Going to Print...The Altered 'Alf Book

 

Dialogue of a Mad Hatter

by Stella (Wilfinger) Rothe

You’re invited to a tea party!

Arrive on time, my dear

else the biscuits will be moldy

and the tea will disappear.

It’s not what you’re expecting, child,
be very well aware:
this is not an invitation
so much as it is a dare.

Ah, you’re here – delightful!
The party can begin!
Come forth - don’t look so scared, me lass,
Invite the madness in!

You’re looking very pretty
in your sky-blue cotton frock
and the lace is very proper
on your
clean
white
smock.

How breathtaking! How wonderful!
You’re such a lovely child.
You look at me through widened eyes
So frightened, yet beguiled.
I know I look alarming.
I know I’m not quite sane –
but what’s the fun of sanity?
Life’s just one big game!

Come now, don’t be so silly.

Is it my hair, my teeth, my hat?
I’d like to know what scares you so,
but draw close, let’s have a chat.

What’s brought you here to Wonderland?
Oh, what a curious tale!
But you must admit this tea party
In memory will prevail!

What’s that? You wish to leave now?
Oh, you’re no fun at all.
I was just about to describe to you
Wonderland’s locale.

Beware the Queen of Hearts, me lass,
hold tight onto your head;
you’ll play croquet until doomsday
so stay longer here, instead!

Ah well, it is no use to make you stay
if you must go,
but ere you leave there is one thing
you really aught to know:

In years to come
you will remember
what a jolly time you had
when everyone was innocent
and everything was mad.

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RED, THE LITTLE HOOD

by Cathy Plum

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Red. Red was a good kid, but in his neighborhood, he was known as Red, the Little Hood. His father disappeared before his second birthday, and his mother was a crack-head. Red had an older brother, Johnny, that he could barely remember; but Johnny ran away as soon as he could make enough money for a bus ride to anywhere.

When Red was seven, he decided he would sell drugs so he and his mom could eat. He made a good living, and he did well in school. By his thirteenth birthday, Red was right-hand man to the biggest drug dealer in the neighborhood, the Big Bad Wolf. His mom was so proud of him, mostly because he got her drugs for free.

Red was the “special delivery” man for the Big Bad Wolf. He delivered drugs to city council members, teachers, business men and women, and all the Wolf’s best clients. One day, the Wolf had an extra special job for Red.

“Deliver this package to the house just beyond the woods,” ordered the Big Bad Wolf. “It’s my Gramma's place. You know the house.”

“I will, sir,” said Red, and he left the Wolf’s pad.

“Don’t talk to anyone in the woods, Red,” yelled the Big Bad Wolf.

“I won’t, sir,” replied Red, as he skipped merrily down the sidewalk. When Red reached the trail at the base of the woods, he stopped and looked around for the po-po. Determining the coast was clear, Red continued on his journey to Gramma’s house.

About half way through the woods, he heard a noise coming from behind the tree. He only paused for a moment, and then hurriedly continued on his way. He heard the noise again, but this time it was much louder:

“Hey!” someone shouted. “Hey, kid!”

Red was curious. He replied, “Yea.”

“Pop over here, kid. I want to talk to you,” said the voice.

“I’m not supposed to talk to anyone in the woods. Who are you?” asked Red sternly. There was no reply.

“Come over this way. By the tree house,” the mystery voice said.

Red’s curiosity got the best of him, and he went toward the tree house. He went up the homemade stairs to the top of the tree. There sat a young man, in his mid-twenties. He looked familiar to Red. “Do I know you?” asked a curious Red.

“Yes, you do, Phillip,” said the young man.

“How do you know my real name?” asked Phillip, a.k.a. Red. “Nobody, except my mom, knows my real name – and I’m not sure if she really remembers anything anymore. She probably wouldn’t even notice if I never came home again; except for her precious drugs I bring to that shit-hole where we live.”

“I am your brother, Johnny,” said the young man. “I am sorry I had to leave when you were so small. I was scared. I had to get away from here. I always planned to come back for you. I’m a police officer now, and I can take you away from all this – forever. I have a plan.”

Phillip didn’t know what to say. He hugged his brother. Finally, someone to love and take care of him, he thought. “What’s the plan?”

“Make the delivery to the Big Bad Wolf’s Gramma. We’ll bust you, and you’ll be free from the Wolf,” said Johnny. “He’ll think you’ve disappeared into the system.”

“Do you think it’ll work?” asked Phillip

“I know it will,” replied Johnny.

“Won’t I get in trouble for delivering drugs for the Big Bad Wolf for all these years?” asked Phillip.

“No,” replied Johnny. “We know you had to do it to eat. I’ve made all the arrangements. I’ve been watching you, and waiting for you to come through the woods. I’m so glad I found you.”

“Me, too,” said a thankful Phillip. “I have never done any drugs; ever.”

“I know that, Phillip. You’re a good kid. I’m going to take you away from all of this. And, I’ve made arrangements for mom to get away from this neighborhood. We’re going to bust everybody at the same time,” said Johnny, “even the Big Bad Wolf.”

“Now, run along. I love you, Phillip,” said Johnny with a smile. “I’m right behind you.”

“I love you, Johnny,” said Phillip.

Phillip scoped out the area, and climbed down from the tree house. He kept checking behind him for Johnny, who was never more than a few steps away. When he reached Gramma’s house, he knocked.

“Red, is that you?” asked the Big Bad Wolf’s Gramma.

“Yes it is. I have a special delivery for you,” said the boy.

“Good! Come in, boy,” replied Gramma.

Phillip slowly turned the knob, and walked in. It was a one-room house, and Gramma was lying in her bed.

“What big eyes you have,” said Phillip.

“All the better to see you with,” said Gramma, “Where’s the package?”

As soon as young Phillip put the package in Gramma’s hands, twenty policemen stormed in! They threw Gramma on the ground and took her away.

Johnny carefully put the cuffs on Phillip, and took him outside to his squad car. Inside the vehicle, his brother removed the cuffs. “That’s it, Phillip. You’re free! Mom is on her way to a hospital, and we’re on our way to Chicago.”

“Thank you, Johnny. I have dreamed of this day. Finally, we are a family again.”

~ The moral of the story is: Working for the Big Bad Wolf never pays. ~

***

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The Parable of the Six Blind Men

and the Elephant (Updated)

 by Clark Iverson

The ruler of a mythical country was given a gift from another ruler of a distant land. It was an animal that he had never seen before. He called his six blind advisors to help him understand what sort of animal it was. All six entered the room where the beast was kept, approaching it from different directions.

The first one walked into the elephant’s broad wall-like side and said, “There are definitely weapons of mass destruction here.”

The second one felt the elephant’s tree-like leg and proclaimed, “Yes, and they’re north, south, east, and west of Tikrit, somewhat.”

The third one felt the elephant’s fan-like ear and intoned seriously, “I’d hate to take a chance on a mushroom cloud over one of our cities,”

The fourth one felt the elephant’s rope-like tail and avowed, “The information in this dossier leaves no doubt.”

The fifth one felt the smooth, horn-like tusk and promised, “My country will help you with the invasion, but we need to appear to use the UN route so as to have legitimacy with the rest of the world.”

The last one accidentally grabbed the elephant’s trunk, upon which he was picked up and squeezed and shaken before being put down again. He ran away shrieking, “If we call the Geneva Conventions ‘quaint,’ then they magically won’t have the force of law anymore!”

Although they all could have reached conclusions based upon evidence, it would have set a bad precedent, for, you see, the blind advisors reached their lofty positions exactly by finding other things more important.

What a great distance humanity has traveled since the first time this story was told.

***

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It Sat in the Corner
by Jenna Fanson

It sat in the corner. Tattered. Dusty. Alone. It was beginning to feel like home. But not the kind of home anyone normal would appreciate. No, this place was special now. It was the only place that welcomed it, welcomed it with open arms in shades of blue.

A thin, curly, red strand hung loosely over its face, and the drawn on smile was no longer filled with color. The dark blue dots were dry with age and replaced with a deep ocean of loss and dust mites. The pretty green dress was ripped at the sleeves, and the white polka dots lingered on in the fabric. The shoes were untied and missing laces.

It wasn’t always this way. It was full of life and color and love. It was fixed when broken, found when lost, and always slept between the arms of a loving child. It even remembers the care and devotion put into its creation. The soft stitching, the perfect selection of colors and fabrics, and the smile at the end of every addition knowing someone else would soon be smiling, too. And that first look is the most precious thing that could be given in return. But such a look can only last so long.

After years of growing, changing, and forgetting, here it sat. Alone in the corner.

There was always the thought that perhaps it’s not too late. Perhaps there’s still a chance, a chance of remembering, a chance to be brought back into the light of love. And each day it watched her walk out of the room without looking back, without remembering. And so it sat, waiting in the corner, waiting in the dust.

The happiness it used to share with the child it loved so much was more than something magical; it was real in every sense. They were never without each other, and when they were, time stopped until all was returned to the way it was supposed to be. It was a love that could only be known and shared by them. But then something happened. Something changed.

Why? When? How?

It was never clear. And as it sat in the corner, all that it was left to do was wonder. Wonder why. Wonder when. Wonder how. Wonder if it was ever going to change. It wasn’t long before it fell from the arms of the child and was never picked up; forced into the darkness and out of the center of the light. Still it waited, hoping for its discovery. The hope of being found when lost and fixed when broken didn’t last. Hope had faded.

And now it felt there was no meaning to hoping anymore. It was a lost memory, forced into the darkness of uselessness and hopelessness. The dust and shadows became its only friends and it knew of nothing else.

Still it waited. Waited for the day that may be yet to come. The day it would be brought back into the light.

It sat in the corner, wearing a dim colored smile that faded with the forgotten years.

***

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Goldilocks

by Paula Marie Deubel

______________________________

GOLDI

Based on the original essay by Robert Southey, 1837

"The Story of the Three Bears”

by Nancy Washburn

Pop, Mom and Baby Bear’s porridge is too hot
They decide to go for a walk in the woods
Ten year old, Goldi, spots a cute yellow cottage
She knocks on the door, it’s open

She’s hungry, and enters the kitchen
Tasting porridge, one’s too hot
The second’s too cold, and the third bowl is perfect
She gulps it down

Goldi sits on the first chair, too big
Mom’s, too small, Baby’s chair is just right
She plops down, oops, it breaks to pieces
Goldi’s exhausted

She slowly climbs the stairs
Jumps on the first bed
One’s too hard, another too soft
Baby’s bed is so comfy, she falls asleep

Pop, Mom and Baby come back home
Pop growls, “Someone’s been eating my porridge”
Mom groans, “Someone’s been slurping in my porridge”
Baby cries, “My porridge is all gone”

They step into the living room
Pop yells, “Someone’s been sitting on my chair”
Mom mutters, “Someone’s been sitting on my chair”
Baby screams, “My chair is all broken”

Pop, Mom and Baby hoof it upstairs
Pop complains, “ Someone’s been sleeping in my bed”
Mom moans, “Someone’s been sleeping in my bed”
Baby whimpers, “She is sleeping in my bed”

Goldi wakes up and thanks them for the shelter
She begs their forgiveness
Goldi needs a family and a warm home
Pop, Mom and Baby are happy to adopt Goldi

____________________________

The Beginning

by Jenna Fanson

In the absence of the light of day, I walked down a stone courtyard. Darkness covered everything, though the night didn’t matter much with my night vision eyesight. There was a light mist in the air barely hovering over the grass and the moon was just peaking behind the clouds. I watched as the whole courtyard was bathed in its light. All was still except for the light breeze that brushed against my fur. I felt a slight chill crawling up my back and my fur rose just as I did.

The courtyard was surrounded by a black-gated fence, and beyond it were a forest and a large hill. Most of the plants that bordered the stone path I had been walking on were dead. It was interesting not hearing myself walk yet my hearing was very in tune with everything else around me. My footsteps were soft and padded, and my shadow trailed behind me as though it was watching me, waiting for me to take off and challenge it to a game of catch-me-if-you-can. But I wasn't in the mood for games. I had something more important on my mind.

To my right, there was a stone bench, and there, sitting rather gloomily, was a woman. She was young and very pretty. Her long brownish-gray hair that hung over her shoulders was barely disturbed by the wind. She sat, a bit hunched over; her hands were in her lap and her head down. I watched for her movement but she remained still. Being the definition of stealth, it wouldn't be very difficult for me to appear before her unnoticed. I decided to test my abilities and jumped to a nearby stone, and, from there,

I leapt towards the fence. My paws caught its edge like a magnet. I shifted my weight almost immediately and, with one paw in front of the other, my balance became flawlessly perfect.

The woman was now ahead of me and she still had not moved. The tips of her purple-gray dress were wet and dirt had taken residence on the soles of her shoes. As I crept closer, I could hear the faint sound of crying. My curiosity grew with every step. Who was this woman, and why was she crying? Was she the one who had called me to such a place?

She was only about two feet away from me now, and I could see the slow diamond like tears that took turns escaping from her eyes slide down the side of her pale face. I turned my head, a little distracted by what seemed to be a thin sheet of dust that enveloped her entire body.

My curiosity became unbearable. I sprang from the fence with such grace and agility and landed next to her lap. I sat there, my tail coiling itself around the legs of the bench, waiting for her to look at me, but she would not budge. On strict alert for any sign of movement, I placed my tiny black paw on her frail hand and very slowly and very gently retracted my claws.

If I would have blinked just once I may have missed it. She seemed to have finally noticed for she had moved her head only an inch to acknowledge my presence. I looked deep into her face; she did not smile. Her tears continued just as they had before and as each one poured from her eyes a reflection of a dark and gloomy past began to present itself. One of the tears had fallen on my head and almost immediately I shook it off as I did not like wetness, but something was already happening. A tiny pain burrowed its way into the back of my eyes and soon all I could see was her.

She was standing on a hilltop alone, looking out to the distance. Her arms wrapped around herself, shivering in the cold as the wind blew violently through her hair. Her head was held high as if waiting for someone. For what seemed like an eternity, she waited, but no one came. Then suddenly, the weight of rejection and heartbreak crashed over her. The man she had been waiting for, the man she thought loved her, the man she had expected to runaway with, had forgotten her.

Unable to hold herself up any longer, she collapsed to the cold, wet ground. Her glazed eyes swept across the sky as she drifted into a deep sleep that she could never wake from.

Then finally, my eyes came back into focus. She was still sitting there, tears coming down like rain. I perched myself up, both paws now covering her hands and looked up. From what I could tell, her eyes were a shade of dark blue with small streaks of gold around the edges of her pupils. I advanced my paw to her shoulder and began to lick the salty tears from her face. The warmth of my tongue against her cold wet skin made her shiver, but somehow she seemed grateful as she relished the new comfort that was washing over her. I then pulled my head to her ear and slowly whispered the words she had been waiting so long to hear. "Go and be at peace." At these words, she lifted her head to the night sky and spread her arms out beside her, welcoming the warmth of a new peace. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes while a faint smile began to spread across her face. And she was free.

As the sun began to peak over the hilltop where she had once stood, I sat on the bench alone. Where the girl had gone I did not know, but I could tell where ever she was she was finally at peace. I jumped down from the bench and turned my back to the rising red sun. It had been a long night for me and it soon became a chore to keep my eyelids in place. I decided to treat myself to a well-deserved catnap in a near by tree, and there, I would wait for my own sun to rise.

***

_____________________________

Blue Hood

by Nancy Washburn

Blue Hood’s mother said, “Will you bring this box of hot chocolate chip cookies to your grandfather?” “Sure, Mom,” he replied. He was a smart, red haired, mischievous twelve year old, who enjoyed visiting his ailing grandfather who lived at the other end of town. Blue Hood’s favorite blue spring jacket had a hood, so his mother teased him with that name. He quickly grabbed it off the hook, and rushed outside. Carefully, he put the box of fresh homemade cookies in a warm towel, and laid it in the metal basket of his 10-speed Schwinn bike. He whistled while he rode through town.

He was almost there, when suddenly a dark haired teenage boy stood in front of Blue Hood with a knife, and made him quickly pull the hand brakes. Blue Hood recognized the mean gang member, Ace, who was wearing a red bandana on his forehead, and two gold studs piercing his ears. Ace had a reputation of not being too clever, so Blue Hood tried to compliment him saying, “Ace, what a cool bandana you have.” But the furious teenager grabbed onto the bike saying “Shut up! I want your bike and those cookies that I smell.” “No,” Blue Hood said nervously, “I have to deliver them to my sick grandfather.” He jerked the bike out of Ace’s hands, and hurriedly rode away.

Blue Hood was anxious to get to his grandfather’s cozy white bungalow near the woods. He knocked on the door and announced, “Grandfather, it’s me, Blue Hood.” “Bring yourself in, Sonny boy, it’s open.” His grandfather, Jake, was resting in bed, covered with a patch quilt. He smiled when Blue Hood came in with the cookies.

A loud noise surprised them as Ace burst into the bedroom, holding the knife. “I am going to tie both of you up, and eat those cookies right in front of you,” he smirked. “Then, I will take your bike and money.” But Ace didn’t have anything to tie them up with. Blue Hood said, “There’s some thick rope in the garage.” Ace took the bait, and left to get the rope.

Blue Hood grabbed the loaded rifle under the bed, and he knew how to use it. His grandfather had been clay target practicing with him for years. Grandfather Jake called the sheriff. They held Ace there, until Sheriff Dale arrived, with the sirens blaring. He immediately handcuffed Ace. Blue Hood gave them each a huge cookie, including stuffing one in Ace’s mouth. The chief pushed Ace into the car and raced off to jail. Grandfather was tired, but they talked about their adventurous day.

***

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______________________________

Edna’s Modern-Day

High School Awakening

(Edna’s Character inspired from
Kate Chopin’s The Awakening)
by Jenifer DeBellis

Edna spun the dial on her locker’s combination pad. How could she get married to Larry without knowing what the world had to offer? He was as dry and lifeless as the Gobi Desert air!

“Hey angel,” Rodney said, leaning up against her locker.

Across the crowded hallway, with a dramatic roll of her eyes, Claire sneered at Julia, “Oh, she’s good. Only a pro could pull off that whole innocent act. Look at her blush; ingenious!”

“I heard she’s engaged,” Julia said with too much enthusiasm.

“Yeah,” Claire’s laugh was malicious, “and she claims to be a virgin!”

Julia snickered, “Come on; that’s sacrilegious! Isn’t she almost eighteen?”

Both girls watched Andy walk up to the other side of Edna and prop his arm against the lockers. He only left a few inches between their faces.

“How’s it goin’, baby girl?” His expression was confident.

Edna’s eyes livened at this course of flirtation. “I’m still deciding.”

Andy cradled her chin in his hand, “Mmmm, those eyes are gonna be the death of me.”

Every hair on her body responded to his touch. Her face flushed as she labored to keep her composure.

Andy only let go of her chin when he was sure the effects of his charm had set in. Without another word, he spun around and strutted away.

“What the…” Claire trailed off. “That ho’s goin’ down.”

Julia grabbed Claire’s arm. “Hold up. Pace yourself, killer.”

Rodney cleared his throat to regain Edna’s attention. “So, do you need anything?”

Mmm, he smelled amazing. She shook her head to clear her distracted thoughts. “I am having trouble with math,” her smile was sultry, “and rumor has it you’re the go-to man.” She tilted her head. “Something about being good with a calculator and your fingers…”

“Uh,” he chuckled, and brushing his lips against her ear, whispered, “See you later, angel.”

She inhaled one last time before letting him pull away; visions of crafty fingers stroking calculators ran through her mind. Larry or not, she would get to know those fingers!

As Rodney began to walk away, Julia came up from behind, and wrapped her arms around him. Disappointment registered upon his face when he turned and discovered who held him. He tried to pull away, but she pressed harder, and keeping him in her embrace she pushed him up against the lockers.

Julia began to passionately kiss Rodney. Several seconds passed before he regained his faculties. Confident in the success of her mission, she stepped back from him and shot Edna a sideways smirk.

Confusion now mixed with Edna’s new awakenings of physical desire. An oppressive shadow misted her soul’s moment of sunshine, and clouded the flames of her awakening. Her mind was fluctuating between longings for electric pulses and magical fingers. She fixed a new resolve within her heart: She would be electrified and calculated; soon, and often…

After Rodney slinked away, Edna turned to the two sets of eyes now boring into her. Didn’t they have a post to go scratch or something? She did not want to deal with them today. Couldn’t this wait until tomorrow, or never?

“Having a good day?” Julia’s saccharine voice didn’t waver.

Edna grew faint assessing the details of this ocean of new sensations. Her expression was self absorbed and distant.

“Tss,” Claire murmured in a whispered tone, “Is she on something?”

Julia grabbed Edna’s wrist. “Dang, girl.” She twisted her hand to allow the light to work its magic on the intricate cuts in the monstrosity disguised as a ring. “Nice rock!”

“It’s from Tiffany’s,” replied Edna without enthusiasm.

“I heard Larry doesn’t do anything small,” smirked Claire. “You’d better keep an eye on him. I might have to help myself, if you know what I mean.”

Edna smiled and laughed to herself: If she only knew.

The blast of the second bell echoed into the hall, and the smell of salty popcorn filled the air.

***

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“It’s Greek to Me” Notes

by Ize Spielman

___________________________

I Stood Tall and Still

by Jenna Fanson

I stood tall and still, watching the wind carry off with the most precious of all things that mattered most to me. Their bright and warm colors danced with the wind as they drifted farther and farther away, leaving me naked and alone, forgotten. I knew of the freedom that they blissfully wished to taste, knew of its bitter sweetness, for the freedom of such a thing only lasts until the ground is finally reached and the view from before is no longer a luxury.

It seems so sad that every year I must watch and endure the leave of my life, and embrace the wrath of winter’s chill. The thought of losing the beauty of my life in a swirl of uncontrollable fate and watching it fall to the ground to lay in filthy piles amongst each other has become the sting of my very existence. They soon wither and die without the sun and my life force, and therefore, I am left alone.

It isn’t long before the depths of winter come to consume what little is left of me. Soon I am forced into an ancient slumber until the sun once again rises from the shroud of the winter clouds to bring forth the light of life; releasing all who remain dormant under the iced blanket of snow. It is a cycle that is unavoidable, unstoppable, and inevitable.

And so I enjoy what little time I have with my beloved compliments of color and beauty. The summer provides the warmth of the sun, and to bask in its light is the pleasure of all living things. However, not all things wonderful are meant to last. Autumn reigns over and soon our beauty is brought to its fullest only to have it swept away with the treacherous winds. Winter is lingering not far behind, waiting for its chance to once again rule greedily for the next several months.

I am not even a pond in this battle of the seasons. I am merely the board, watching as moves are made and wars are won and lost. There are no negotiations as winter always seems to win. Sometimes it is hard to even enjoy the most colorful of seasons knowing how much you’re losing in the end. The worst of knowing is helplessness that comes with it. Still I watch and endure.

I stood tall and still, watching the wind carry off with the most precious of things that mattered most to me.

***

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Phantasma by Elise Cygan

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The Scent of Love: A Watercolor Adaptation 

from The Perfume: The Story of a Murderer

by Stella (Wilfinger) Rothe

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  _________________________

Bette Davis Eyes… They Say It All

A synopsis of the 1942 movie Now, Voyager

by Nancy Washburn

I know mom needs me. I do whatever she says. She is a domineering matriarch in the Boston community and knows everyone. She is Mrs. Vale, and she rules our household. I am just an old maid, a spinster. I know I’m not pretty or smart, and she is trying to pick out my husband for me. I should be grateful. I will probably end up marrying Elliott Livingston, a widow with two children. He has a good job, and he says he loves me. No one else would ever want me. I’m trapped.

I feel so unloved by my mother. She tells me that I am having a nervous breakdown. She keeps putting me in that sanitarium, in the country, to recuperate. Dr. Jaquith, the psychologist, is so nice to me. He knows my mother is strong and opinionated, so he lets me go for walks to relax. He says I should meet this shy, young girl down the hall and talk with her. She is only ten years old, and is depressed. Her name is Tina. She explains that no one loves her except her daddy, and can’t wait to see him again, when she gets released from the sanitarium. Tina thinks she is ugly and unwanted. We seem to understand each other. She hopes I will visit her again. A few days later, I was feeling better, so the doctor is releasing me to my mother.

Aunt Maggie came over, and asked me to escort her on a cruise to South America for a couple weeks. I said, “Yes, Aunt Maggie, and when we return, I’ll make mother happy and marry Clinton.”

~~~~~

The ship was lovely, and the dinners spectacular. We were having a good time. Last evening, I went out on the deck. A tall, dark haired gentleman came up to me, and we chatted for a long while. He commented on my mesmerizing blue-green eyes. He told me he was married, but not happy, and would never leave his wife. The reason was they have a young daughter with special needs, and he would always take care of her. His name was Jerry… and he smiled and said I looked like “Camille.” He wanted to call me that name, even though my real name is Charlotte. To my surprise, we seemed to be entranced with each other. He lit two cigarettes in his mouth, and presented one to me. He asked me to meet him later. I made excuses to Aunt Maggie about where I was on the ship, just to be with him. As the days flew by, I felt confident and in love for the first time. I dreaded going back home to Boston. We thought we would never see each other again. We sadly said our good by’s.

I wanted to be independent. My mother arranged for Elliott to visit, and propose to me. I accepted, for her sake. Then, Jerry sent me a bouquet of camellia’s to represent the name he called me. I was so happy, and I knew I wanted to be with him, not Elliott. Jerry gave me strength.

I decided to confront my mother. She was shocked, and fell down the stairs. I blamed myself. She threatened to take me out of her will. I didn’t care. The stress gave her a heart attack, and she suddenly died. I felt guilty, and I needed help. I was desperate. I drove myself back to the sanitarium to see Dr. Jaquith. He told me I could stay a few days. I heard Tina in the hallway. She was so excited to see me, and we hugged. I suggested we go for a walk together and eat ice cream. I wasn’t sure who her parents were, but I knew that Jerry felt trapped in his marriage. One day, she called her father on an outdoor phone. As she talked, I was amazed to find out that he was Jerry, whom I met on the cruise. So when he asked Tina who she was with, I whispered, “Tell him it’s Camille.” Now he knew who was watching his daughter. I asked the doctor if I could take her to my house for a visit. He said yes.

Jerry came to the city to visit Tina, and to discuss the situation. We argued. He said he would never leave his wife, but he didn’t want me to sacrifice my entire life for Tina. I told him that I loved Tina. He could see how well we got along. We finally decided to just see each other occasionally, when he visits Tina in Boston. Our love is powerful, and we both truly love Tina. He lit two cigarettes, and gently put one in my hand. The smoke spiraled upwards. We stood quietly by the moonlight coming in the window, and looked into each others eyes.

***

A Ray of Light

by Nancy Washburn

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An Altered State of Being

by Stella (Wilfinger) Rothe

There once was a sound like thunder: a reverberation of the hoof-beats of buffalo, the pounding of drums, the wild cries of a million voices. This sound was carried around the world by the wind. It was driven into the Earth’s core. The souls of flowers heard it, and they bent their ears to the breeze. The spirits inside trees heard it, and they swayed their branches in rhythm. Oceans heard it and swept their waters into roaring waves. There once was a deafening crash of life, with every atom and molecule colliding with inelegant verve. There were no rules, nor patterns to the madness. Life simply was, and not a living Being considered its frailty.

Frailty … thy name is Illness.

The thunder now is changed. It has been reduced to the thrumming of one delicate heart: a beat slow and fragile, poised between this world and the next. In this middle-world, this shadow-existence, there are miracles of the greatest proportions.

Like the curling-open of a flower’s petals, an eyelid flutters open; like a wild autumnal storm, a breath is taken without the help of machines; like Atlas balancing his globe, a shoulder is shrugged. Eyes stare out with Soul still inside. Those ears can still hear; that brain can still absorb worried words, loving words, words of hope, words of affection … words of pain. Ah, yes, there is life here, still, and where life dwells hope cannot be abandoned. Miracles.

It is as if your soul is hovering half in/half out of your body: perhaps wandering around while you sleep, possibly standing over my shoulder as I write this, perchance dancing to echoes of the thunder of days gone by. You are in an altered state of being. You’ve been there before; you’ve seen two worlds. How many worlds are there, dearest? More than this impermanent one? More than the promised ethereal one? More than the divided world where you exist now? Will you awaken with answers, or will you forget what you have experienced?

Will you wake up at all?

Half-awakened souls fly about us often, sweeping into the abode of dreams and visions, causing those chills that quiver down one’s spine, watching helplessly as tears flow from tired eyes. They are around us every moment of every day, not dead but traveling out of their bodies. Who among us is aware of their frailty?

Frailty … thy name is Coma.

Wake up,

        Wake up,

                  Wake up …

`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`

~NOTE ~

Written January 7th, 6:00 a.m.,

while Tom Huey was in his altered state:

Tom passed away January 7th, 6:03 p.m.,

while my mother kissed his forehead.

An Altered Summer

by Stella (Wilfinger) Rothe

__________________________

 

Altered from the cover of Who Was William Shakespeare?

Original cover artist: John O’Brian

by Tetyana Borsuk

________________________

The Three Little Pigs

Playwright – Cathy Plum

The Characters ~
The Unseen Character:
             THE BIG MOTHER COMPANY, BM, who sent her piggies out into the cold to fend for themselves and to seek their fortunes in the worst economy ever … in the scariest place ever: metropolitan Detroit!

The Narrator & CEO of Big Bad Industries runs a tight and ethical ship, and she’s the reason for the company’s recent success.
               CLEO the CLEO
Three Desperate Applicants - recently laid-off from BM, applying for residential home builder positions. They are qualified; real needles in a haystack.
              CARRIE STRAW
              MEAGAN STICKS
              LAYLA BRICK

The Interviewer at Big Bad Industries - typical business executive, Big and Bad, and hungry like a wolf; willing to gobble up anyone on her way to the top.
             CATHY WOLF

The Setting

The one-act “playlet” takes place in 2009, in the offices of Big Bad Industries, a successful residential home building company just outside of Detroit, Michigan ~ USA.

The Prologue

Three houses, all alike in dignity

(In cold Detroit where we lay our scene),

From unemployed break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes civil acts unseen.

From forth the faithful loins of these three sows

A twist of fate will surely change their life;

Whose misadventured career choice woes

Doth with their speak bury the wolf due strife.

The fearful passage of their unpaid dues

And the continuance of their shrinking wage,

Which, but the piggies mend, our interview,

Is now the ten minutes’ traffic of our stage;

The which, if you with patient eyes attend,

What here shall see, is justice in the end.

Scene 1 – Act 1

The Narrator enters, in front of the stage, among the audience.
NARRATOR, CLEO: Good evening, I’m Cleo, the CEO of Big Bad Industries. This company has been in my family for three generations, and we’ve been building houses for over a hundred years. This is the story of the three little pigs – and the big bad wolf they blew down to get to the top.

The scene opens with the three applicants awaiting their interview, partaking in the usual banter, holding their resumes.

CARRIE STRAW: Since we got laid-off from BM, I’ve been really been piggin’ LAYLA BRICK: I feel like a REAL pig in a poke, sending my resume out into cyberspace.

CARRIE STRAW: The sun’ll come out tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar!

MEAGAN STICKS: There’s got to be a job in this town … somewhere.

LAYLA BRICK: Yea, somewhere over the rainbow.

CARRIE STRAW: Why are you so negative, Miss Layla Brick? You’ve got more experience than us.

LAYLA BRICK: I really need this job … I really need this job.

MEAGAN STICKS: A friend of mine interviewed here … and she said they ate her alive!

All the applicants laugh, with snorting.

Enter Cathy Wolf.

CATHY WOLF: Good afternoon, ladies. Let’s get right to the task at hand. I’m Cathy Wolf, and I will be conducting the interview today. Just to let you know, it’s my call if you get hired – or not. So, let’s see who has the brownest nose of the applicants three, shall we?

(The applicants all look bewildered.)

CARRIE STRAW: Good afternoon, Ms. Wolf.

MEAGAN STICKS: Good afternoon.

LAYLA BRICK: Good afternoon to you, Ms. Wolf.

CATHY WOLF: First, tell me your name, and a little bit about your experience in constructing residential homes. Let’s start with you. Name?                                                                 (Pointing at Straw.)

CARRIE STRAW: My name is Carrie Straw. I like to build with LEGOS; been doin’ it since I was a kid. One time, my sister and I ...

CATHY WOLF: Okay, okay Straw. We get it. You?                                       (Pointing at Sticks.)

MEAGAN STICKS: My name is Meagan Sticks. I’m a tree-house builder. Rich people pay me to build elaborate tree-houses in their backyard. The economy has made it tough lately …


CATHY WOLF: Okay, Sticks. I hope those tree-houses can withstand the windy months. Next, little missy, – what’s your name? (Pointing to Brick.)

LAYLA BRICK: Uh, my name is Layla Brick. I just completed a residential project in Troy. We built 500 ranch homes in 6 months.

CATHY WOLF: Impressive, Brick. But you’ll have to better than that. Can you do better than that?

LAYLA BRICK: What? I’m not sure how to answer that.

CATHY WOLF: Okay, okay. Let’s get on to the real questions. Big Bad just got a huge contract to build 200 residential homes. What material would you use to construct those homes, and why? Let’s start with you.                                                                                                                (Pointing to Straw.)

CARRIE STRAW: Straw. There have been great advances in alternative materials …

CATHY WOLF: What? If I tried hard enough, I could blow your house in! (Laughing and blowing at the audience.)

CATHY WOLF: How about you Sticks? What’s your story?

MEAGAN STICKS: I prefer a house of sticks. Bundles of fragrant furze work well.

CATHY WOLF: What? A house of sticks! You guys are killing me! (Blowing at the audience.)

CATHY WOLF: Brick, I know a residential project of 200 homes may be small bricks compared to what you’re used to building, but humor me.

LAYLA BRICK: Brick. Nothing beats the 3-bedroom brick ranch.

(Wolf is obviously intimidated.)

CATHY WOLF: Okay then. The final question. Don’t mess it up. This is your last chance to make a good impression on me, and to show me how smart you really are.

(The applicants are aggravated; and Wolf starts yelling.)

CATHY WOLF: To work at Big Bad, you have to be BIG and BAD! Can you be bad, STRAW?

CARRIE STRAW: I guess I could, if that’s what the job requires.

CATHY WOLF: Do you have what it takes, STICKS? Can you be BIG and BAD? Come on!

MEAGAN STICKS: To be honest, I’m not sure I want to be big and bad. To be honest, I don’t think I want this job.

(In the background, the audience sees Cleo, CEO of the company, listening to Wolf’s inappropriate, and illegal,l line of questioning.)

CATHY WOLF: One pig down! I mean applicant. How about you, BRICK? Do you have what it takes to work at Big Bad Industries? Can a woman like you be BIG and BAD, Brick?

LAYLA BRICK: Being a woman has nothing to do with it.

CATHY WOLF: Ooohh, a feisty lady. How old are you, Brick? Do you have any runts at home?

LAYLA BRICK: I don’t think that’s really relevant.

CATHY WOLF: It’s relevant, Brick, if you want the job.

(Wolf is huffing, and puffing, almost ready to burst.)

(Brick rises from her chair, and confronts Wolf.)

LAYLA BRICK: Your line of questioning is inappropriate – and illegal! You can huff and puff all you want, Wolf. You’re going to boil in this one.

Enter Cleo, the CEO. Wolf and Brick look up, surprised.

CATHY WOLF: Oh, Cleo. Good afternoon. Ladies, this is Cleo, CEO here at Big Bad. Uh, I was just interviewing some prospects for the available positions.

CLEO the CEO: Wolf, I’ve been listening to the questions you were asking these applicants. Miss Brick was correct in saying that your inquiries were extremely inappropriate, and illegal. You have embarrassed Big Bad Industries for the last time. You’re fired.

CATHY WOLF: Fired? Fired? I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow this whole company in!

(Wolf stomps off into the wings. Straw, Sticks, and Brick are

smiling big shit-eating grins, like only the piggies can do.)

Cleo turns toward the applicants.

CLEO the CEO: And ladies, I do believe those positions have been filled – if you’re still interested ... welcome to Big Bad Industries!

(Shaking the hands of the new hires; all exit)

The Epilogue

A glooming peace this afternoon with it brings,

The Wolf for sorrow will not show its head.

Go hence and have more talk of these weird things,

Three shall be hired, and one punishèd.

For never was a story of less woe,

Than this of the three pigs and one wolf to go!

***

___________________________

And the winner isn’t…

Direct and indirect quotes taken from Shakespeare's

The Merchant of Venice

by Jenifer DeBellis

Sympathize with Antonio? Methinks I shan’t.

He’s the picture of virtue, selfless and noble,

but “such a wont-wit sadness makes of” him a fool,

and his ulterior motives make him seem cruel.

Then there’s Bassanio, financially a wreck,

whose opening line is, “a lady richly left.”

Shall empathy be his? Will I soften my heart?

How can I see past the black chain upon his neck?

Sympathize with Salarino? Methinks I won’t.

The pep-talking friend, who speaks in poetic form,

may portray words of wisdom, the biblical norm, but

lacks the backbone to steer a friend straight in the storm.

When looking at the dreamer, schemer, and beamer:

Solanio, Lorenzo and Gratiano,

can I will my heart’s breaking for Mr. Nostalgia,

the puffed up baboon, or the charismatic foe?

Sympathize with the father? Methinks I will not.

This immortalized villain of great proportions,

putting restriction on his daughter’s destiny,

while reducing her hand in this vile lottery.

Sweet Nerissa, an encourager of sorts; how far

will she go with her “acquaintance” with these lords?

That she could know them so well, and profess it so,

makes me wonder to what levels she would resort.

Sympathize with parade of fine men? Methinks not.

The Neapolitan Prince, in love with his colt;

the County Palatine, who frowns through his doubt;

or Le Bon, the “every man in no man” revolt.

Not to leave out the English baron, a proper

man’s picture, or the Scottish coward’s idle threats,

nor the Saxon sober wretch and drunken beast.

How could I empathize an ounce without regrets?

Sympathize with Shylock? Methinks I never could.

His heart is as hollow as dry-rotted driftwood.

Or rebellious Jessica, who robs her father blind,

and becomes the torchbearer, leading mankind.

Now enters the Moroccan prince, a gamblin’ man,

he’ll roll the dice but will not earn his victory,

nor will Arragon, who’s not as clever as can be.

Neither have left good impressions upon me.

Sympathize with the circus act? Methinks I can’t.

The clown, with his speaking in circles of riddles,

or Gobbo, who lost it o’er the last pass of hurdles;

the two don’t impress me, not even a little.

Here at the impasse, sits Portia in her distress;

she’s obedient and patient with her life’s mess.

Her wit did have me charmed upon the first act’s pass,

but in a second turned as dry as desert grass.

So here it is, my sympathy’s as cold as ice –

and I’m now “stuck between a rock and a hard place.”

***

______________________

________________________________________

Inspired by the letters from Julius Caesar

by Jenifer DeBellis

________________________

Coming Soon: The Altered 'Alf Book

A collection of altered works...

Holiday Half Book

Macomb Community College Student Publication

Holiday Half Book

December 2009 Edition

Electronic Post of Print Publication (with some format alterations)

Featured Artists
Jenifer DeBellis, Vice President & Publisher
Professor Clark Iverson, Academic Advisor
Cathy Plum, President
Nancy Washburn, Secretary
Stella (Wilfinger) Rothe, Public Relations
Neil Kilgore
Katrina Rucker
Ize Spielman
Helen Tackle
Sarah Sinnaur

________________________________________________

What Do the Holidays Mean to Us?

A collaboration of thoughts by the Writing Club

Here comes Santa Claus in a myriad of forms
                                              A dichotomy of quirky personalities
Overplayed music that never seems to change
                               Dealing with countless customers’ complaints
The never-ending search for the perfect gift
                                            Wrong size, wrong style, wrong color
December birthdays swept under the rug
                                               Is Jesus the reason for the season?
The presence of silence just after a snow
                                        For the feast, the family comes together
The best pumpkin pie that money can’t buy
                                Lighted Christmas trees and sitting by the fire
I’ll drink to getting lit! Or how ‘bout
                                     Those guests that just don’t seem to leave
Decorations all aglow lighting up the night
                                      I can see my neighbor’s house from space,
Jack Frost roasting on an open fire,
                                                       Chestnuts nipping at your nose

_________________________________________________

Reflections on a Snowy Balcony

By Stella Rothe (Wilfinger)

Mind: be blank

like the pristine snow.

Be still. Be silent

like the world below.

There is a place

where the Wild Thoughts go …

Go now, be swift

like the falling snow.

Mind: be hushed

like the wintry breath

of wind and angels

not demons, nor death.

There is a place

where our pain is kept …

go now, leave me

in one hurried breath.

Mind: be pure

like the crystal ice

that melts off my rooftop

in self-sacrifice.

There is a place

far-removed from Paradise …

go now, be gone

like the melting ice.

Go now, be gone

with your avarice.

________________________________________________

How Do You Celebrate Christmas?

Like Polly Perfection or Patty Poinsettia?

By Nancy Washburn

POLLY PERFECTION starts in November, and instructs the gardener to lay 40 strings of white lights on the shrubs and Japanese maple trees, in the court yard. A smiling Santa is sitting in a gigantic hand painted red wooden sleigh, filled with exactly 40 huge presents evenly stacked in the back. The illuminated reindeer are methodically hitched to the front of the sleigh, for all the neighbors to enjoy. The attached four car garage has a 20 foot ceramic snowman in front of it, guarding the BMW’s. The 200 watt spotlight glows on the leaded glass front door. A perfectly shaped wide burgundy bow is adorning the sweet scented pine wreath.

Polly is excited about the holidays. She loves Victorian style décor for Christmas, and had special ordered all of it from Italy. Holly and lace garland is strategically strung along the railing of the oak stairway, in the foyer of the two story mansion. One thousand gold miniature lights twinkle from the tops of the cathedral shaped windows. She is vigilant about telling Roberto, the handyman, to arrange the golden collector’s angels in groups of ten, in every niche. She carefully plans which chandeliers should be wrapped with dazzling crystals.

All three of the freshly cut ten foot spruce trees are decorated alike. They are in the dining room, living room and the den. Each tree looks elegant, with one hundred hunter green and burgundy velvet ribbons, and ten strings of gold lights. Under the trees are gold circular tracks, with hunter green trains whistling as they go around. The gorgeous presents are placed in alphabetical order, to each member of the family. The children, Bobby and Bridget, will be at their grandmother’s until after dinner, so that the house won’t get out of order.

On Christmas Day, Polly will wear an Armani burgundy gown and her husband, Paul, will wear a black tuxedo. They make a beautiful couple, with their dark hair and blue eyes. Dinner will be served promptly at 6:00 p.m. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” will be playing the background. The formal dining room table has been set with an ivory tablecloth, gold candlesticks and ivory candles, oval burgundy plates, gold flatware & champagne glasses edged with gold. Polly and Paul, will have their cook, Gina, prepare dinner for 12 adults. The menu consists of shrimp hors d’oeuvres, prime roast beef, candied sweet potatoes, Waldorf salad and raspberry trifle. It will be another perfectly Polly Christmas.

OR

PATTY POINSETTA rushes to the $1 store, on Christmas Eve, looking for a few decorations to make her one bedroom apartment sparkle. In the clearance section, she finds a red shiny wooden wreath, a cute three foot spindly, green aluminum tree, some miniature, red, green and silver bulbs, and twenty strands of shiny tinsel. She picked out some gifts to put under the tree. She bought some books and toys for the kids, 3 pairs of socks for her boyfriend, Pokey, and a Christmas Carol DVD. Patty loves Christmas, and she sings “Jingle Bells” all the way home.

When she pulls up to her parking spot on the gravel, in her rusty Chevy pickup, she unloads her packages, and throws the crooked wreath on a rusty nail by the squeaky side door.

The mood is Christmas. She gets out the cardboard box with the Nativity set in it, and gently places it on the TV stand, surrounded by white cotton. Patty is smiling, as she puts the tree on an orange crate and haphazardly hangs the bulbs on it. She stands near her dad’s rocking chair, and tosses the tangled tinsel at the tree, missing most of it. She cuts out a big Santa from red construction paper, and Scotch tapes him to the foggy window. Whew. The decorating is done.

She wraps the presents in red tissue and newspaper, and then ties them with white shoelaces. They looked super. She enjoys being thrifty and last week, found some red material on sale, and sewed special outfits for Susie and Sammy to wear for Christmas. They will look adorable with their sandy hair and brown eyes. Patty will wear her favorite green polyester dress, and a flower in her dishwater blond hair. They are going to bake chocolate chip cookies for Santa.

On Christmas day, the kids are all excited. They will wait for Pokey to show up on his motorcycle, and then all open their presents together. Patty is anxious to pull out her mother’s old checkered tablecloth. The kids help her set the table with red plastic plates and worn, but scrubbed clean silverware. Great! There is enough for four people. She has decided to cook the family recipes of meat loaf, mashed potatoes and sponge cake, topped with strawberries and whipped cream. Patty says a “Thank you” prayer for their family being together. Supper is ready. They will have to hurry, before the electricity starts flickering on and off in their neighborhood again.

They always have fun being together, singing songs and unwrapping presents. Pokey and the kids gave Patty a loving card, some home made pot holders, and a new calendar. It is another Patty Poinsettia Christmas.

Moral: No matter what the circumstances, we can make our own happiness.

***

_____________________________________________

Season Out of Focus

By Jenifer DeBellis

‘Tis the season,

it comes like a thief in the night

Robbing the cradle

of peace, joy, and focused sight

How it sends us rushing

every which way but right

Long forgotten is the reason,

the heart of it all

We’ll race past the red bucket,

annoyed by the bell

And shove past the cattle line

entering the mall

Our focus on finding

the perfect gift to give

While people go hungry

and have no place to live

All the while in our pride

we claim we’re proactive

We shift the focus

debating over belief

While at the root of it all

births doctrinal grief

heart for the oppressed

should focus on relief

One closing thought:

How will you ignite the spirit?

Will you turn deaf ears

and pretend not to hear it?

Or can you receive the message

and revere it?

 _____________________________________________

______________________________
December of ‘82

By Katrina Rucker

I remember December of ‘82; it was a snowing night in the city of Detroit. I was only five years old, and I had enjoyed watching the snow raining in like the pieces of the cloud have just falling off. Around eight o'clock at night, my parents were driving me to see all of the neighborhood decorations. We went from every block, and some of the houses had the most award-winning colorful lights ever. My eyes were opened to the amazement. As I loved to see every colored light bulb sparkled. It was speaking to my soul as I filled with the excitement. I cracked a smile, as any other five year old would do. I knew that it was that time again. 

We went from house to house, and each one was even better than the first one. They were all decked up with decorations, but this time, they were more than just the lights. They had the Snowman, the sled with reindeers. The one with the beautiful red glowing nose, I did not know what his name was at the time. I thought it started with an "R.”

The real holiday for me was that I got to spend time with my family. Going on these trips to see all of the colorful lights and the awesome decorations was a real treat for me. This trip back to December of ‘82 makes me wish I were five years old again.

***

___________________________________________

YES, CHRISTIMAS

By Nancy Washburn

CHRISTMAS reminds us of why we are here

To help each other, while God is so near

Have faith and forgiveness - follow His son

Bringing hope, joy and peace to everyone

____________________________________________

THE TWELVE DAYS OF GRANDKIDS 

 By Nancy Washburn 

On the first day of Grandkids, Alexa, 16,

Gave to me, a lesson on how to drive a car

On the second day of Grandkids, Kyla, 13,

Pitched to me, two fastballs that I didn’t see coming

On the third day of Grandkids, Keaton, 13,

Gave to me, three soccer balls and a pair of spikes

On the fourth day of Grandkids, Kiana, 12,

Helped me up four times, after showing me the splits

On the fifth day of Grandkids, Brenna, 11,

Performed for me, five new tap dance routines

On the sixth day of Grandkids, Cassidy, 11,

Played for me, six new songs on her flute

On the seventh day of Grandkids, Carson, 9,

Batted for me, seven runs in the last inning

On the eighth day of Grandkids, Makenna, 9,

Played for me, eight nursery rhymes on the piano

On the ninth day of Grandkids, Madison, 9,

Sang for me, nine lovely songs with a smile

On the tenth day of Grandkids, Mason, 9,

Showed to me, ten pop-a-wheelies on his scooter

On the eleventh day of Grandkids, Ava, 7,

Read to me, eleven stories that she wrote

On the twelfth day of Grandkids, Kami, 6,

Drew for me, twelve horses standing in the snow

What a blessing these children are to me

And being together is the joy of Christmas

____________________________________________

Nothing New

By Ize Spielman

“Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” I yelled as loud as possible while I jumped as hard as I could on my parents’ bed. This was my favorite day of the entire year. How could they still be sleeping?

“Ugh, we’re awake… go on, we’ll meet you there,” my half-awake mother mumbled as she and my father slowly forced themselves out of bed.

I tore through our home and out the front door into the hallway to join the quickly growing tide of people. Everywhere around me was a mass of frantic people. Kids ran and pushed past other each other or dragged parents behind them. Their enthusiasm didn’t diminish even when we all crammed into the elevator that would take us to the gargantuan meeting hall on C deck. When the lift finally came to a stop, and without even waiting for the doors to fully open, we came forth like a torrent of water unleashed from a burst damn.

I stepped to the side of the lift to wait for my parents. I could not help but admire the meeting hall. Simply calling it big would be the single greatest understatement in human history since it was able to hold the entirety of our ship’s eighty-four thousand people and still leave loads of space. They had dimmed the powerful, sterile white lights that normally filled the room, so that you could better see the strands of haphazardly strung colored lights and the stars that zipped past the large windows. Out of everything in this room though, it was the people gathered here, happily mingling, that made me so love this holiday. On the last week in the last month of the year nobody cared whom you where, how you dressed, or whether your father was the ship’s captain or the septic tank cleaner.

I was lost in the sights and sounds of everything until someone behind me laughed. I spun around to see my friend Gem tapping his foot with mock impatience and smiling slightly. “So Keyda, are you planning to join us, or are you going to just stand there and keep spacing out?”

I followed Gem over to where my other friend Lisa and all of our families were sitting. Our parents were getting ready to give each of us our gift. I sat down with them and smiled politely, but to be honest I was never much into the whole gift-giving thing. It always struck me as pointless since we were on a ship that has been in flight for nearly two and a half centuries. There hasn’t been anything new given in generations and it all ends up getting re-gifted the next year anyway. I’m even less interested this time since my parents are in charge of the gift-giving this year. They are both maintenance people so their idea of a good gift is anything interesting they find while cleaning.

Lisa got her gift first. It was a hairbrush and a jacket in surprisingly good condition, you could still guess the original color and it had only been patched twice. Gem was next; he ended up with a few beaten up, dusty books and a pair of socks.

Father gave me my gift last, a large heavy wooden box. All manner flowers and swirling patterns had been lovingly carved into every surface and the whole thing was kept closed by a dulled brass lock. Around the edges where it opened, if you looked closely you could see an airtight rubber seal. It was old of course; everything was, but it was a different kind of old. Where everything else on this ship has been patched, worn, patched again, and repainted at least a dozen times this box of mine looked as if it had never been touched.

“We found it shoved in an air duct of all places,” my mother told me. “We didn’t look inside though; didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“You going to open it?” my father asked, and handed me the key.

I placed it down on the floor, unlocked it and lifted the lid carefully. Inside was a photograph of a smiling, dark-haired woman laid on top of something wrapped in plastic. I removed the photo and peeled back the protective plastic, revealing something soft and folded.

“Take it out Keyda,” my father whispered.

I did as my father said and as I stood there the whole room became silent, save for a few hushed whispers. People all around fought to see and all who could see stared at me and my gift, stared at something that no one had ever seen in their lifetime. All their attention was focused on me. Me and my brand new, centuries old, perfectly clean flowing white dress.

***

____________________________________________

Kissy-face Santa

By Jenifer DeBellis

Dedicated to Ricky and Suzie Young,
wherever life ended up taking you both.

I shall never forget the night before Christmas...

It’s not every day Santa makes special house trips to visit little girls and boys during wakeful hours. So the Christmas Eve Mr. Claus paid me and my baby sister a special visit was one I shall never forget. Of course, it was Santa’s peculiar behavior that has stuck with me for all of these years.

Being an Air Force brat stationed in Germany is a lot for a four and a half year-old little girl to wrap her always thinking mind around. As the holiday season neared the big day, my anxious areas of concern were how was Santa supposed to find us, and more importantly, how would he get into our apartment if we didn’t have a fireplace?

This is most likely the reason he showed up in our doorway that Christmas Eve in ’77. In the spirit of keeping the magic alive, someone must have made arrangements for this private little gathering. Perhaps it was my mom’s best friend, Suzie, who was with us when the doorbell rang.

At the sound of the bell, she bolted for that door like her life depended on it. After a moment of silence, Santa’s chanted, “Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas!” could be heard from around the corner where we all sat in the living room. Well, nothing sends young and old alike scrambling to the scene of action like a familiar sound from distant lands. “Could that be who it sounds like?” was the common awed response.

As I rounded the corner leading to the front door, I caught the most profound sight: Santa had Suzie dipped back and was quite passionately kissing her. I tried to make sense of this, while I drowned out my mom’s scolding in the background as she insisted that her friend knock it off already.

Upon seeing my bewildered expression, and unexpected presence (I was sure), Santa returned Suzie to her upright position. From the embarrassment of this awkward moment, his face was the darkest shade of red. Suzie’s expression, on the other hand, appeared to be more victorious and completely void of any shame. I took this all in with my quizzical stare.

My mom began pulling me back into the other room, and encouraged Santa and Suzie to follow us. I stole one more peak over my shoulder as we walked the short distance. When what to my wondering eye should appear? But Suzie smack-groping ‘ole Santa’s rear!

What was I supposed to do with this horrible secret? Didn’t Santa know Mrs. Claus was watching over the North Pole while he was gone, and she could see who was being naughty or nice? Or how about poor Ricky, my favorite pal; what would he think of this behavior? I guess even Santa Claus acted like a bad little boy at times. This was the only reference of peace I could draw from this moment.

My daydreams were interrupted by the small pile of presents sitting next to me with my name on them. The first present was from my granny and papa all the way in Florida. I sighed inward, withholding my disappointment at the sight of footed pajamas. Didn’t they know those things suffocated you? I smiled for the picture my mom was snapping with her new camera, mostly because I knew if I acted how I felt at the moment, it would not be good for me!

Without waiting, I snatched up the next gift. I didn’t need help reading the tag because I recognized the name Jimmy on it (as this is also my father’s name that I had seen so many times, it was committed to my memory). I guessed correctly that it was from Aunt Jane and Uncle Jimmy in Minnesota. Wow, I thought, Santa really had to work hard chasing these down for us. Maybe the guy in red wasn’t such a bad man after all. I ripped the paper off of that gift with lightning speed; I knew if it was from Aunt Jane, it was going to be spectacular! And it was. I now held a giant Raggedy Ann doll. A brand new one, not a hand-me-down, or knock-off version; but the REAL DEAL!

I sat squeezing my beloved new doll to my chest for the remainder of the night. From the cozy little spot on the sofa where I was curled up, I watched Suzie and Santa through slitted eyes. Can you believe Suzie sat on that man’s lap the rest of the night, giggling like a little schoolgirl the whole time?

***

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HAPPY SANTA

By Nancy Washburn

Santa rolled out of his comfy bed at dawn

Grabbed his list and red suit, and gave a big yawn

The elves helped him pack up the huge empty sleigh,

Hitched up old Rudolph and his team for the day

The GPS showed them where to bring the toys

Over the mounds of snow, to all girls and boys

Had some milk and cookies, near the fireplace

Then back up the chimney, with soot on his face

He flew to the North Pole with two tired feet

To rest, and tell Grandma about all the treats

They fell asleep dreaming of joy and the smiles

Of families together, who traveled for miles

____________________________________________

Winter Wonder
Luisa Zavich

Just as the sky brings snow,
The sales bring shoppers,
Fill parking lots,
and verbally abuse
the overworked employees
Hanging off the ladder,
Reaching for the large,
and two hours late for their break
In this, the most wonderful time of the year
____________________________________________

One day I sat and wondered
If all could be revealed
In a letter to dear Santa
Signed in red, and kissed and sealed
My letter’s full of wishes
For others, not just me and
Although they might need miracles
I know Santa personally.

“Dear Santa”

For Mark and the two Meagans

Please reduce the National Debt

And for the rest of us, an A

In economics, you can bet

But we would trade those wishes

For a wish you cannot see

It’s not a wish for one of us

It’s one for Mr. Ali

For Mrs. Ali, the gift of health

Send a cure for diabetes

For that matters much more to us now

Than GDP, and trade and treaties

And while I studied Sun and stars

And the properties of light

Tom Woodside also taught me

About doing what is right

He might wish for Night Sight shades

Or a shiny telescope

But you can bet he’d trade it in

For a glimpse of faith and hope

He goes each year to Africa

A saint in teacher’s clothes

He spreads the wealth, and health and joy

To folks he barely knows

Again we’d trade our wishes

For material things and grades

To cure those orphaned children

In Africa with AIDS

Chelsea wants a Ford Escape

For Alex – something WILD

But again we’ll trade those wishes

For a special little child

For Mrs. Borner’s grandchild

Just a few weeks old

Please give this child happiness

And shelter from the cold

And at the end, the final wish

To you from me, so please

Give yourself a great big kiss

And a thank you straight from me

Cathy Plum

____________________________________________

A Foreign View

By Luisa Zavich

      We put up the tree every year, my brother and I. It takes us a good two hours but we do it anyway. John’s only seven, but he musters all of his strength to put together the tree I bought a few years ago. It’s one of those do-it-yourself trees; the branches are color coded, so you know that the branches with the blue ribbon go at the bottom.  While I stand up the metal tree trunk, my brother spreads out the bristles on each branch and we attach them together.

      When he was only three, I can remember John coming up to ask me, “How can Santa come to our house if we don’t have a tree?” I spent two paychecks on the damn thing, but it’s something I will never regret.

      At that moment, I was speechless. His doe-like eyes brought me back to when I was a child first being presented with the notion of Santa. It was a delight beyond measure. I was six, much older than John, but that was when I began speaking English (however broken). As soon as I told my parents, they said, in Serbian, that Santa didn’t bring presents to foreign boys and girls. I remember crying, but as soon as my dad threatened to take off his belt, I stopped. I didn’t want my brother to be so crushed at such a young age.

      So I bought the tree, and every year we spent the day after Thanksgiving (another American holiday my parents shunned) putting it together, covering it in homemade ornaments and lights I bought with another paycheck. My mom would never fail to walk by and look at is disapprovingly, muttering under her breath about how we set up a shrine to a fictitious American icon and, (in Serbian of course) “ignore our own saint from our culture.” One year we put an ornament with a picture of Sveti Nikola on the tree, but my mom ripped it off with irritation.

      My dad has started to enjoy this tradition my brother and I now uphold, and is my sort-of buffer when my mother starts to complain about our immersion into western ways. It didn’t happen overnight, though. For a couple of years, I hated Christmas. I got suspended twice for getting in fights over other kids’ belief in Santa. But after a while, I cursed my parents and their inability to put up a damn tree like the other kids’ parents. I didn’t know which culture to project, to love, to live. My heart still loved my heritage, but my mind was growing in the American culture and society in which I lived.

     After putting up the tree for a few years, leaving gifts for John from Santa, and still associating myself with my culture, I have grown to realize that I don’t have to choose. I can have both; I can love both. I have learned how to balance both the Serbian and American in me. This year, my dad even helped us, which made my brother explode with joy. I can’t lie; I was thrilled as well. My dad told me he would buy Santa’s present this year, and to check under the tree for my name. He said, to make my mom feel better, he would leave them on the seventh of January, on our holiday. I will never forget when he hung the picture of Sveti Nikola on the top of our tree and told my mom if she even thought about taking it down she would get it.

***
____________________________________________


Winter is my Plainsong
A vignette by Stella (Wilfinger) Rothe

(Part of a diary entry; and in part inspired by the Benedictine monks of Santo Domingo de Silos.)

O, sweet and miraculous night! Sleeping souls are tenderly roused, not knowing why that, in the heart of night, their rest has been disrupted. The earth’s steady rotation nudges us out of dreamland, leading us into a solitude that not even sleep can replicate. We awaken because we know, instinctively, that the world has changed overnight becoming calmer . . . quieter. Everything but the wind is muffled by a thickening snow. The ground is white; the snow is unstained, unspoiled. Many lives have come and gone upon this ground; but, tonight, history is swept clean and old memories are buried beneath spotless snowdrifts.

There is plainsong in the falling snowflakes and the whirling wind. There is chant in winter’s steady rhythm. The sounds of nature’s hushed symphony are in a cacophony of earthly delight. The low moan of the breeze is composed of matchless beauty, skimming the ground as a layer of snow swirls, unfettered, in a crystalline and misty dance. This is when ancient lore and phenomena collide with modern minds, forcing us to understand the world as a child would. Oh, so many questions and each one replaced with: wonder! Delight! Sweetness! Pleasure laced with frost and pierced with icicles!

There is a muted pause, as if the earth ceased breathing just long enough to wake our tired bodies and call us to our windows. We reach sleepy fingers out and touch soft lace, slipping back curtains to see a world of white stillness. Here is an escape from the rushed pace of life.

There has to be some rectitude in the world

or what use is life?

Dare we venture into this place our souls have been led? Step outside and the night is as vivid as the afternoon; the snow makes everything bright. And then, those first few steps into the fresh frosty mounds. We retrace our steps to avoid spoiling the pristine beauty. The sun begins to rise and the mind reverts to a place of innocence and purity - a sanctuary where thoughts resist demons and settle into silence.

                                                                                    I awaken. 

There is nothing stirring in my house: no sound to draw me out of dreamland and no light to crawl inside my eyes. There are no nightmares to escape from, nor no fiends in my head. I wake because a Spirit beckons me ~ the Spirit of Snow. I crawl out of linen sheets and glide out into the winter. My feet touch ice. My face is greeted by a frosty breeze. For just long enough, I stand in awe of the creative Muse of nature. My feet grow numb as my mind is enlightened, and in a meditative state I return to where humanity belongs:                                                             

                                               Peace!
Eleison. *

*Eleison is a Latin term meaning “Mercy” in the fullest and deepest human sense: a complete and compassionate extension of divine love. Plainsong is a simple melody primarily used in Gregorian Chants.
***
____________________________________________

Winter Walk by Luisa Zavich

Foggy Morning, 6 a.m. by Stella (Wilfinger) Rothe

Back cover art by Ize Spielman

MARK TWAIN'S HOUSE

by Cathy Plum ~ ~ Summer 2008

I had heard that touching the famous “handrail” in Mark Twain’s Connecticut home was something every writer should experience. For some, it was the equivalent of shaking the hand of the genius himself, whose real name was Samuel Clemens. In the stale air of a museum, could I really hope to recall the air that once moved through the home? Was it a gentle breeze on a summer’s eve, or a winter’s bellow that blew past him and inspired great works of art? That’s what I went to find out as I traveled to Hartford , Connecticut to go to the home of Mark Twain. I wanted to see if I could get a glimpse of what he saw, and I wanted to be inspired.

I spent the trip recalling the adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Tom Sawyer, and Becky Thatcher. I always wanted to be Becky Thatcher when I was a kid -- swinging off a rope into a lake, hanging out with the bad boys, and living in the country. It was the complete opposite of my childhood, (well maybe there were a few bad boys).

I arrived at Mark Twain’s house before 9:30 a.m. , and was the first patron that sunny Monday morning. There was a woman sitting on the vast porch. She proudly wore a red, white, and blue nametag that said “Olivia C, Volunteer Tour Guide.” She welcomed me into the beautiful house – filled with Twain’s original furniture and family portraits. Olivia began immediately telling me vivid stories that were alive with detail. As we walked, our voices echoed through empty halls.

After the standard tour, I started asking Olivia questions. She answered each one quickly and with great recollection, like she knew Twain personally. She had a twinkle in her eye each time she referred to him as “Sam”. I told Olivia we should write a book together, but first I had to touch the “handrail”. She laughed and said, “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Put your hand firmly on the handrail, and then close your eyes.”

A bit apprehensive, I followed her instructions and placed my hand on the famous handrail. I closed my eyes. All at once, I felt dizzy. When I opened my eyes, the house was very much alive. No longer was I in a quiet, empty house. I stood with my hand firmly on the “handrail” and the enticing smell of baking bread sailed through on the flowery summer breeze. I heard the distinctive sound of a typewriter in the halls that were quiet just a moment ago, and I heard children playing upstairs. I glanced through the front screen door and the plain front porch now donned proud swags of vibrant holiday colors in red white and blue. Suddenly, I was in a small kitchen. A woman stood directly in front of me, but I could only see her back. When she turned around to face me, I became scared and quickly lifted my hand from the worn wood.

Olivia’s voice brought me back. She was telling a story of a gala Fourth of July celebration. I noticed a twinkle in her eye and I knew in an instant that she must have experienced what I just saw. She had smelled the baking bread and heard the typewriter in the halls. She had touched the handrail all right. That’s how she knew the stories. I sat down on the stairs and started to cry. As the first tear fell upon my cheek, without question, Olivia handed me a hankie. When I looked up, she was gone. I called to her but I was alone.

A moment passed, and a young woman walked through the front screen door. “Hi. I’m Carrie, the tour guide. Sorry I’m late. Have you been waiting long?”

“Where’s Olivia?” I asked. I looked down at the hankie my esteemed tour guide had just given me.

“There is no one here named Olivia, not anymore anyway.” After a glance into thin air, Carrie began recalling memorized facts about the Twain lineage. “Olivia, Olivia … let me see. Olivia Langdon Clemens, wife of Samuel Clemens, born in 1845 and died in June 1904. She was often found in the kitchen. She loved to bake bread.”

Stunned, I looked down at the hankie and slowly opened it up. Embroidered in bright blue with red flowers, were the initials “OLC” Olivia Langdon Clemens! My very knowledgeable tour guide, Olivia C, had been none other than Olivia Langdon Clemens, wife of “Samuel” Clemens! It was her in the kitchen, cooking the bread. That’s how she knew the stories – she lived them. Her love for this beautiful home, and for “Sam”, echoed in her stories. She had touched the handrail all right … many, many times. And, she had picked me from all the other writers who had visited before.

I let an anxious Carrie take me on my second tour of the Twain home as she filled my head with more facts about the life of Samuel Clemens. The last surviving member of the family was his granddaughter, Nina, who died just three days before I was born. Before long, I knew that Carrie would be a valuable source for Twain’s lineage.

The long road I had traveled to Connecticut seemed almost surreal as the sights, sounds, and smells of the past swirled around my head.

When it came time for me to touch the famous handrail, I faltered for a moment. I told Carrie that we should write a book together, but that I had to touch the handrail first. This time, I shook Twain’s hand when I touched his handrail – and politely thanked him for the tour.