incandescent furycausing my senses to overload and submerge intoblessed oblivion.

***I lie quiet, my eyes squeezed shut. I show

no sign of my awareness, but I can sense thepadded restraints on my wrists, holding meimmobile against the bed. I hear the steady beatof the heart monitor performing its reassuringcadence. Where am I? What’s happening to me?Do they know what I did? Is this why I’m beingrestrained? I was just protecting myself. Self-preservation is a strong emotion. It’s not evil towant to survive. I hear footsteps approaching, notone set—but many. They enter my room and startdiscussing my case. I listen to a deep authoritativevoice which sounds familiar. I fakeunconsciousness.

“In this room, we have Mister SamStevens. He is a court appointed referral. He hassince been diagnosed with a Dissociative IdentityDisorder. Who can explain to me what DID is?”There is silence. With an exasperated tone in hisvoice, he calls upon one of the others in the room.

“Ogilvie, can I have your thoughts,please?”

He mumbles, “Well, Doctor Brooks, Ibelieve it’s a disorder in which a person has atleast two other enduring personalities.”

“Correct. Barnes, continue.”“It’s thought that they take control of that

person’s behaviour alternately,” says anothervoice.

“That’s right. His main identity is Sammy,an everyday, functioning personality, who is ableto cope with the normalcy of life. If eventsbecome too tense or stressful, Michael—aprotector or guardian persona who is basicallyeverything that is good, strong, and positive—appears.”

A female voice interrupts, “Doctor Brooks,is there any reason to worry about this patient ifhe is functioning at such a high degree? He surelycould manage quite well in society as he is.”

“If there were the two, I would agree withyou, my dear. But there is a third personality.

Simon. He is the antithesis of the other. When the‘good’ appears, the ‘bad’ follows. The thirdpersonality verges on the evil. His rage knows nobounds. Combine this with an analytical natureand lack of empathy, and you have a verydangerous and amoral personality. He feels anyand all of his actions are justified, and self-gratification at the expense of others is one of hisprimary goals. If not for this man’s medicalcondition being recognized, he would now beserving time in jail for his actions.”

Can this be me they’re talking about? Inever considered myself evil. I have done harmfulthings, but I regret none of these actions. In fact,I believe strength comes from doing unto others,before they do unto you. Should I be punished forthis?

“What measures have been taken to helpMister Stevens?” inquires another female voice.

“Over the last twelve months, we havebeen using psychotropic drugs, hypnosis, andelectroconvulsive therapy. The culmination of thetreatments has led to a fusion of both the Sammyand Michael personas and the removal of Simonto form a new personality. Sam. We hope thatwith the proper therapy, he will once again be ableto re-join society.” His voice resonates withconfidence and pride as he makes thispronouncement.

My ears prick up, and the wheels begin toturn in my mind. I think it is time to make themaware of my presence.  I open my eyes and yawn.I look around at the surprised group. DoctorBrooks is the first to recover.

“Welcome back, Sam,” he says with asmile.

Grinning, I turn my head and focus uponhis face. My eyes look deep into his, and I see aflicker of uncertainty and concerns appearing.

A chuckle escapes my lips.“Thank you, Doctor. My mind feels much

lighter now. I’m looking forward to my new life.”I can no longer suppress my joy. My

chuckles become stronger and stronger, until I amlaughing uproariously.

Life is good.

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Entwined in wedded bliss, passionate seeds were sown;In Heaven’s hearth God forged twin Cherubs in thy mold.Nourished in summer’s sun, by fall from nest have flown,Thus rue the autumn frost that wilts thy fam’ly fold.

Lo, the knave cloud concealed ‘hind gray horizon’s veil.Her chill wind may smile, but betrayal snows encroach.A savored trust once sweet, now sours in love gone staleAs mute ears and blind eyes let wanton storms approach.

Drawn by Siren’s song to greener pastures taken,Sacred vows uprooted, yield empty golden rings.Thy jaded heart withers, its vibrant beat forsaken,Fertile ground now barren, shall fallow in the spring.

Harrowed fields lie dormant to weather wintry days.Bitter heartaches linger, thy hearth still lacking fire.While hopeful seedlings pine for coming solstice raysSo idle pods may bloom once betrayal snows expire.

A plea to inner strength must battle woeful throesFor thy soul breeds contempt for tunnels void of light.As bellows breaths whisper, a dying ember glows;Ashen coals brought to life, now flicker through the night.

Alas, heat of rising sun lifts the mourning haze.As wakened eyes behold two Cherubs sprouted fast,Whose glint from gilded faces hath filled thou harvest trays;Proof that fruit conceived in love, can survive the past.

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Hardly with a hop, skip, and a jump did FrankParkinson come home from Tobruk, Egypt, NorthAfrica, madness, and World War II in general. Alot of pit stops were made along the way wheredelicate-handed surgeons and associates did theirvery best to get him back into working order.From practically every vantage point thereafterwe never saw, facially or bodily, any scar,bunching of flesh, or major or minor skindisturbance. There was no permanent redness, nowelts as part of his features, no thin and faintlyvisible testaments to a doctor’s faulty hand or tothe enemy’s angry fragmentation. It was as if hewere the ultimate and perfect patient, the greatrecovery, the risen Lazarus.

But he was different; it was easy to see, by along shot.

Parkie. Tanker. Tiger of Tobruk.And it was at the end of some trying times for

him when I realized one afternoon as we satlooking over the sun lit Lily Pond, a redness onthe pond’s face as bright as pal’s smile—the pondface we had skated on for almost twenty years,where we had whipped the long hand-held whipline of us and our friends screaming and wind-blown toward the frosted shore on countlesscoffee and cider evenings—that he had comehome to die.

The September sun was on for a short stay,and we had bagged a dozen bottles of beer andlaid them easily down in the pond, watching theflotilla of pickerel poking slowly about when thesediment settled, their shadowy thinness pointinglike inert submarines or torpedoes at the bags.

Our differences were obvious, though we didnot speak of them. The sands of North Africa hadclutched at him and almost taken him. Off amountain in Italy I had come with my feet nearlyfrozen, graceless pieces of marble under skin,thinking they might have been blown off the samequarry in which Michelangelo had once farmedtorsos. Searching for the grace that might havebeen in them, I found none. I kept no souvenirs,especially none of Italy and its craggy mountains,and had seen nothing of his memento scenery. Butonce I saw a pair of tanker goggles hanging likean outsize rosary on the post of Parkie’s bed atDutch Siciliano’s garage where he roomed on thesecond floor. In each of his three small rooms—like the residue of a convoy’s passing still hangingin the air, telling of itself at the nostrils with sharpreminders—you could smell the oil and greaseand, sometimes you’d swear, perhaps the acid-likecosmoline and spent gunpowder rising rightthrough the floorboards.

We left the war behind us, as much as wecould. But with Parkie, it was different…piecesof it hung on as if they were on for the long ride.I don’t mean that he was a flag waver or muftihero now that he was out of uniform, but thewhole war kept coming back to him in ways inwhich he had no control. There are people towhom such things befall. They don’t choose them,but it’s as if they somehow get appointed for allthe attendant crap that comes with life.

Furthermore, Parkie had no control over thevisitations.

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I don’t know how many times we sat in theAngels’ Club, hanging out, the big booms longdown the tubes, when someone from Parkie’s oldoutfit would show up out of the blue. It was likeLamont Cranston appearing from the shadows;there’d be a guy standing at the door looking inand we’d all notice him, and then his eyes andParkie’s eyes would lock. Recognition wasinstant; reaction was slower, as if neither onebelieved what he was seeing. There would be aquiet acceptance of the other’s presence; they’ddraw their heads together, have a beer in a corner.Parkie, as sort of an announcement, would speakto no one in particular and the whole room ingeneral, “This guy was with me in NorthAfrica.” He never gave a name. All of them wereodd lots, all of them thin like Parkie, drawn in theface, little shoulders and long arms, nervous,itchy, wearing that same darkness in the eyes, asum of darkness you’d think was too much forone man to carry. They would hang on for daysat a time, holing up some place, sometimes atParkie’s and sometimes elsewhere, drinking up astorm, carousing, and one morning would be goneand never seen again, as if a ritual had taken place.A solemn ritual. Apparitions almost from theslippery darkness! Dark-eyed. The nameless outof North Africa and whatever other place they hadbeen to and come from. Noble wanderers, itseemed, but nameless, placeless itinerants fromwho knows what!

Parkie never got a card or a letter from anyone of them, never a phone call. Nothing. Henever mentioned them after they were gone. That,to me, was notice he knew they would never beback. It was like a date had been kept, a vow paidoff. It wasn’t at all like “We’ll meet at TrafalgarSquare after the war,” or “Times Square,” or“Under the clock at The Ritz.” Not at all. Thesadness of it hit me solidly, frontally. I had hadsome good buddies, guy’s I’d be tickled to deathto see again if they walked in just like his pals did,and I knew that I’d never see them again. Thingswere like that, cut and dried like adobe, a placeand a job in the world, and you couldn’t cry aboutit. Part of the fine-tuned fatalism that grows inyour bones, becomes part of you, core deep, gutdeep.

The sun’s redness shivered under the breeze.Pickerel nosed at the bags. The beer cooled.Parkie sipped at a bottle, his eyes dark and lockedon the pond, seeing something I hadn’t seen, Iguess. The long hatchet-like face, the full-blownIndian complexion he owed great allegiance to,made his dark visage darker than it might havebeen. With parted lips, his teeth showed long andoff-white or slightly yellowed, real incisors in adeep-red gum line. On a smooth gray rock he satwith his heels jammed up under his butt, theredness still locked in his eyes and, like somelong-gone Chief, locked in meditation of thespirits.

For a long while, he was distant—who knowswhere, in what guise and in what act—out oftouch, which really wasn’t that unusual with himbefore, and surely wasn’t now, since his return.Actually it was a little eerie, this sudden transport,but a lot of things had become eerie with Parkiearound. He didn’t like being indoors for too longa stretch; he craved fresh air and walked a lot, andmust have worn his own path around the pond. Itwent through the alders, then through the clumpof birch that some nights looked like ghosts atattention, then down along the edge where all thekids went for kibby and sunfish, then over theknoll at the end of the pond where you’d go outof sight for maybe five minutes of a walk, andthen down along the near shore and coming up tothe Angels’ where we hung out.

Most of the guys said when you couldn’t findParkie you knew where to find him.

He looked up at me from his crouch, the bottlein his hand catching the sun, his eyes as dark asever in their deep contrast. “Remember that Kirbykid, Ellen Kirby, when we pulled her out of thechannel on Christmas vacation in her snowsuit,and she kept skating around the pond for a coupleof hours, afraid to go home? We saved her fornothing, it seems, but for another try at it. I heardshe drowned in a lake in Maine January of theyear we went away. Like she never learnedanything at all.” Parkie hadn’t taken his eyes offthe pond, stillness still trying to take hold of him,and he sipped and sipped and finally drank off thebottle and reached into the water for another. Thepickerel force moved away as quickly as minnows.

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Their quickness seemed to make fun of ourinertia. If there was a clock handy, I knew itshands would be moving, the ticking going on, butI seriously wouldn’t bet on it. We seemed to beholding our collected breath; the sun froze itselfon the water’s face, the slightest breath of windheld it off. There was no ticking, no bells, noalarms, and no sudden disturbances in the air, nomore war, and no passage of time. For a moment,at least, we hung at breathlessness and eternity.We were, as Parkie had said on more than oneoccasion, “Down-in deep counting the bones inourselves, trying to get literate.”

“We just got her ready to die another time.”The church key opener in his hand pried at thebottle cap as slow as a crowbar and permitted aslight “pop,” and he palmed the cap in his handand shook it like half a dice set and skipped itacross the redness. The deliberate things he didcame off as code transmissions, and I had spenthours trying to read what kind of messages werebeing carried along by them. They did not clamorfor attention, but if you were only barely alert,you knew something was cooking in him.

“You might not believe it,” I said, “but Ithought of her when I was in the base hospital inItaly and swore my ass was ice. I remember howshe skated around after we pulled her out with thatgray-green snowsuit on and the old pilot’s cap onher head and the flaps down over her ears and thegoggles against her eyes and the ice like a clear,fine lacquer all over her clothes. I thought she wasgoing to freeze standing up right on the pond.”

Parkie said, “I used to think about the pond alot when I was in the desert, at Tobruk, at AlShar-Efan, at The Sod Oasis, at all the dry holesalong the way, but it was always summer andfishing and swimming and going balliky off therock at midnight or two or three in the morningon some hot-ass August night when we couldn’tsleep and sneaked out of the house. Rememberhow Gracie slipped into the pond that night andslipped out of her bathing suit and hung it up ona spike on the raft and told us she was going toteach us everything we’d ever need to know.” Hishead nodded two or three times, accenting its ownmovement, making a grand pronouncement, as ifthe recall was just as tender and just as complete

as that long-ago compelling night. He sipped atthe bottle again and tried to look through its amberpassage, dark eyes meeting dark obstacles of morethan one sort. As much a fortuneteller he looked,peeking into life.

All across the pond, stillness made itselfknown, stillness as pure as any I’ve known. I don’tknow what he saw in the amber fluid, but itcouldn’t have been anything he hadn’t seenbefore.

I just had the feeling it was nothing different.When I called him Frank he looked at me

squarely, thick black brows lifted like chunks ofpunctuation, his mouth an Oh of morepunctuation, both of us suddenly serious. It hadalways been that way with us, the reliance on themore proper name to pull a halt to what was aboutus, or explain what was about us. He drank off aheavy draught of beer, his Adam’s apple floppingon his thin neck. The picture of a turkey wattlecame uneasily to mind, making me feel slightlyridiculous, and slightly embarrassed. Frank wasan announcement of sorts, a declaration that achange, no matter subtle or not, was beingintroduced into our conversation. It was not asserious as Francis but it was serious enough.

His comrades from North Africa, as always,had intrigued me, and on a number of instances Ihad searched in imagination’s land for stories thatmight lie there waiting to get plowed up. NothingI had turned over had come anywhere close toreality, or the terrors I had known in my ownstead. No rubble. No chaff. No field residue.

Perhaps Parkie had seen something in that lastbottle, something swimming about in the amberliquid, or something just on the other side of it,for he turned to me and said, “I think you want toknow about my friends who visit, my friends fromNorth Africa, from my tank outfit. I never toldyou their names because their names are notimportant. Where they come from or where theyare going is not important either. That informationwould mean nothing to you.” For the moment thesilence was accepted by both of us.

Across the stretch of water, the sun wasmaking its last retreat of the day. A quick graspof reflection hung for a bare second on the faceof the pond and then leaped off somewhere as if

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shot, past the worm-curled roots, a minute butenergized flash darting into the trees, then it wasgone, absolutely gone, none of it yet curling rounda branch or root, and no evidence of it lyingabout…except for the life it had given sustenanceto, had maintained at all levels. It was like theshutter of a camera had opened and closed at itsown speed.

Parkie acknowledged that disappearance witha slight nod of his head. An additional twist wasthere: it was obvious he saw the darkness comingon even before it gathered itself to call on us, asthough another kind of clock ticked for him, aclock of a far different dimension. He was stillchipping away at what had been his old self. Thatcame home clean as a desert bone; but where hewas taking it all was as much mystery as ever.

The beer, though, was making sly headway,the beer and stillness, and the companionship wehad shared over the years, the mystery of the sun’squick disappearance on what we knew of thehorizon, the thin edge of warmth it left behind,and all those strange comrades of his who hadstood in the doorway of the Angels' Club, framedas they were by the nowhere they had come from,almost purposeless in their missions. They too hadbeen of dark visage. They too were lank and thinand narrow in the shoulder. They too were scoredby that same pit of infinity locked deeply in theireyes. They were not haggard, but they were deep.I knew twin brothers who were not as close totheir own core the same way these men were, menwho had obviously leaned their souls entirely onsome common element in their lives. I did not findit as intense, even with battle brothers who hadlain in the same hole with me while German76’ers slammed overhead and all around us,Michelangelo’s marble still looking for a form toturn into as it flew its own shrapnel route in theawful trajectories.

The flotilla of pickerel nosed against the bagsof beer. Parkie’s Adam’s apple bobbed on his thinneck. He began slowly, all that long reservesuddenly beginning to fall away:

“We were behind German lines, but had noidea how we got there. We ran out of gas in a lowcrater and threw some canvas against the sides ofthe three tanks that had been left after our last

battle. If we could keep out of sight, sort ofcamouflaged, we might have a chance. It got coldthat night. We had little food, little water, littleammo, and no gas. It was best, we thought, to waitout our chances. If we didn't know where we were,perhaps the Jerries wouldn't know either. Sixteenof us were there. We had lost a lot of tanks, hadour butts kicked.”

He wasn’t dramatizing anything, you couldtell. It was coming as straight as he could makeit. Whatever was coming, though, had to be prettywild or exorbitant or eerie or, indeed, inhuman.The last option came home pretty cold to me. Thehair on the back of my neck told me so.

“We woke up in the false dawn, and they wereall around us. Fish in the bottom of the tank iswhat we were. No two ways about it. Plain, all-outfish lying there, as flat as those pickerel. Theytook us without a shot being fired. Took us likebabies in the pram. All day they questioned us.One guy was an SS guy. A real mean son of abitch if you ever met one. Once I spit at him andhe jammed me with a rifle barrel I swear sixinches deep. Ten times he must have kicked mein the guts. Ten times! I couldn’t get to his throat,I’d’ve taken him with me. They stripped ourtanks, what was left in them. That night theypushed us into our tanks. I saw the flash of a torchthrough one of the gun holes. You could hear agenerator working nearby. Something wascrackling and blistering on the hull or the turrettop. Blue light jumped every which way throughthe gun holes. It was getting hot. Then I realizedthe sounds and the smells and the weird lightswere welding rods being burned. The sons ofbitches were welding us inside our own tanks. Ahell of a lot of arguing and screaming was goingon outside us. The light went flashing on and off,like a strobe light, if you know what I mean. Blueand white. Blue and white. Off and on. Off andon. But no real terror yet. Not until we heard theroar of a huge diesel engine. And the sound of itgetting louder. And then came scraping andbrushing against the sides of our tanks. Sandbegan to seep through the gun holes and peepsights. The sons of bitches were burying us in ourown tanks! All I could see was that rotten SSbastard smiling down at us. I saw his little

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mustache and his pale green eyes and his red noseand a smile the devil must have created. And hisshining crow-black boots.”

I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t ask him a question.A stunned sensation swept clean through me.First, disbelief, a surging block of disbelief, as ifmy veins had frozen in place. The dark pit in hiseyes could be read; the darkness inside the tank,the utter, inhuman darkness that had become partof Parkie and part of his comrades, the imaginedsense of it hitting me slowly. It crept within me.I knew a sudden likeness to that feeling; it waspeering over the edge of a high place, the groundrushing up to meet me and then falling away andthe long descent, the torturous fall becoming partof me…in the veins, in the mind. A shiver ranthrough every part of my body. And then hatewelled in me, stark, naked, unadorned hate, hateof the vilest kind.

Parkie put his hand on my knee. His grip washard. “I never wanted to tell you, none of you. Weall had our thing. You had yours. I had mine. I’mso sorry your feet are so screwed up. I wishnothing had happened to you. But a lot of guys’vehad worse.”

“What happened?” I said, letting his handcarry most of his message, letting my own smallmiseries fall away as if they did not exist. Not bycomparison anyway. My feet had iced uppractically in my sleep. I knew the ignobledifference.

“The sand was almost over the entire tank, andthe noise inside the tank started. Screaming andcursing and crying. Cries like you never heard inyour life. God-awful cries. I know I never heardanything like them. And coming out of guys I’dknown a long time, tough guys, valiant guys, guyswith balls who had gone on the line for me. I heardsome of them call for their mothers. There wasscreaming, and then whimpering and thenscreaming again. And curses! My God, curses thatwould raise the friggin’ dead. The most unholy ofcurses. Everything dead and unholy andillegitimate, raised from wherever, were broughtagainst the Germans and that little SS bastard. Hewas castrated and ripped and damned anddenounced to the fires of hell. You have not heardprofanity and terror and utter and absolute hatred

all in one voice at the same time. The volume wasturned way up. It filled the tank. It filled thatmakeshift and permanent vault. And our uselessand agonized banging barehanded against the hullof the tank. Knuckles and fists and back-handersagainst the steel. And the outside noise drowningall of it out.”

I was still reeling, kept shaking my head, keptfeeling the same glacier-like ice in my veins. Andthe heat of hatred coexisted with that ice. I was amass of contradictions. Parkie kept squeezing myknee. The pickerel kept nosing the bags, hung upin their own world of silence. Silence extendeditself to the whole of Earth. The quiet out there,the final and eventual quiet out there, after thewar, was all around us.

“Suddenly,” he continued, “there was nothing.The sand stopped its brushing and grating againstthe steel of the tank, then the diesel noise grewlouder, as if it was coming right through us. Andpowerful thrusts came banging at the tank. I didn’tknow what it was. And then we were beingshoved and shaken, the whole structure. And Iheard curses from outside and a lot of German onthe air, and we seemed to be moving away fromour hole in the ground. Whatever it was waspushing at us. And then it went away and we heardthe same banging and grinding and grunting ofthe engine nearby. Then the blue and white lightagain as a torch burned around us and the tankheated up, and lots of screaming but all of itGerman. And there were more engine noises andmore banging and smashing of big bodies of steel.Finally the turret was opened, and we were hauledout and canteens shoved in our faces, and the othertanks were being opened up and guys scramblingout, some of them still crying and screaming andcursing everything around them.”

He reached for the last bottle in one of thebags. The bag began to drift slowly away in wavypieces. The pickerel had gone. The bottle capsnapped off in his hand. I thought of the tank’sturret top being snapped open, the rush of cleanair filling his lungs, a new light in his eyes.

“Then I saw him,” Parkie said. “The minute Isaw him I knew who he was. General Rommel.He was looking at us. He looked me right in theeye, straight and true and bone-steady and no shit

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at all in it. I didn’t think he was breathing, he wasso still. But I read him right off the bat. The wholebeing of that man was right in his eyes. He shookhis head and uttered a cry I can’t repeat. Then hetook a pistol from another guy, maybe his driver,a skinny itchy little guy, and just shot thatmiserable SS son of a bitch right between the eyesas he stood in front of him. Shot him like he wasthe high executioner himself; no deliberation, nosecond thought, no pause in his movement. Bang!One shot heard round the world if you really thinkabout it. He screamed something in German as ifit were at the whole German army itself, each andevery man of it, perhaps lifting to whatever godhe might have believed in because it was so loud,so unearthly, and then he just walked off towarda personnel carrier, not looking at us anymore orthe SS guy on the ground, a nice-sized hole in hisforehead.”

He drained off the last bottle, mouthing thetaste of it for a while, wetting his lips a few times,remembering, I thought, the dry sands, the heat,the embarrassed German general walking awayon the desert, the ultimate graveyard for so manymen, for so many dreams.

“They gave us water and food, the Germansdid. One of them brought up one of our own jeeps.It was beat to hell, but it was working. OneGerman major, keeping his head down, his eyeson the sand, not looking at us, pointed off acrossthe sand. We started out, the sixteen of us, somewalking, some riding, some still crying orwhimpering. Some still cursing. The next daywe met some Brits. They brought us to theirheadquarters company. We were returned to ouroutfit. Some guys, of course, didn’t get to go backon line, but were sent home as head cases. Can’tblame them for that. I kept thinking about GeneralRommel, kept seeing his eyes in my mind. I cansee them now, how they looked on his face, theshame that was in them. It was absolute, thatshame, and he knew we knew. It was somethinghe couldn’t talk about, I bet. If he could havetalked to us, we might have been taken to one oftheir prison camps. But he knew he couldn’t dothat to us. Make amends is what he had to do. Hehad to give us another chance. Just like we gaveEllen Kirby another chance at drowning.”

In his short flight he had circled all the wayback to the Kirby circumstance and all that playedwith it.

Francis Dever Parkinson, tanker sergeant,survivor of Tobruk and other places in thenorthern horrors of Africa, who walked awayfrom death in the sand on more than one occasion,who might be called Rommel’s last known foe,who rolled over three cars on U.S. Route 1 andwaged six major and distinct bouts with JohnBarleycorn thereafter in his time, who got to knowthe insidious trek of cancer in his slight frame,whom I loved more than any comrade that hadshared a hole with me, who hurt practically everyday of his life after his return from Africa, hungon for twenty-five more torturous and tumultuousand mind-driven years. They found him one nightat the far end of the pond when nobody knewwhere he was for two days. A handful of dampearth was squeezed into one fist, and the metalcrypt, perhaps, was long gone, just as were thedays of Africa and its two dark eyes.

Originally published in Stirring, a LiteraryCollection, V3 E9, September 2001

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After the snow moves norththe prairie crocus,native anemone,ears of the earthlistensfor the rustle of summer.

Gently she swaysto moments of truth;in her petals,the purple blue mistof far distant mountains,a small golden sunclose to her heart.

Eternityfolds close around her,warms herfrom the cold winds.of spring.

Dennis Cardiff

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Most people judge a book by its cover, butdoing that is like chasing the wind. The windcannot be caught; the soul cannot be categorized.

Yet, we do categorize.The simple fact, though, is that everybody

deserves some respect. Aretha Franklin knew that.She sang about it.

Respect is a powerful tool. When someonefeels respected and understood, it can preventmisunderstandings and, perhaps, even wars.Many of the greatest disasters in history wouldhave been prevented if only those responsible hadrespected their counterparts.

Choristers are lazy brutes, Germans arerude people who only eat Sauerkraut, allAmericans eat hamburgers, and all Chinesepeople eat dogs. All presidents and kings arenoble, the common man loves sports, movie starsnever lose their money, and the Queen of Englandhas no ordinary problems.

Those are clichés.They are what they are: lies that create a

lack of respect and understanding.In my forty-three years on this planet, I

have concluded that we are all moreindividualistic than anyone can imagine. And yet,in God, we are one. Our differences are important,because we can all learn from each other.

There is no such thing as the common man.He does not exist, because no man,woman, or child is common.Everyone is unique.Every soul has a story.

Who is he, this famous common man?Ordinary, normal—what is that? Yet societycaters to this cliché, and too many people buy it.They think the media expects them to be common,and the media think people expect them to providethe necessary output. A mass of individuals thinkthat the other person expects something, then actaccordingly. However—and here it getscomplicated—the other person might beexpecting something different. They might becaught up in themselves.

Surprise them with your skill. Let themdiscover your brilliance. Lead them into yourworld of kindness and grace.

The examples below are all true stories.We see Joan Collins and we think, “That

woman has never been poor!” What we don’tknow is she collected unemployment-money priorto her Dynasty-fame.

We see the hardworking stagehand, arepairman with many gaps in his teeth and closeto retirement, and we think, “This is a guy withoutmuch culture or education!” What we don’t knowis this man is an accomplished classical painterwho has sold his art for high prices at countlessexhibitions.

We see the eccentric old lady rummagingin her wallet for some change at the check-outline and we think, “What a crazy, boring old lady.Can’t she be quicker?” What we don’t know isshe is a Russian Jewish concert pianist whosurvived the death-camp of Auschwitz in Poland.

While sketching a portrait in the winter air,

Charles E. J. Moulton

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a man stinking of alcohol comes up to us and sitsdown to chat. We think, “What a loser! Hestinks!” What we don’t know is he is an ex-airplane-constructor who ruined his healththrough his hard work in the factory. He nowspends his time travelling to Gran Canaria andSeville just to compensate for the pain of his earlyretirement, trying to get over his girlfriend’sdeath ten years back. And yet, that man is justfollowing his dreams. His need to lead a fulfilledlife is what drives him forward. In this day andage, too many people are playing catch-up,presenting themselves as the hottest thing on theplanet, much due to social media. Our goal,however, should be creating quality work. If fameand extreme attention come as a result of thatwork, that is fine. But fame itself is fickle. Whatwe want is something lasting.

Where do we find fulfillment?Fame is never a guarantee for happiness.

Likewise, clichès are common. Follow yourdreams, whatever those mankind-loving andEarth-improving dreams may be. I bet the Queenof England brushes her teeth at night likeeveryone else and goes to bed wondering if herchildren and grandchildren are all right. I bet shehas a cold from time to time, like everyone else.I bet Bill Gates has stomachaches and has to askhis wife if she will make him some tea.

I am sure that when the President of theUnited States is sick, he tells his wife. “Dear, Ican’t go to the conference tomorrow. I’ve lost myvoice!”

We are all people. No, I will correct that.We are all souls. Souls inside people. The soul isthe first thing that you should care about. Withoutthat, life does not matter. Souls matter. Feelingsmatter. Individuals matter. Love matters. Ourfeelings, our microcosmos, rule our lives. Thesefeelings carry the packages that we brought withus into the world.

God lives in us, and our fate resides thereand manifests the reality as we know it. Insideus.

The answer is, was, and always will beinside us. There is a ticket there that leads to thenext world. What is the answer?

In acting training, we speak of thinkingoutside the nine dots. The concept starts with nineindividual dots formed on a paper inside a square.The assignment is to connect them withoutcrossing the lines or lifting the pen from the paper.That is only possible if you make a triangle whoseboundaries end outside the square. In acting, youhave to look for character-similar emotion outsidethe normal borders of the play. Likewise in life,we have to think outside the dots. We can’t affordto believe in clichés anymore. Be individuals.

Brave innovators are individuals.They follow their intuition.Socrates, da Vinci, Mozart, Gandhi.Edison would never have invented the

lightbulb if he had followed the leader. Wires andglass don’t normally create light, right? Einsteinwould’ve never ever created his theory ofrelativity if he hadn’t believed in the uniqueexperience.

This is not about fame. Who cares if you’refamous? You’re famous. Yes, you. You readingthis article. You are famous in your own right. Alot of people know you—your family, yourfriends, your colleagues. You have met thousandsof people in your life, and they all know you, likeyou, and admire you. If that’s not fame, I don’tknow what is.

We live in a time where the mainstreamengulfs so much of what really is individualisticand true. In such a time, it is vital that we trythinking for ourselves. Make unusual and humanechoices. The kind man who lets you go first intothe elevator—ask him how his day was. The littlegirl playing in the sandbox—give her a flower.

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The foreign-exchange student who chats with youby the bus stop—teach him a song from yourcountry. The woman with the beautiful hat—giveher a compliment. The bus driver yelling at youfor being slow while getting into the bus—tell himthat you understand that he has had a long day.

Only if we take brave steps to look beyondwhat is superficial can we change the world. Lookdeeper into the symbolic canvas of your spirituallymanifested life.

Don’t believe what society tells you. See

for yourself what lies inside the hat of the beggar.If your colleagues tell you that the new boss is anawful man, talk to him yourself and find out whatmakes him tick. If the woman in the cantina atwork tells you the girl working in the artdepartment is an antisocial snob, go meet her. Findout who she is. If you don’t learn for yourself, atleast don’t tell anyone else that she’s a snob. Howcan you know? You’ve never met her.

Every microcosm reveals individualism.Every soul has a story.

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I didn’t search the boundless deep for younor climb the highest hill nor swim the sea.I didn’t pray to gods as some men do.I found you in that quiet place, in me.

The whirlwind didn’t bring you to my arms.No raging fire has seared you to my breast.No wise soothsayer worked her magic charms.A still small voice, so softly, gave me rest.

I sensed you in the silence of my dream,there in the sunset of a golden day,and in the gurgle of a mountain stream,fresh as the fragrance of the new mown hay.

Then, as my waiting heart began to stir,I simply turned around, and there you were.

Bob Buckner

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Bob Buckner (Wanderer; You)

Bob Buckner is a retired associate pastor. He received his formal training at SouthwesternBaptist Seminary in Fort Worth, Texas. For forty-two years, he served churches in Texas,Oklahoma, and Mississippi. He resides in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Buckner has a largeportfolio on Writing.Com under the pen-name Candlemaker. His favorite literary style is theShakespearean sonnet which he believes to be the best instrument for romantic poetry in allof literature.

Dennis Cardiff (Prairie Crocus)

Dennis Cardiff’s poem "Woodland Spirit" was recently published in the Writing.ComAnthology 2012. He has also had poetry published in "The Sheaf" (University ofSaskatchewan) newspaper.

Charles E. J. Moulton (Every Soul Has a Story)

Charles E. J. Moulton has been a stage performer since age eleven. His trilingual,artistic upbringing, as the son of Gun Kronzell and Herbert Moulton, led to a hundred stageproductions, countless cross-over concerts, work as a bandleader and as an acting teacher.His writing has appeared in Idea Gems, Vocal Images, Pill Hill Press and Aquarius Atlanta.He is a tourguide, a voice-over-speaker, and a translator. He is married andhas a daughter.

Linda M. Price (In the Spotlight)

Linda M. Price is a graduate from Northern Kentucky University. She majored in English,"with the Writing option," and minored in Cinema Studies. This has allowed her to greatlyenjoy her life. She lives in Northern Kentucky, in the town where she has spent 85% of herlife. Linda has been writing seriously for four years (poetry and creative non-fiction), hasbeen published half a dozen times, and has received two awards, one being a poetryscholarship. She greatly enjoys traveling abroad and finds that her periods in Europe aresome of the most inspiring times.

Our Contributors

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Colin Shaw (Survival of the Strongest)

After a lifetime of many and varied jobs in many and varied places, Colin Shaw has nowsettled and works part-time. An avid reader of many genres, he has recently been bitten bythe writing bug and has written several short stories and poems. He resides in Australia withhis wife and two dogs.

Tom Sheehan (Parkie, Tanker, Tiger of Tobruk)

Sheehan served in Korea, 1951. Books are Epic Cures; Brief Cases, Short Spans; ACollection of Friends; From the Quickening. He has 20 Pushcart nominations, and 320stories on Rope and Wire Magazine. His newest eBook from Milspeak Publishers, TheWestering (2012), was nominated for a National Book Award. His work is in/coming inRosebud (5th issue), The Linnet’s Wings (6th issue), Ocean Magazine (8th issue), and manyinternet/print sites.

D. R. Smith (Blavatsky’s Bus; Snows of Betrayal)

D.R. Smith, a pseudonym after his grandfather who raised him, considers himself more of aliterary hobbyist than a prolific author. Whether poetry, fiction or non, D.R. tends to needsolid inspiration with definite themes in mind to get the quill moving. His first book,Beaches of Belmont was published in ’08, and perhaps one day soon, he will finish Tree ofthe Great Long Leaves, an epic novel inspired by his son’s death as referenced herein:‘Blavatsky’s Bus.’

Anne Warchol (God’s Telephone)

Anne Warchol lives in Orlando, Florida with her guinea pig, Reese Cup, and Porsche, herrescued cat. She is fascinated by the teachings of Carl Jung, the complexity of quantumphysics, and the curious nature of time. Her passion is writing, and she has written severalstories inspired by her three adult children and grandchildren. And, all the animals in her life.

Graphics

Cover: Ana C. Gulpe – morguefile.comWanderer - Jane M Sawyer / cohdra /morguefile.comParkie, Tanker, Tiger of Tobruk David Ellis dellis3d@sbcglobal.netYou – Emlyn Addison.

We thank the wonderful people at morguefile.com who allowed their creative endeavours tograce our pages. 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 towardachieving their writing aspirations. She is an avid novice poetess and also enjoys writing flash-fiction and short stories in many genres.

Managing EditorK. Wall returned to editing and mentoring after a ten-year hiatus. Now in her second year, shecontinues to enjoy working with an incredible team of professionals assisting new writers as theygrow, soar to new heights, and achieve their dreams. In her spare time, she writes fiction delvinginto relationship dynamics and the human condition.

Fiction EditorPLScholl is a professional writer and educator. She holds a BA in English, a BS in Education, a MSin Literacy, and has won numerous awards for both her writing and her reviews. Currently, she isan adjunct professor for Sinclair Community College. When not writing or teaching, she enjoysspending time with her two children and husband of 22 years.

Non-fiction EditorWinnie has been on the Staff of Shadows Express for two years. She is an instructor for NewHorizons Academy, an on-line writing school associated with the global writingcommunity WDC and has taught the fundamentals of proper comma placement and sentencestructure for over two years. Winnie enjoys writing traditional poetry and short-stories designed tostir the emotions of her readers. But her greatest delight is polishing and editing promising worksfor new writers in preparation for possible publication. She established  Walrus Editing andProofreading in 2010. In addition, she is a member of the editing staff of Wynwidyn Press

Poetry EditorIn his youth, Liam O'Haver was taught that with diligence you could reach any dream. This hasgenerally proven true. In his life, he has been a student, paperboy, soldier, private detective, printer,technical consultant, and teacher. As a husband and father, along with his wife, he has raised fourchildren, enjoyed seven grandchildren so far, and has looked into the eyes of one great-granddaughter. Despite being an accomplished poet, even in his wildest dreams, he neveranticipated being a poetry editor.

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

Our Staff

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