WELL READ Magazine December 2025

The Wildes:ANovel in FiveActs

Louis Bayard

In this singularly powerful novel, bestselling author Louis Bayard brings Oscar Wilde's wife Constance and two sons out from the shadows of history and creates a vivid and poignant story of secrets, loss, and love.

In September of 1892, Oscar Wilde and his family have retreated to the idyllic Norfolk countryside for a holiday. His wife, Constance, has every reason to be happy: two beautiful sons, her own work as an advocate for feminist causes, and a delightfully charming and affectionate husband and father to her children, who also happens to be the most sought-after author in England. But with the arrival of an unexpected houseguest, the aristocratic young poet Lord Alfred Douglas, Constance gradually--and then all at once--comes to see that her husband's heart is elsewhere and that the growing intensity between the two men threatens the whole foundation of their lives.

The Wildes: A Novel in Five Acts takes readers on the emotional journey of this family, moving from the Italian countryside, where Constance Wilde flees from the aftermath of Oscar's imprisonment for homosexuality, to the trenches of World War I and an underground bar in London's Soho, where Oscar's sons Cyril and Vyvyan must both grapple with their father's legacy. And in a brilliant feat of the imagination, act 5 reunites the entire cast in a surprising, poignant, and tremendously satisfying tableau.

With Louis Bayard's trademark sparkling dialogue and deep insight into the lives and longings of all his characters, The Wildes could almost have been created by Oscar Wilde himself. Lightly told but with hidden depths, it is an entertaining and dramatic story about the human condition.

"Wonderfully researched, beautifully crafted, movingly told, The Wildes is a treasure to read." --Andrew Sean Greer, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Less and Less Is Lost

"The Wildes is a marvel of tenderness, irony, heartbreak, and reclamation that demonstrates why Bayard is among the most essential--and most entertaining--interrogators of the past." --Anthony Marra, author of Mercury Pictures Presents and A Constellation of Vital Phenomena

New York Times Best Historical Fiction of 2024

Washington Post Notable Work of Fiction 2024

Library Journal Best Pop Fiction of 2024

PEOPLE Book of the Week

Highbrow Magazine Best Book of 2024

Named a Best/MostAnticipated Book of the Season by the New York Times, Washington Post, Oprah Daily, Parade, Kirkus Reviews, and Book Riot

Did you miss last month’s issue? No worries, click here to find it as well as all the past issues.

If you enjoy this issue, and would like to support this online literary journal, please consider leaving a tip @wellread on Venmo’s site or PayPal-www.wellreadmagazine.com.

You can find books from past issues as well as current books to add to your reading list.

Happy reading!

Lindsey Goldstein’s debut novel is a breath of fresh air that will sweep you into a world of travel and self-reinvention.

Gap Year: A Novel Lindsey Goldstein

The Can Sack Ghost by John Russell

"The Can Sack Ghost, John's fifth book, is equal parts paranormal memoir and cosmic philosophy. John is a natural storyteller, and his stories are as entertaining as any you'd hear around a campfire on a dark summer night. Yet what makes these stories special is that John looks for the deeper meaning behind his psychic encounters. He raises questions on dozens of topics, from the true meaning of skepticism to the spiritual implications of AI." - Martha C. Lawrence, author of Murder in Scorpio.

In his latest book, The Can Sack Ghost, John Russell returns with more true and enthralling ghost stories, spiritual insights, and paranormal adventures. John reveals what it took for him to become a Certified T.A.R.O.T. Master, and he discusses some of his more memorableTarot readings, including some that took a comedic turn. He discusses the ghostly visitations in his New York home, featuring a spirit communication with a haunted trick-or-treat Halloween candy bowl. His psychometry session with an ancient Greek coin revealed disappointing information. A dramatic psychic reading he gave in an old-school, authentic New York tavern prompted the recipient to immediately phone his mother in England.And of course the story about the book's namesake, the can sack ghost, an entity that kept the entire household entertained with its playful antics. Enjoy these and many other intriguing accounts of the unknown.

"John Russell is the Mark Twain of the paranormal." - Kat Hobson, host of FATE Magazine Radio.

"John Russell is one of the best storytellers I think I've ever met in the paranormal, because he has such rich stories and because he's had a rich history." - Tim Dennis, host of Darkness Radio

The Curious Calling of Leonard Bush

by Susan Gregg Gilmore

Young Leonard Bush buries his lost leg and saves his whole East Tennessee town in this winsome and miraclemaking novel.

When twelve-year-old Leonard Bush loses his leg in a freak accident, he decides to give his leg a proper burial in the hilltop cemetery of his East Tennessee town. This event somehow sets off a chain of miraculous and catastrophic events—upending the lives of Leonard’s rigidly God-fearing mother, June; his deeply conflicted father, Emmett; and his best friend,Azalea, and her mother, Rose, who is also the town prostitute. While the local Baptist minister passes judgment on events and promises dire consequences, the people of this small community on the banks of Big Sugar move together toward awakening.

Susan Gilmore’s love of storytelling flows naturally from her Tennessee roots. She’s the daughter of a revival preacher’s son, brought up on the land and streams that populate this novel that is, asAppalachian novelist Lee Smith says, a “homespun Pilgrim’s Progress.”

"In Life Close to the Bone, debut novelist Michael Spake skillfully explores the complexity of the past and the impossibility of ever escaping its impact on the present. As protagonist John Greenburn, a former tennis star turned pharmaceutical ethics attorney, struggles to uncover the potential danger of a new drug, he is drawn back into a past that threatens to undermine all he's worked to achieve.

Despite his reluctance to revisit old traumas, John's only hope for redemption is to face headlong the long-buried demons he has yet to acknowledge. Ultimately, John's journey in connecting the past to the present belongs to all of us."

Cassandra King, author of Tell Me a Story: My Life with Pat Conroy

Life Close to the Bone Michael Spake

Motown, the crossover label made rhythm and blues the soul ofAmerican popular culture. Join us in honoring the artists connected to Hitsville, USA, and 30 years’worth of “The Sound of YoungAmerica.” We asked contributors to show us their knowledge of Motown, its history and its place amongst R&B, soul, and Hip-Hop. We invited them to pay homage to the greats: Martha and the Vandellas, The Temptations, The Four Tops, The Supremes, Smokey Robinson, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, The Jackson Five, Gladys Knight and the Pips, Rick James, The Pointer Sisters, Lionel Ritchie, Teena Marie, DeBarge, Erykah Badu, Toni Braxton, Queen Latifah, Diddy, Ne-Yo, Lil Yachty, Migos and so many more. This new poetry anthology is the result.

Dreaminations is a collection of prose poems in haibun or tanka prose style. Haibun or tanka prose links prose and haiku or tanka to complement each other through juxtaposition to gain a new sensibility, an insight into a significant moment. The linked forms also stand independently with their complete meanings that present two views of each moment, inviting the reader to leap in between for an aesthetic appreciation. That’s the uniqueness of haibun and tanka prose and the fascination of writing them. This collection explores the self and the world through the working of the senses. It is a quest about where to posit the self and how a human being gains learning from nature and human nature.

To be released January 4, 2026.

An experienced adventurer partners with an innocent nineteen-year-old to plan a journey on the most dangerous river in the world. What starts as one man’s dream ends up as another man’s nightmare. It was a time when pushing our limits knew no boundaries and being nineteen had no restrictions.

MADVILLE PUBLISHING seeks out and encourages literary writers with unique voices. We look for writers who express complex ideas in simple terms. We look for critical thinkers with a twang, a lilt, or a click in their voices. And patois! We love a good patois. We want to hear those regionalisms in our writers’ voices. We want to preserve the sound of our histories through our voices complete and honest, dialectal features and all. We want to highlight those features that make our cultures special in ways that do not focus on division, but rather shine an appreciative light on our diversity.

A work which should be read by anyone coming of age or who has already done so.

—S.E. Hinton, author of The Outsiders and Rumblefish

Life Close to the Bone by Michael Spake

John Greenburn used to be somebody. Now, he's just a middle-aged guy, sitting behind his computer screen, waiting for his life to come to a screeching halt. Cognitive-Pharma, a Floridabased pharmaceutical company with deep pockets and a secret to hide, has caught the attention of the U.S. Department of Justice. The allegation? Medicare fraud. No one is more on the hook than John, who, as the Chief EthicsOfficeratCognitive-Pharma,has been the canary in the coal mine for the last12months.NotthathisCEOcaresmuch.

The CEO, a flashy, profit-driven type, certainly doesn't care that John's own mother, Francis, is in desperate need of CognitivePharma's top-selling drug to slow her memory loss. Haunted by what he knows of the fraud allegations - and the investigation's impact on the thousands of patients who depend on the medicationJohn draws closer to the memories he has of his own mother, Francis, and the ways she pushed him to be somebody.And, not just somebody, but the greatest youth tennis player upstate South Carolina had ever known. With Francis' memory deteriorating, John's time to understand both himself and his mother, a product of the rough mill town that shaped her, is slipping away.

Life Close to the Bone moves from present day Florida and back in time to John's successful tenure on the youth tennis circuit and the textile mill in upstate South Carolina that, through Francis, shaped John's adolescence. It depicts a matriarchal family's relentless striving to overcome their "linthead" heritage and explores what it means to live for yourself and, ultimately, to forgive parents shaped by their own generational hardship.

"Michael Spake spins a profoundly textured story of corporate intrigue, boundless greed, corruption, and personal ethics amid a hardscrabble mill village legacy, and a meticulous mother's rapid cognitive decline as her lawyer son reconciles their past through revelatory truths. Life Close to the Bone triumphs with the lasting impact of what strong mothers pass on to you." Tim Conroy, author of Theologies of Terrain and No True Route

Michael Spake is a healthcare attorney and writer. His debut novel, Life Close to the Bone, a coming-of-age story about the shift in memory that comes with moving from adolescence to adulthood, as the story’s protagonist learns about love and loss in a textile mill town located in upstate, South Carolina.

Michael and his wife Mary Lucia celebrated their 27th wedding anniversary. They have four children (22, 18, 18, and 13). Michael is from Anderson, South Carolina and graduated with honors from The Citadel with a BA (English) in 1994.

Michael currently lives in Lakeland, Florida. At home, when not writing, he gardens and raises chickens.

"Freedom's Eve" is a historical fiction children's book that follows Layla, a little mouse living in an antique shop, who is magically transported back to a South Carolina plantation during the Civil War era by the spirit of Hawa, a young enslaved girl. Through Hawa's guidance, Layla witnesses the realities of slavery from New Year's Eve 1862 (when the Emancipation Proclamation took effect) through the eventual freedom that came in 1865. The story explores the daily lives, struggles, and resilience of enslaved people, their rich Gullah culture and language, and their journey to freedom. Written by Dawn Caldwell with illustrations by Bryce Caldwell, the book aims to teach honest history about slavery while honoring the strength and cultural heritage of the Gullah people.

Set against the lush yet turbulent backdrop of Nepal during the COVID-19 pandemic, Like Water on Leaves of Taro weaves together themes of loss, resilience, identity, and hope. The memoir honors sacred rituals and everyday heartbreaks, from the thirteenth-day death feast to a father's wish to spare his daughter further grief. Through poetry, reflection, and memory, the author invites readers to witness the quiet strength of family, the complexity of Nepali culture, and the universality of sorrow.

This is not just a story of illness and loss-it is a meditation on what it means to be human, to mourn, to endure, and to carry love forward in a world that feels constantly in flux.

For readers of When Breath Becomes Air, The Year of Magical Thinking, and The Long Goodbye, Like Water on Leaves of Taro offers a moving cross-cultural perspective on grief, devotion, and the enduring lessons of death.

Deep in the Northern Thicket, a cold wind blows. Tradition mandates the flock remain through the winter, and The Elders are big on following the rules. Wooblers are a serious breed who spend most of their time attending to important matters requiring somber faces. But Leader of the Flock has a deep, dark secret . . . and their most misunderstood member has uncovered it. Will the Wooblers have the faith to change? Things are about to get more colorful.

At Colorful Crow Publishing, our mission is to amplify diverse voices and champion stories that resonate across communities. We believe every story matters, and we are dedicated to creating a welcoming, supportive platform for authors to share their unique perspectives. By fostering a collaborative environment, we aim to publish works that inspire, connect, and make a lasting impact on readers everywhere.

WRITE YOUR HEART OUT

A52-Week Reflective Writing Journal

Slow down. Breathe. Listen to your own voice.

Created by award-winning editor and publisher Vickie McEntire, Write Your Heart Out offers weekly prompts designed to nurture creativity, clarity, and courage in every season of your writing life.

Colorful Crow Publishing is accepting 2026 submissions.

Colorful Crow Publishing is seeking exceptional memoir, fiction, children’s literature, and poetry for our upcoming catalog. Thoughtful editing. Beautiful design. Author-centered publishing at its best. Learn more here Independent. Intentional. Inspired.

In Volume One, you’ll find thirty-eight submissions writtenbyafantasticmixofawardwinning authors and poets plus new ones to the scene. Three submissions in this volume were nominated for a Pushcart Prize: Miller’s Cafe by Mike Hilbig, Sleeping on Paul’s Mattress by Brenda Sutton Rose, and A Hard Dog by Will Maguire. The cover art is by artist, Lindsay Carraway, who had several pieces published in February’s issue.

Contributors: Jeffrey Dale Lofton, Phyllis Gobbell, Brenda Sutton Rose, T. K. Thorne, Claire Hamner Matturro, Penny Koepsel, Mike Hilbig, Jon Sokol, Rita Welty Bourke, Suzanne Kamata, Annie McDonnell, Will Maguire, Joy Ross Davis, Robb Grindstaff, Tom Shachtman, Micah Ward, Mike Turner, James D. Brewer, Eileen Coe, Susan Cornford, Ana Doina, J. B. Hogan, Carrie Welch, Ashley Holloway, Rebecca Klassen, Robin Prince Monroe, Ellen Notbohm, Scott Thomas Outlar, Fiorella Ruas, Jonathan Pett, DeLane Phillips, Larry F. Sommers, Macy Spevacek, and Richard Stimac

InVolumeTwo, you’ll find fortythree submissions written by a fantastic mix of award-winning authors and poets plus new ones to the scene. Three submissions in this volume were nominated for a Pushcart Prize: A Bleeding Heart by Ann Hite, A Few Hours in the Life of a Five-Year-Old Pool Player by Francine Rodriguez, and There Were Red Flags by Mike Turner. The cover art for Volume Two is by artist, DeWitt Lobrano, who had several pieces published in November’s issue. Enjoy!

Contributors: Ann Hite, Malcolm Glass, Dawn Major, John M. Williams, Mandy Haynes, Francine Rodriguez, Mike Turner, Mickey Dubrow, William Walsh, Robb Grindstaff, Deborah Zenha Adams, Mark Braught, B. A. Brittingham, Ramey Channell, Eileen Coe, Marion Cohen, Lorraine Cregar, John Grey, J. B. Hogan, Yana Kane, Philip Kobylarz, Diane Lefer, Will Maguire, David Malone, Ashley Tunnell, Tania Nyman, Jacob Parker, LaVern Spencer McCarthy, K. G. Munro, Angela Patera, Micheal Spake, George Pallas, Marisa Keller, Ken Gosse, and Orlando DeVito

TheyAll Rest in the Boneyard Now by

Raymond L.Atkins (Author), Evelyn Mayton (Illustrator)

“Raymond Atkins writes with intuitive wisdom, as he channels those from beyond the grave. His poetry gives voice to those who once mattered, those who time wants us to forget. In They All Rest in the Boneyard Now, Atkins wrestles death from the dusty clay and breathes life into dry bones while reminding us that every soul who once had breath is worthy of being remembered. These saints, sinners, socialites, and the socially inept are all victims of time, or circumstance, as we too shall one day be. Atkins offers salvation to all who are tormented, and solace to those who seek eternal rest.”

– Renea Winchester,Award-winning author of Outbound Train

The Cicada Tree by

Robert Gwaltney

The summer of 1956, a brood of cicadas descends upon Providence, Georgia, a natural event with supernatural repercussions, unhinging the life of Analeise Newell, an eleven-year-old piano prodigy. Amidst this emergence, dark obsessions are stirred, uncanny gifts provoked, and secrets unearthed.

During a visit to Mistletoe, a plantation owned by the wealthy Mayfield family, Analeise encounters Cordelia Mayfield and her daughter Marlissa, both of whom possess an otherworldly beauty, a lineal trait regarded as that Mayfield Shine. A whisper and an act of violence perpetrated during this visit by Mrs. Mayfield all converge to kindle Analeise’s fascination with the Mayfields.

Analeise’s burgeoning obsession with the Mayfield family overshadows her own seemingly, ordinary life, culminating in dangerous games and manipulation, setting off a chain of cataclysmic events with life-altering consequences—all of it unfolding to the maddening whir of a cicada song.

Haints on Black Mountain:AHaunted Short Story Collection by Ann Hite

Ann Hite takes her readers back to Black Mountain with this haunted short story collection.

An array of new characters on the mountain experience ghostly encounters. The collection took inspiration from her beloved readers, who provided writing prompts. Wrinkle in the Air features Black Mountain's Polly Murphy, a young Cherokee woman, who sees her future in the well's water. Readers encounter relatives of Polly Murphy as the stories move through time.The Root Cellar introduces Polly's great grandson, who tends to be a little too frugal with his money until a tornado and Polly's spirit pays the mountain a visit. In The Beginning, the Middle, and the End, readers meet Gifted Lark on an excessively frigid January day. This story moves back and forth between 1942 and 1986 telling Gifted and her grandmother Anna's story. This telling introduces spirits that intervene in the spookiest of ways.

Red Clay Suzie by

Jeffrey Dale Lofton

Anovel inspired by true events. The coming-of-age story of Philbet, gay and living with a disability, battles bullying, ignorance, and disdain as he makes his way in life as an outsider in the Deep South—before finding acceptance in unlikely places.

Fueled by tomato sandwiches and green milkshakes, and obsessed with cars, Philbet struggles with life and love as a gay boy in rural Georgia. He’s happiest when helping Grandaddy dig potatoes from the vegetable garden that connects their houses. But Philbet’s world is shattered and his resilience shaken by events that crush his innocence and sense of security; expose his misshapen chest skillfully hidden behind shirts Mama makes at home; and convince him that he’s not fit to be loved by Knox, the older boy he idolizes to distraction. Over time, Philbet finds refuge in unexpected places and inner strength in unexpected ways, leading to a resolution from beyond the grave.

The Smuggler's Daughter by

Claire Matturro

Ray Slaverson, a world-weary Florida police detective, has his hands full with the murders of two attorneys and a third suspicious death, all within twenty-four hours. Ray doesn’t believe in coincidences, but he can’t find a single link between the dead men, and he and his partner soon smash into an investigative stonewall.

Kate Garcia, Ray’s fiancée, knows more than she should. She helped one of the dead attorneys, just hours before he took a bullet to the head, study an old newspaper in the library where she works. Kate might be the only person still alive who knows what he was digging up— except for his killer.

When Kate starts trying to discover what’s behind the murders, she turns up disturbing links between the three dead men that track back to her family’s troubled past. But she has plenty of reasons to keep her mouth shut. Her discovery unleashes a cat-and-mouse game that threatens to sink her and those she loves in a high tide of danger.

The Bystanders by Dawn Major

The quaint town of Lawrenceton, Missouri isn’t sending out the welcoming committee for its newest neighbors from Los Angeles—the Samples’ family. Shannon Lamb’s “Like a Virgin” fashion choices, along with her fortune-telling mother, Wendy Samples, and her no-good, cheating, jobless, stepfather, Dale Samples, result in Shannon finding few fans in L-Town where proud family lines run deep. Only townie, Eddy Bauman, is smitten with Shannon and her Valley Girl ways. The Bystanders is a dark coming-of-age story set in the 1980s when big hair was big, and MTV ruled. In a quiet town of annual picnics and landscapes, the Samples’ rundown trailer and odd behaviors aren’t charming the locals. Shannon and Wendy could really use some friends but must learn to rely upon themselves to claw their way out of poverty and abuse if they want to escape Dale.

The Bystanders pays homage toAmericana, its small-town eccentricities, and the rural people of the Northern Mississippi Delta region of Southeast Missouri, a unique area of the country where people still speak Paw Paw French and honor Old World traditions.

The Girl from the Red Rose Motel:ANovel by Susan Beckham Zurenda

Impoverished high school junior Hazel Smalls and privileged senior Sterling Lovell would never ordinarily meet. But when both are punished with in-school suspension, Sterling finds himself drawn to the gorgeous, studious girl seated nearby, and an unlikely relationship begins. Set in 2012 South Carolina, the novel interlaces the stories of Hazel, living with her homeless family in the rundown Red Rose Motel; Sterling, yearning to break free from his wealthy parents' expectations; and recently widowed Angela Wilmore, their stern but compassionate English teacher. Hazel hides her homelessness from Sterling until he discovers her cleaning the motel's office when he goes with his slumlord father to unfreeze the motel's pipes one morning. With her secret revealed, their relationship deepens. Angela-who has her own struggles in a budding romance with the divorced principal-offers Hazel the support her family can't provide. Navigating between privilege and poverty, vulnerability and strength, all three must confront what they need from themselves and each other as Hazel gains the courage to oppose boundaries and make a bold, life-changing decision at novel's end.

The Best of the Shortest: ASouthern Writers Reading Reunion

by Suzanne Hudson (Author, Editor), Mandy Haynes (Editor), Joe Formichella (Author, Editor)

“Some of the happiest moments of my writing life have been spent in the company of writers whose work is included in these pages. They all brought their A-game to this fabulous collection, and at our house it is going on a shelf next to its honored predecessors. The only thing that saddens me is that the large-hearted William Gay is not around to absorb some of the love that shines through every word.” ―Steve Yarbrough

“The Best of the Shortest takes the reader on a fast-paced adventure from familiar back roads to the jungles of Viet Nam; from muddy southern creek banks to the other side of the world, touching on themes as beautiful as love and as harsh as racism. However dark or uplifting, you are guaranteed to enjoy the ride.” --Bob Zellner

“I had some of the best times of my life meeting, drinking and chatting with the writers in this book, times matched only by the hours I spent reading their books. This collection showcases a slice of Southern literature in all its complicated, glorious genius. Anyone who likes good writing will love it.” --Clay Risen

Walking The Wrong Way Home by Mandy Haynes

Spanning nearly twenty decades, the struggles and victories these characters face are timeless as they all work towards the same goal.

A place to feel safe, a place to call home.

Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth: Eva and other stories by Mandy Haynes

Each story features a female protagonist, ranging from ten to ninety-five years of age. Set in the south, you’ll follow these young women and girls as they learn that they’re stronger than they ever thought possible.

Oliver

by Mandy Haynes

“Dear God…and Jesus and Mary…” Even though eleven-year old Olivia is raised Southern Baptist, she likes to cover her bases when asking for a favor. Unlike her brother Oliver, she struggles with keeping her temper in check and staying out of trouble. But Oliver is different, and in the summer of ’72 he proves to Olivia there’s magic in everything - it’s up to us to see it.

Mandy Haynes spent hours on barstools and riding in vans listening to great stories from some of the best songwriters and storytellers in Nashville, Tennessee. After her son graduated college, she traded a stressful life as a pediatric cardiac sonographer for a happy one and moved to an island off the east coast. She is a contributing writer for Amelia Islander Magazine, Amelia Weddings, and editor of Encounters with Nature, an anthology created by Amelia Island writers and artists. She is also the author of two short story collections, Walking the Wrong Way Home, Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth Eva and Other Stories, and a novella, Oliver. She is a co-editor of the Southern Writers Reading reunion anthology, The Best of the Shortest. Mandy is the editor-in-chief of WELL READ Magazine and the editor of four WELL READ anthologies.

Like the characters in some of her stories, she never misses a chance to jump in a creek to catch crawdads, stand up for the underdog, or the opportunity to make someone laugh. At the end of 2024, Mandy moved back to middle Tennessee and now spends her time writing and enjoying life as much as she can.

If you’d like to feature your work in the reading recommendation section with live links toyourwebsiteandpurchaselink,and personalizedgraphicsofyouradsharedtoWELL READMagazine’ssocialsites,clickheretoseeexamplesofthedifferentoptionsand moreinformation.

Click here for more information on purchasing a cover.

Don’t let the low prices fool you - WELL READ was created by an author who understands how much it costs to get your book in the best shape possible before it’s ready to be queried by agents, small presses, or self-published. Showing off your book and getting it in front of readers shouldn’t break the bank.

WELL READ Magazine receives approximately 8,000 views each month on Issuu’s site alone (the world’s largest digital publishing and discovery platform available). Your book will be included with the featured authors, great interviews, submissions, essays, and other fantastic books inside each issue. There is strength in numbers. Let’s get our books seen!

Ad rates for Special Holiday Pricing through January 31, 2026:

$50 - $25 - One FULL PAGE AD

$37.50 - TWO-PAGE SPREAD

$50 - TWO HIGH IMPACT - FULL COLOR PAGES - (this is NOT a standard two page spread)

100 - $50 - FOR PUBLISHERS ONLY (limit 3 months of ads)Advertise up to THREE books with one live link that takes viewers to your website.

$37.50 - BOOKSTORES, PUBLICISTS, AUTHORS - two-page spread to promote book events

$275.00 - FRONT COVER - includes TWO full color interior pages for book description, author bio, and/or blurbs.

$350 - $175.00 - INTERIOR COVER or BACK COVER - includes TWO additional full color interior pages for book description, author bio, and/or blurbs.

*All covers include a one page ad in the next three consecutive issues following the month your book is featured on a cover. Prices include creating the graphics for the magazine pages and all social sites. Everything is taken care of for you.

INSIDE VOICES

“…even the most famous people have something about them that hasn’t been told yet.”

Robert Gwaltney and Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Louis Bayard

In the words of the New York Times, Louis Bayard “reinvigorates historical fiction,” rendering the past “as if he’d witnessed it firsthand.”

His acclaimed novels include The Wildes, chosen as one of the top 10 historical novels of the year by the New York Times, The Pale Blue Eye, adapted into the global #1 Netflix release starring Christian Bale, Jackie & Me,ranked by the Washington Post as one of the top novels of 2022, the national bestseller Courting Mr. Lincoln, Roosevelt's Beast, The School of Night, The Black Tower, and Mr. Timothy, as well as the highly praised young-adult novel, Lucky Strikes.

His reviews and articles have appeared in the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times and Salon, and he is a contributing writer to the Washington Post Book World. A former instructor at George Washington University, he was the chair of the PEN/Faulkner Awards and the author of the popular Downton Abbey recaps for the New York Times. His work has been translated into more than a dozen languages.

Inside Voices/Jeffrey: The Wildes gives us not the mythic Oscar Wilde alone, but the family who lived with and beyond him. What first drew you to tell their story, and how did you find your way into their emotional world?

I wanted to tell their story because, to the best of my knowledge, no novelist had. As for finding their emotional world, my most

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Louis Bayard

essential text was “Son of Oscar Wilde,” a memoir that Vyvyan Holland published in 1954. It’s an incredibly intimate portrait of the Wilde family before the scandal that helps you see just how close they really were.

Inside Voices/Robert: You’ve often reimagined real historical figures—Poe, Mary Todd Lincoln, Roosevelt—with empathy and imagination. What was it about the Wilde family that called to you next?

I can’t tell you how few people even know that Oscar had a wife and children. He’s been passed down to us as the great gay martyr of late-Victorian England, so when you tell people he had a family to whom he was deeply devoted, that complicates him suddenly, and it makes you curious about these people who lived and died in his shadow.

Inside Voices/Jeffrey: Constance Wilde emerges here as a deeply modern woman—ambitious, idealistic, yet vulnerable. How did your understanding of her evolve as you wrote?

She’s always been such a blank slate in previous depictions of her – including Stephen Fry’s wonderful 1997 film. But Oscar wouldn’t have married a blank slate. The woman he married was educated, multilingual, and a passionate feminist who wanted to liberate Victorian women from their corsets. So I very much wanted her to be his equal in this book – someone with wit and

intelligence and agency.

Inside Voices/Robert: The book’s subtitle, A Novel in Five Acts, nods to the stage and to Wilde’s theatrical roots. How did that structure shape the novel’s tone, pacing, and sense of inevitability?

Well, the structure was essential to me even writing the book. The Wildes all had such desperately sad lives that I wasn’t sure I could dwell in their sorrow for the two years it takes me to push a book into the world. But then I thought about writing it as a Wildean high comedy, with epigrams and bon mots and the sadness quietly sneaking up from below, and knowing I could have some fun with it suddenly made it irresistible. I should add that the novel was originally supposed to be in four acts because most of Oscar’s plays were, but when I got to Act IV, it didn’t feel right to end there.

Inside Voices/Jeffrey: Your prose often captures both Wildean wit and a quiet ache beneath it. How did you balance channeling Oscar’s voice with maintaining your own distinctive style?

The only way I could make this work was to configure it as a collaboration between Oscar and me. (Involuntary on his part.) So, yes, I would channel him for the dialogue, as best I could, but when it came to what the characters weren’t saying, I think that’s where my own voice came in. Not to compete with the “onstage” action, just to deepen it a little.

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Louis Bayard

Inside Voices/Robert: The relationship between Oscar and Lord Alfred Douglas has long been dissected and dramatized.What new emotional truths were you hoping to uncover in revisiting it?

I suppose I was just curious about what kept them together for so long because they were constantly quarreling, constantly breaking up, and constantly getting back together. And then you learn that their sexual relationship ended quite early—maybe within the first year. Yet their love affair, if that’s what we want to call it, was no less passionate for being non-sexual. It was raw and primal and codependent, and it ruined them both.

Inside Voices/Jeffrey: The novel’s settings—Norfolk’s countryside, the Italian coast, the trenches of World War I, London’s Soho—trace both a family’s journey and a nation’s transformation. How did you approach weaving private heartbreak into a broader historical fabric?

I just followed wherever their story took me. Once you learn that Oscar’s older son became a WWI sniper, for instance, you have to follow him into the trenches. Once you learn that his younger son became part of the literary scene in post-WWI England, you have to parachute into 1920s London. For me, it’s all about finding the characters where they are.

Inside Voices/Robert: There’s an undercurrent of forgiveness running through The Wildes—between lovers, between parents and

children, between the living and the dead. Was that a theme that emerged naturally, or did you set out to write toward it?

I don’t think I ever consciously take on a particular theme—I depend on smart people like you to tell me what my theme is. But for me the subject of the book is a family that wants to remain together, and for that to happen, I think, forgiveness has to enter in at some point. In fact, you could argue that the book’s entire final act as an exercise in forgiveness and, through that, healing.

Inside Voices/Jeffrey: Oscar Wilde’s legacy has shifted from scandal to reverence. How do you see his life and work resonating with our current moment?

It’s amazing how central he still is to our culture 125 years after his death. If I had to speculate, I’d say it’s because, like Twain, he knows how to make us laugh and because he traffics in paradox, which is a way of not committing yourself to any creed or proposition, and I think that makes him feel eternally modern.And, of course, he still has a useful whiff of scandal about him. He didn’t cower in a closet; he lived out loud.

Inside Voices/Robert: Finally, what do you hope readers will carry with them after leaving the world of this book?

That even the most famous people have something about them that hasn’t been told yet.

"In this witty, poignant, and richly imagined 'novel in five acts, ' Louis Bayard takes us past the sordid scandal of Oscar Wilde and his nemesis-lover Bosie, the misbegotten libel trial that brought about Wilde's ruin, and an aftermath of 'dazzling martyrdom' in repressive Victorian England, to focus instead on Wilde's wife Constance and their sons Vyvyan and Cyril. The Wildes is a boldly audacious re-visioning of the martyrdom of Oscar Wilde, one which would have astonished Wilde himself."

--Joyce Carol Oates, award-winning poet and novelist

The Wildes: A Novel in Five Acts

Louis Bayard

Click above to go to the BETWEEN THE PAGES YouTube channel, or on one of the links below to listen to the podcast. Please take a second to like and subscribe if you enjoy the channel - we appreciate you!

The Christmas Tree Hunter

Mother always made Christmas special, glorious really, in our tiny family made up of Granny, the practical down to earth, save your money, kind of person, and Jeff my baby brother who always followed my lead until he didn’t. Mountain Magic was plentiful and always surprising us out of our normal everyday life.AndDear Readers, don’t be thinking: “That poor child. She must not have any good Christmas memories of her father.”That’s not true.There is one in particular that stands in front and center every year.

It was the year I turned 9, two days before Christmas Eve. I was living in a winter wonderland, and the snow was piling up outside. Dad was just finishing his morning cup of coffee sitting at the kitchen table as Mother tweeted around him a sing/song fashion, talking about the news the night before.

“Is it true Jake got his orders?”

Dad just frowned.

The night before I had watch young soldiers, wearing helmets, walking through the jungle in Vietnam. Mother had switched off the television and sent me to my room.

Dad huffed at Mother as if to tell her he wasn’t up for the subject.

He retrieved his combat boots and began putting them on, muttering to himself. He did this often. Like he planned to throw good judgement out the window and was trying to convince himself to change his course of action.

“Are you two off?” Mother asked Dad as she handed me my coat in one hand and snow boots in the other.

Dad grunted, stood, and placed his Air Force cap on his head. I dressed quickly so as not to spoil the adventure about to take place.

Agust of cold air came through the door as we stepped out.

“Glover, remember how cold it is.” Mother called as we left her behind.

We tramped in the snow high enough to slide inside the tops of my boots. “Smell that? It’s icicles.”

“There is no such odor,Ann.” Dad walked ahead of me.

I sniffed the air again sure I detected the clean, faintly sweet fragrance that only icicles could give. Maybe grownups could smell such things. My grumbles of cold tingling toes and feet in case Dad decided to take me home.

“We are going to find a tree.” Dad threw this over his shoulder. He was a lifer in the Air Force and worked at all tasks with the same dogged determination as he must have used marching into battle during WWII. And now we hunted a tree, a perfect tree, in Germany so far from our home in Georgia, where it never snowed. Dad was there because it was his job to take care of the missiles pointing at Russia.After all, it was the cold war.

The woods were dense, but bright due to the snow that coated most trees, giving off a pure light. I imagined the ice crystals falling from the upper branches were fairies dancing to music only they could hear. I joined in their dance, a ballerina twirling and leaping until Dad cleared his throat and glared at me. “Quiet.” He pointed in front of us, where the tree, the most beautiful tree, sat in a clearing, as if the other trees had stepped back to give the tree room to grow round and full, thick with short needles, sun dazzling through the opening unto the tree like a spotlight. On the tree’s limbs were clumps of snow sparkling in the light. “Can’t we take her home just like this. We wouldn’t even need any decorations.”

Dad made the sound he always made when he thought my thoughts were silly. A gruff kind of grumble like a bear in the woods.

He mumbled under his breath as he circled the tree, leaving large boot prints in the snow. I followed, placing my boots into each print. When he stopped, I ran into his back. Dad turned with a frown. “Careful.” In his hand was a bow saw. He studied his prize with serious concentration, a master builder bout to choose his first cut. After much chin rubbing and muttering, he squatted for a better look. What seemed like an eternity passed before he placed the saw blade on the tree trunk, giving it a firm push then pull.

A sigh of pain, of sadness, filled the air. When I told Dad, he shook his head.

“Ann, you have your head full of dreams.” His voice turned soft and firm at the same time.

He made a clean cut deeper into the bark, sawing with a speed that rained pieces of wood out in every direction, clinging to my wet boots.

I looked up to stare at the slice of blue sky, thinking of how the stars would show like the twinkle lights on a Christmas tree that night. By then I would be stringing popcorn and unboxing decorations. “I can’t wait to hang the glass ornaments and especially the red hair angel. She always protects us.”

Dad gave a half smile that smoothed the lines around his mouth. Like just for a minute, he was peaceful. His combat boots trudged off, leaving the attack scene. Behind him he pulled the tree, clearing the path through the forest, which I stepped into and followed the great hunter. As we continued our mission, each tree became a hiding place for the enemy, and I instructed Dad to keep low so their fire wouldn’t hit us or damage our prize, the perfect Christmas tree. We snaked our way through the thick woods, one careful step at a time, back into the bright daylight of another world, our world, if only for a while.

We tugged the tree, hands touching through the snow, past the silent playground, now covered with a pure white blanket. The sun rode the sky with little warmth, but still the icicles began to fade, one drip at a time. My feet had gone numb long before the business of dragging the tree home, and clumsiness set in as we worked our way down the hill toward our back door. We left the tree beside the stoop and entered the warm steamy house, the aroma of banana bread reminding me how hungry I was. Mother looked up from the

piecrust she was rolling. I hoped for a pumpkin pie.

As I watched her look at Dad, I knew this would be a perfect Christmas, the last Christmas before Dad received his orders to go to Vietnam. There was a part of that young me that knew nothing would ever be as magical as the day I went out with the Christmas Tree Hunter.And I was right.

Havoc at the Holidays

Celia Miles

On my ninety-fifth, having been long duly dutiful, I intend to play Holiday Havoc.

On New Year's all-day PJs day, my wish list/resolutions include sitting next to Elon Musk on his moon trip with a stopover at Mars, a Wyoming bull-riding rodeo win in chaps and bandana, and an apple, cherry, pecan, key lime, and coconut cream pie throughout the first week—as if there’s no tomorrow—in case there isn’t.

On Valentine’s, cloaked in black from witch’s hat and catwoman mask to booted pointy toe, I’ll feast on Pilgrim-plain unstuffed, half-baked turkey supplemented by Claxton’s Fruit Cake and hickory nut coffee. Thirteen white plastic pumpkins and a dozen “Vote for…various losers” signs festoon the lawn.

At Easter I’ll frolic in heavy winter wool socks, gloomy hoodie, and fleece-lined jeans, decorating crates of canned cranberry sauce with swaths of wreaths of holly and mistletoe. My red stocking’ll adorn the mantel. I’ll down several cups of super sweet Noel eggnog alternating with several shots of single malt Scotch, no ice.

Thanksgiving’ll be a fasting time—sunup to sundown, twelve empty hours and counting. I’ll huddle in a pink bonnet, with

purified water, weight-loss pills, and fizzy bubbly Alka-Selzers at hand. In darkness I’ll succumb to three brightly colored eggs and fifteen green jelly beans.

Christmas’ll find me sulking under a tanning blanket, daring joy to intrude. I’ll slather peanut butter on white bread, Velvetta on graham crackers, drink Kool Aid, devour a chocolate bunny. No hopeful lights, family, friends, presents under a no tree—just poor pitiful me.

On my ninety-sixth, maybe I’ll return to normal—if I’m lucky.

Celia Miles lives, writes, photographs, and travels from Asheville, NC. A retired community college instructor, she has had several novels, two short story collections, a textbook, and some poetry published. Her website: celiamiles.com

Fleeting Forever Friend

Ellen Notbohm

“How long do you have to know someone before they’re your friend?” my young son wondered, struggling to understand the devilishly nuanced concept of friendship. How would he know if they’re a real friend? We had long talks about how friendship can come in all degrees. They can last for years, or they can be brief and situational, but unquestionably genuine. This I learned as a child myself.

Even eight-year-olds dressed up for airplane trips in 1960s. Hence my flying from Oregon to Chicago in a bright white pique dress with a black-and-white checked hem and sash. From my aisle seat at the back of the plane, I could see my parents and little brother several rows ahead. I didn’t mind sitting alone. I felt worldly. The stewardess brought breakfast: eggs over easy, toast triangles soaked in margarine, a tiny cup of canned fruit cocktail. My mother despised margarine and fruit cocktail, so I felt even more worldly gobbling them, quite literally, behind her back. The greasy damp bread and slippery grapes would never have been a first choice for breakfast, but opportunities for small acts of

FLEETING FOREVER FRIEND

by Ellen Notbohm

defiance rarely came my way. That made them delicious.

However, the egg was trickier. Hard-boiled or scrambled, those were acceptable ways to eat a yolk, but this one ran all over the plate like yellow blood from a paper cut. Revolted, I tried to cut around it delicately, to pop small bites of the whites into my mouth. Even on an airplane, it felt rude to reject the meal, even if politely. Then, calamity. A splotch of egg yolk, blinding as the sun, landed on my white collar, spreading through the mesh fabric like an inkblot.

I must have gasped in horror, because the man seated next to me glanced over. As I scraped at the stain with my napkin, he said gently, “That will only make it worse.”

Indeed, little balls of napkin stuck to the stain, unchanged for my efforts. When my tears brimmed, the man spoke again. “It’s just a small stain. I’m sure it will come out. That’s such a pretty dress. It doesn’t ruin it at all.”

“My mother will be angry,” I told the nice man, which wasn’t true. My mother never angered over small mishaps. I was angry with myself, dribbling food like a two-year-old. I added, “We’re going to see my grandparents,” doubting whether he could understand how rare and important this was.

“I’m sure they’ll be so happy to see you that they won’t even notice a tiny spot on your dress.”

I finally looked up at this kind man, who had magically said exactly the right thing. Sandy-colored brows topped his light blue eyes, and he wore a black uniform with brass buttons and white

braid trim. He said he was Captain Smith, and that he had a daughter about my age.

“She calls me Cap’n Crunch,” he told me, making me giggle in spite of myself. “But we still won’t buy the cereal.” I nodded, no, my mom wouldn’t buy it either. She bought things like Cornflakes and Puffed Rice and suddenly I was telling him why I thought Puffed Rice was ridiculous. It just sits there on the milk, bobbing like balloons in a bathtub, until it soaks up enough milk to sink and turn to mush. Captain Smith laughed and said I’d described Puffed Rice perfectly, yes, it was like eating Styrofoam, and thank you, because now he would remember me and never eat it again.

At O’Hare, I introduced Captain Smith to my parents. He told them what a charming daughter they had, and wished them a pleasant time in Chicago.

Hurtling down the expressway in our rental car, my mother remarked, neither kindly or unkindly, that Captain Smith wasn’t a real captain, not in the U. S. military, nor an airline pilot. He was a captain in the SalvationArmy.

The Christmastime bell-ringers with the coin buckets? How did she know this? Something about his uniform? What was I supposed to do with this information? It made no difference to me. Captain Smith knew just what I needed to hear at the moment I most needed it. He was indeed my salvation. He was my friend. Even if ever so briefly, real enough for me.

*

FLEETING FOREVER FRIEND

by Ellen Notbohm

Afew years into a new millennium, Fly the friendly skies is now a laughably antique ad slogan. I’m standing in a long line waiting to go through customs, to be questioned by unsmiling fellow American citizens so I can end my research trip and get back to my own country. The line snakes between coils of nylon ropes back and forth, back and forth, ensuring that I’ll end my exhilarating adventure in this most boring manner possible.

To pass time, I mentally catalog the crowd ahead of me. One thing’s for sure: no one dresses up to fly anymore. They barely dress at all. Women in sandals comprised of a cardboard-thin soles with a pipe-cleaner strips of grimy plastic for straps. Women wearing tops that expose their brassieres. Men displaying several inches of underwear above low-slung pants. Wait, are those pants—or pajama bottoms? Two charmers have skipped the underwear and treat us to an inch of butt crack.

My eyelids grow heavy with tedium.

“Ma’am? Step up, please.” A man behind a counter beckons to me, his shirt as white as my long-ago dress. Navy blue and gold epaulettes gleam from the shirt’s shoulders; detailed cloth badges garnish the chest and sleeves. He takes my passport and says, “I have to ask you to step out of line and follow me.”

His ID tag smacks away any trace of indifference I’ve been nursing. It can’t be. But it is.

Cap Smith

Cap Smith might be all of 38 years old, a study in deadpan coolness. He leads me to a female agent. I don’t allow myself to

wonder anything. My backpack contains nothing remarkable. Laptop, trail mix, book of crossword puzzles. The female agent asks me to step through a metal detector. Nothing unusual there. But then I’m taken to a private side station where she says, “I’m sorry about this. I have to pat you down. Please put your arms over your head.” I feel the reluctance in her hands as they move down my body, under my breasts and between my legs. With another “I’m sorry about this,” the agent pulls the waistband of my pants out a few inches and peeks down.

Now I balk. “What’s going on here?” I ask, in a pointedly reasonable tone. But the agent simply repeats, “I’m sorry about this,” and tells me to turn my palms up. “I have to swab you,” she explains-apologizes.

“For what?”

“Traces of explosives.”

Now I find my full voice. “What reason do you have to think—”

The agent quickly runs a fabric-covered wand over my hands and inserts it into the detection instrument. No lights blink. No alarms sound. She turns and looks me in the eye, a look of empathy and compassion. “None, ma’am. We’re randomly testing every 20th person today. It’s September 11.”

“So someone with explosives on their hands has a 95% change of not getting caught.”

What can she say? She has no more voice in these procedures than me.

“I know you’re just doing your job,” I say, shouldering my

FLEETING FOREVER FRIEND

by Ellen Notbohm

backpack. There’s a weariness in her smile as she directs me back into the mainstream of the customs area, where the po-faced Cap Smith flicks his eyes from my passport picture to my real mug, then hands my passport back and wordlessly gestures me to a line funneling the random 5% through a door and back into the main concourse. Just another heifer in his cattle drive.

A suppressed snort collides with my sealed lips and shoots up my nose as I hear my son’s voice in my head. Tell it, Mom! Oh, yes, I’ll tell it. How a long ago one-hour friendship has stayed with me a lifetime. I wait until I’m three steps from the door, bolting distance, before I turn back to the implacable Cap and call to him, “I knew Captain Smith. I flew with Captain Smith. Captain Smith was a friend of mine. You, sir, are no Captain Smith.”

Originally published in the anthology Real Women Write: The Power of Friendship (Story Circle Network, November 2024)

Ellen Notbohm’s work touches millions in more than twenty-five languages. She is author of the award-winning novelThe River by Starlight, the nonfiction classicTen Things Every Child with Autism Wishes You Knew, and short works appearing in literary journals, magazines, and anthologies in the US and abroad. Her books and short prose have won more than 40 awards worldwide.

FLEETING FOREVER

Sounds of Silence

Steve Putnam

I’m excited about our day at the Psychedelic Supermarket, named after a music venue in Boston, back in the sixties. Today’s Supermarket is a museum, full of remnants that make you want to celebrate the hip bygones. And mourn, wondering where all the flowers went. Unsure of what I’m thinking, I squirrel a triangulated square of chocolate in my backpack—not to calm my nerves, but to relive a life I’ve almost forgotten.

The downside, my boss is coming along to reevaluate my performance—an add-on for a Performance Improvement Plan that already recommended me for a cost-cutting, early retirement. It’s a setup. I’m somewhat paranoid about my corporate big brother, a nickel-dime boss watching me troubleshoot a funky Supermarket exhibit called Acoustic Randomization, and Molecular Migration, featuring effects without apparent causes. I’m the one who helped Randy the artist set up the electronics. Odds are slim, but I might be troubleshooting a problem that I caused.

The security desk looks like it could be just another one of the

Steve Putnam

Supermarket exhibits. Guard’s wearing a Sargent Peppered red dayglo military uniform, an album cover memory too gaudy to celebrate a more genuine past. He runs my temporary ID through a barcode reader; it flashes red and sounds a solitary beep. The facial recognition scanner blinks, even though Randy told me it can’t tell a dog from a fire hydrant. The guard silently watches my boss and me open our backpacks for inspection. My supervisor carries a tablet. My laptop’s loaded with reloading software for artifactual randomizers and molecular migrators. Randy patiently waits—no surprise; he’s an artist, dissatisfied with his own exhibit. Our mission is more serious than it sounds. Without a plan, we’re clueless. We need to be careful. Ethics forbid that we change anything that interferes with artistic intent. One mistake could change the exhibit forever. The burp or fart of a false keystroke could trigger an extra-musical note that needs to be unheard. An electrical surge, a loose connection making and breaking a circuit. Bugged software pushing or pulling rhythm like a defective music box corrupting the time signature of sound.Anything’s possible.A random, weak indoor breeze could gently dislodge a tin can from a trash heap, marking an erroneous moment in time.

The Supermarket is a maze. No reward for finding the end, the journey is supposed to be a trip in itself. We pass through a laundromat equipped with round-windowed, front-loading washers. One is repurposed to tumble-clean Barbie Dolls, another dry bricks, and one for giant marshmallows. An adjacent space is filled with radios, tuners, receivers transmitting eerie sounds of

static,TVscreens and monitors displaying electronic snow. Signal generators, voltmeters, ammeters, oscilloscopes, illuminated dials, and screens, electronic faces electrified, tuned in, and turned on to each other.

We browse a library full of books glued together, forming arches, and ceilings that defy gravity. Spines titled: Mr. Wishing Goes Fishing, The Road, Fahrenheit 451, Tropic of Cancer, Boy Next Door, Sister of the Bride, Candy Cane, Real Heroes for Boys, Black Thumb Mystery. . . I’m grokking the endless possibilities. Boss nudges me. “Let’s go,” Corporate’s not paying us to title read.” Must be he’s already started my evaluation. The good news, if I can’t fix the problem, he’s the one who taps dances with excuses if our corporate customer develops some attitude.

We enter a large, cavernous space. “Here it is,” Randy says as if I don’t know already, “The Acoustic Randomization, and Molecular Migration.” He sounds proud of his work, relieved we’re here, and confident we can solve the problem.We’re looking at a wall, collaged with discarded traffic signs, thirty, forty-mile. speed limits, no passing, one-way, dead-end, no parking, stop. Go Children Slow. Automobilia: AC spark plug, Champion, Packard, Chevrolet. There’s a HOT Lsign; must be the word ‘hotel’missing the ‘E’.

The signs on the wall frame a mountainous heap of vintage trash rescued from yesteryear: Quart-size cardboard and metal oil cans, Quaker State, Kendall, Mobil Sunoco, Gulf, Valvoline, Castrol, Torcs Checkered Flag; Campbell Soup, Prince Spaghetti, reds,

Steve Putnam

whites, blues, primary colors of brokenAmerican dreams. Not that there’s a problem, I’m not one to criticize. But I have to say, “There’s not much late-vintage or early modern.”

First time I’ve seen Randy smile today. “I avoid materials that I consider too plastic,” he says, proud that his junk comes from solid reputable origins.

With a spontaneous cymbal crash from above, we pause. A symphonic out-of-tune mix of cardboard and metal cans bounces slowly downward, a clunky, percussive bumping and grinding, dampened by the rolling cardboard. “There’s the proof,” Randy says. Tumbling plastic lacks the acoustic depth of cardboard, aluminum, and tin.

“The conveyor drops the cans onto an elevator that lifts the cans upward, to the top of the pile. “I only take responsibility for things I can control,” Randy says. “It’s a crapshoot. The cans are free to reposition themselves anywhere on the pile. Some lose their balance and tumble downward again.”

For a moment, no sound from above.As luck has it, another can loses its weak grip and succumbs to gravity. “Molecular migration in itself sometimes causes vibration,” Randy says. “A subtle change can be enough to unbalance the balanced.”

I’m just a technician. Real or unreal, ‘molecular migration’ sounds funky.

I look upward, hopeful to hear more of the random musical sounds. Randy points toward the different instruments attached to the wall, two stories up.Alegless baby grand piano, its missing top

exposing its long strings and hammers.Alarge kick drum is poised on a scaffold suspended from the ceiling. On another scaffold perched on the opposite side of the cavernous space, a tom-tom and ride cymbal. Directly above us, a chandelier of many tiny, gaudy-colored lightbulbs surrounded by chimes. It’s important to check it all out. It’s important to recognize when something is or isn’t happening. The disjointed band instruments remain silent, the stack of oil and soup cans, stable.

You can’t see the problem, you can only hear the stillness,” Randy says. “No sound, no breeze, no tumbling cans. It defeats the purpose of the conveyor. We need the source of the missing notes, sources of the extra silence.”

“I understand the concept of random sound. But why the junk heap,” I ask.

“Each can, rolling downward announces the passage of another moment in time. It’s not a new idea.”

“Then why the music?

“Why not? Random sound mixed with silence creates an acoustic backdrop for the falling riffraff. “Randy shifts his feet and stands at attention. “Time is of the essence,” he says. “In more ways than one.”

I like Randy but don’t know him well enough to say, ‘No shit, Sherlock.’

“Give it more time,” the boss says. “The first step in troubleshooting, verify the problem.”

We wait There’s no immediate relief from the boredom of

Steve Putnam

auditory deprivation interspersed with sensory overloads of momentary percussive sound. Seconds seem like minutes; minutes hours, making me wish a tin can would crash downward, announcing another moment in time.

Missing sounds create problems. You can’t tell if there’s an electromechanical failure, a defective robotic striker, or a corrupt randomizer chip in the computer. Is it a missing musical note or an added moment of silence? Waiting makes my eyes water and stomach tighten. My head swims within itself. The job might take hours. Boss’s brow wrinkles. Maybe he’s getting edgy, waiting for a glitch that might be a critical clue for fixing the sound randomizer and molecular migrator.

Kick bass makes a singular deep thud. Another lonely note on a ride cymbal. Nothing on the trash pile falls. “Let’s move on,” my boss says. This could take some time.”

“How much do we know about random sounds?” Randy asks, without allowing us enough time to answer. “It could take a nanosecond for the next lone sound or unsound to happen. It could take five minutes.” He leads us through a narrow, dark winding hall, and unlocks an IT closet door.Acomputer stacked on a server turns on an electromagnetic actuator to kick the bass drum pedal, another the snare, the ride and crash cymbals, and chimes. It plays random notes and rests for erratic moments of silence.

Abass note from the piano interrupts the silence.Again, a pause. Asoprano striker strikes a brighter piano string.Apause. I shift my legs, waiting.Adrum beat but no cymbal crash. Chimes.

A pause. We might have to wait fifteen seconds. But who knows? It might be fifteen minutes. Thankfully, talking distracts me from the peaceful sounds of nothingness. Boss has a question as if he wants to get Randy to rethink his thoughts. “If we’re randomizing silence, why worry about some unknown sound that might go missing?”

“The missing sound is no longer random,” Randy replies. It’s the interaction of random silence and sound that entertains. You can’t have one without the other.”

We watch the live video feed as we override the software and trigger sounds with the keyboard. We listen through headphones to monitor the emptiness of the unwanted quietude. Who knows which instrument is cheating museum visitors from hearing random sounds gone missing?

Boss reads our checklist. “Bass kick.”

I press the ‘1’ key. We’re watching the bass drum feed on the video. The pedal actuates. A pleasant thud comes through both headphone channels. From the mountain top, an oil can bounces downward, another welcome sound breaking the silence.

Aride cymbal moment. “Dig it.”

“It sounds cool,” the boss says. Guaranteed, he’s doing one of his customer relation stunts.

I Press the ‘2’key. Sure enough, a singular short cymbal sound. “Bass piano.”

The ‘3’ key pressed, no problem. The piano vibes us with another bass note.

Steve Putnam

So it goes, instrument by instrument. Tambourine, snare, tomtom. Then we shift to CAPS LOCK shifted with numbers 1 through 9.We hear nine different sets of chimes; everything works. Now and then the trashed oil cans fall downward, triggered by our diagnostic false moments in time

We monitor the computer’s randomized music that plays out by chance or clumsy design.We watch and listen to see if there’s some sound trigger missing. Since we’ve already started, I’m not sure why the boss insists that we record the occurrence of each sound on a checklist. He hands me his favorite G-2 Pen. Is impersonating a scientist a new customer relations act he learned at charm school?

Bastardized logic or not, we need to discover the whereabouts of the missing note. Or the missing spot where a silent moment replaced it. Is the missing note lost in cyberspace? Or is it still with us here on earth, playing in someone else’s band? We might be dealing with a hack. There might be a weak, unhinged electromechanical striker somewhere on the scaffolded sound stage. Intermittent connection from a loose plug? Corroded keyboard micro switch?

I wonder what the boss is thinking or not thinking. How can lost voids or found musical moments affect my evaluation?

Lost in thought, I’ve missed an instrumental sound or two that might have been significant. I press the ‘Enter’ key to start over. Boss mumbles something that’s muffle-blocked by my headphones. I’m not a great lip reader but it looked like he maybe said, “Jesus Christ! Not again.”

Three sets of chimes riff in a row, separated by brief moments of silence. A long pause that feels like forever. My muscles tighten, breathing goes shallow. My mind swims in its depths, almost drowning in nothingness. Three minutes since I last checked, I glance at my watch.

My perception of time is somehow slow dancing with life, intensifying my thirst for sound.What happens if the program goes silent, or plays a spontaneous symphony?

Fifteen minutes of silence. Randy insists the long delay proves there’s something wrong. Boss suggests some chimes might be missing, maybe the number four set. “Jesus,” he says. We need to think hijacked. Reload the software. Try again.

Randy is the artist who fears nothingness, real or imagined. Randy is a voice of reason. “You never know how long it takes for a sound delay to become a long riff of silence. Is a missing note wasted if the sound file no longer needs it?

No idea which sound or long moment of silence is lost or found. Outside of the server room, I feel a little lost sitting on a boardwalk, a useless bus stop for an orange magic bus. Missing its wheels, it will never come or go. I watch Randy’s trash elevator, waiting for another turn-on by another falling can. The silence between notes creates a feeling of expanding emptiness. My mind seems to have lost its will to swim within itself. The silence causes mental

by Steve Putnam

dehydration, a thirst to hear the next note. Or two.Anything. I close my eyes to better ignore passersby who grok at me as if I’m part of the Randomization and Molecular Migration exhibit.

The bass drum thuds. Two cans, one on either side of the trash heap, roll down onto the conveyor and toward the elevator for an ascent to the summit of the mountainous trash heap. How long is the wait for the next oil can avalanche to mark another moment in time? Silence assures us that the conveyor is safe from overload. Enjoy the serenity.

My unadulterated mind drifts. What’s the meaning of an empty Quaker State oil can? Or Kendall, Sweet Life, Del Monte? Am I a victim of analysis paralysis? I kick back, resting my feet on a handrail, looking at the whole thing, wondering what it all means. Randy’s looking upward toward the drums and piano, trying to follow, trying to predict which note comes next from where?

Bass drum kick, a tom-tom beat, then the snare. Payback for a hard day’s work; acoustic thirst quenched by fresh sound. Three chime groups ring one after another; I’m too relaxed to say it might have been numbers 2, 5, and 7. The piano plays a soprano note, a new one that I don’t recall. Another striker strikes a thin piano string for a tinny sound at the highest octave. A low, throaty, drawn-out growl—piano bass—the pleasant sound of a dog asleep in its dream world, quenching my thirst for sounds and silence. Too many cans to count or identify during the avalanche downward, celebrating the fresh sound. The conveyor feeds the elevator. The empty cans rise to the top of the heap, ready for the

next fall. I feel a hypomanic rush.

The boss, I’d forgotten. He’s to my right, incognito, almost undercover, in the shadow of the bus, stowing his tablet.

My eval must be complete.Another moment passes. I close my eyes and smile a smile that won’t give up whether I’m asleep or awake.

Steve Putnam’s short fiction has appeared in Well Read Magazine, Main Street Rag, Whiskey Island, Magazine, and Scribes Valley Publishing anthologies. His novel, Academy of Reality, a 2019 Faulkner-Wisdom Competition finalist in New Orleans, was recently released by Madville Publishing.

Station Love

Souad Zakarani

The train screeches to a halt. Few people want to get off here, in the medium-sized hanseatic city that is nowhere near the sea. And of the few passengers who do, most, including myself, do just that: pass through and move on as soon as their connecting train picks them up. I'm already aware of the arrogance of the foreigner in me, knowing that I really know nothing about this region. There are reasons why people live here, reasons they know and I do not.

As I shoulder my rucksack, dragging my suitcase behind me, my gaze is caught by a brightly colored column. Turquoise at the bottom, then a band of yellow stones, turquoise again at the top, and at the top a purple and black striped onion-shaped belly. The uneven mosaics shine as if polished in the sun. What a beautiful thing you can do with a simple station pillar! I'm already feeling a bit more at home here and trudge on towards the lift. It was then that I noticed that the other columns in the station were also so beautifully designed and colorful. Magical! As I enter the station hall, I'm greeted by even more curved lines, golden spheres, colorful columns and floors and walls decorated with colorful

mosaics. Lights are falling in from somewhere and reflecting off small mirrored stones around the room. You can't rush past here, you have to stop and look! That's probably the only reason for the long waits between trains.

After spinning around like a stargazer, I want to follow the aroma of coffee. But my suitcase catches on something. I turn and see it, or rather it, the body, a woman's body. She's crouching with her face against the wall, her hands spread out.

"Are you all right?" is my first impulse. But her face, now turned towards me and smiling, doesn't show any discomfort. Quite the opposite. I'm overcome by the uneasy feeling that I've disturbed her in some way.

"Thank you, I'm fine. I was just saying hello to my lover".

A soulful smile in the midst of countless freckles. My questioning look seems to amuse her, then her eyes wander back to the wall. Her delicate fingertips caress the rough white. She says goodbye with a fleeting kiss and whispers a barely audible "see you later".

"Isn't he attractive?" she beams in my direction.

"Who?" I look around, hoping to find the answer myself.

"It is! My station!" she exclaims happily, arms raised.

Contrary to my expectations, her volume doesn't attract any attention. The saleswoman in the bistro a few meters away carries on, arranging the pastries so that, despite the gaps, it looks like there's plenty to choose from. An elderly woman in an apron sweeps invisible dirt from the corners near the exit.

"Oh, this is your station? You really have done a wonderful job! Great design!" Now I too am happy to be able to pass on my enthusiasm directly to someone else. Her warm brown eyes smile:

"No, I didn't design it, that was the famous Mr. Hundertwasser. Just look at all the shapes and colors! And that wall fountain! A dream of a place! Everything is in flow! You would fall in love with it, wouldn't you?

I nod hesitantly, because it really is beautiful here.

"When this magnificent building was inaugurated in November 2000, it was all over for me and my Friedrich." Her eyes sparkle with tears. "I'm going to tell you something, but don't think I'm crazy."

I nod, astonished at such intimacy, and lean towards her.

"We got married two years ago. Friedrich and I. I just felt that he liked me too. I have been coming here every day ever since by train, of course."

I nod once more in understanding, although I do not understand a word. Uncertain, I dare to ask: "Excuse me... and who is Friedrich now?"

"Well, the station," she explains with warm, matter-of-fact sincerity.As if she could see the error of her statement in my look, she continues:

"Of course it's called Friedensreich Hundertwasser Station, but because it's so close and familiar to me, I call it Friedrich. When we're intimate, it's sometimes Fritz too".

When we're intimate ... I seem to have lost the thread forever,

and I don't know if I'm interested in finding it again.

"Do you have a family?" she tears me from my thoughts.

"Um, no," I answer for the sake of simplicity, wanting that coffee now more than ever. I nod in the direction of the bistro and leave. She smiles at me understandingly as her right hand runs gently over a mosaic surface.

The coffee is good, hot and strong. It's steaming in front of me in the seating area of the bistro. I enjoy the peace and quiet of being the only customer in this modern living room, with its floral wallpaper, artificial plants and warm bar lighting. My thoughts are still circling around my strange encounter.

When we're intimate ... How can you be intimate with an inanimate object? Various sex toys immediately come to mind. Still, what does this woman get back from the building?Affection? Compliments? Comfort? Hardly. Security and warmth? Maybe. Stability? Sure. She's been abandoned and disappointed by previous partners. Conflict and arguments are certainly out of the question in a building like this. Comfortable one-way communication? I stare into my now empty coffee cup, as if the answers lie somewhere at the bottom.

"Would you like anything else?" the salesperson behind the counter asks kindly. I reply with a question of my own:

"Tell me, that woman in the station hall; is she really here every day?"

"Well, whenever I work here, I see her. Only once was she absent for two days. When she came back, she asked me if

something had happened; she'd been ill and couldn't come".

I am surprised that she doesn't judge the woman at all. I was almost expecting a slanderous tone, and now I am ashamed.

"Why do you think this woman comes here so often?" I ask.

"She told me she was more comfortable here than at home.Well, she always looks so happy... I like working here too, but I also like going home at night." Still no disparagement in her voice, just a wink at her last words.

"So nobody cares about her or what she does?"

A shrug. "She doesn't hurt anyone. Sometimes she even shops here and we exchange a few pleasantries." Her eyes search and find the woman, who is now sitting by the wall fountain with a dreamy expression on her face. "I actually like her."

After clearing her plate, she wishes me a good journey and disappears behind the counter. Our conversation seemed over.

Three weeks later, my return journey takes me back to the Hundertwasser station. Once again, I had to wait - this time for a full ninety minutes. It's an unpleasantly long delay, but after my stay at the spa by the sea, nothing throws me off balance so easily. Thanks to meditation, craft evenings and walks. I greet the colorful mosaic columns on the platform almost like old friends. It feels so warm and familiar that I even briefly consider just leaving my luggage on the platform. But when I realize that I'll probably be the only person whose luggage has been stolen from this place in a hundred years, I abandon the idea. This time I take the spiral staircase to have a closer look at the wall fountain.As the lift is out

of order, the other eleven people who have got off also want to take the stairs - unlike me, they are in a hurry. Silently, clearly annoyed, they push past me, threateningly shaking my rucksack, suitcase and three extra bags of souvenirs and handicrafts.They're probably here more often than I am, and no longer have an eye for art. Maybe they never did. My path leads me back to the bakery bistro, where I have to share the living-room atmosphere with a family of five and an elderly couple.

They all communicate very loudly for various reasons, so I inevitably eat and drink faster and soon find myself back in the station hall. I briefly consider exploring the town, but with my poor sense of direction, I wouldn't be able to find my way back in time for the departure. Instead, I shuffle into the small souvenir shop next door. Scarves, ceramics, soaps, jewelers - everything can be sold as Hundert Wasser art. There are also postcards and books on display. I browse a bit, reading here and there. I also read about Hundert Wasser's aversion to straight lines, which is evident everywhere in this building and makes him attractive to me.

"So, are you back?"

I turn and look into reddened eyes.

"Have you seen it yet? I don't understand how this graffiti can make anyone happy!" She points to a black train of graffiti in the station concourse.

"Oh," I search for comforting words, "I'm really sorry about your... well, about the beautiful building." But she only seems more upset.

"I hope they clean it up soon!" I try to console her again. But my experience tells me that unwanted graffiti tends to stay.

The woman doesn't seem convinced either. "Maybe I'll just paint over it myself. That can't be against the law..." Her desperation made me uncomfortable. In my helplessness, I randomly grab an art card and put it next to the cash register.

"That's thirty." - Such an embarrassingly cheap way out that I quickly slip away with a "All the best".

So object love is not all that stable, I think to myself as I get back on the train. One can just come along and hurt the other. Whether it's a person or an object, we never seem to be able to protect our loved ones completely. I think of my neighbor who, years after her death from cancer, still mourns his wife. Or my father who, despite all our love, was crushed by the bullying of his superiors. What is certain?

I look at the art on my card for a while. I hear the train arriving in the distance and feel a tender connection with this woman who loves this little piece of earth with all her heart.

Souad Zakarani is a poet, writer and Literature-translator from Morocco. Her works have appeared in many Anthologies worldwide. Her poems, short stories, essays and articles can be read in a variety of international publications, including WELL READ Magazine, Hooligan Street Poetry, Revista Sofón, RESEARCH PLANET Journal, and others. In 2025, her poem “Weiß” is shortlisted for Ulrich Grasnik Lyrikpreis.

WeAre…

Mike Turner

We’re the ocean in a droplet

Abreath in deep blue skies

Awhisper in the murmuring wind

The love in a child’s eyes

Alight in deepest darkness

Contentment in a sigh

We’re the promise of all tomorrows

Each moment

For all time

Mike Turner, a poet/songwriter living on the U.S. Gulf Coast, was named 2025 Poet of the Year by the Alabama State Poetry Society. He has more than 475 poems published in over 100 curated literary journals/sites and anthologies; his original songs, recorded both by himself and other vocal artists, are streaming on Spotify, iTunes and YouTube. Mike’s poetry collection, Visions and Memories, is available on Amazon.

Geraniums

Nancy Dillingham

And geraniums in the window. Red ones.

—Marilynne Robinson

He remembers well seeing her just-washed hair— prematurely white— down for the first time spread over her shoulders like angels’wings the surprise in her green eyes her sweeping black lashes the bittersweet smell of geraniums wafting through the open window

when he kissed her— just once— on her mouth before everything went south

Still a blooming heart is stout with roots that never give out

Nancy Dillingham is coeditor of four anthologies of western North Carolina women writers. Her poetry collection Home was nominated for a SIBA. Her latest publications are the chapbooks Promise, Longing, and After Helene and No Time Like the Present: A Memoir in Essays, and Curves: Collected Stories. She lives in Asheville, NC.

AMidwinter Night’s Dream

Patricia Feinberg Stoner

Christmas Eve. In the little French village of Morbignan la Crèbe, Martha Patterson was checking lists.

Goose – yes: her husband Richard was on his way to collect the splendid bird ordered from the butcher in Bédarieux. Sprouts, carrots, chestnuts, potatoes for roasting, all prepared and waiting in the fridge. The pudding – Martha prided herself on her homemade Christmas puds – was sitting in the larder, gently reeking of cognac and awaiting its second boiling on Christmas morning. More cognac fumes wafted from the generous bowl of brandy butter in the fridge.

For those with stout appetites there would be mince pies and Christmas cake for later. Although fully integrated into their adopted French home, Martha and Richard Patterson liked to do Christmas the English way.

Martha was looking forward to tomorrow’s organised chaos. She and Richard would enjoy a quiet exchange of presents, then the traditional breakfast: smoked salmon, scrambled eggs and a glass of buck’s fizz to fortify them against the onslaught to come.

A MIDWINTER NIGHT’S DREAM

by Patricia Feinberg Stoner

Of the invited guests, Marie Claire and Gaston would arrive early, with Gaston’s daughter Jeannette and her husband Henry in tow, plus their toddler Marie Bernadette and their dog Useless. Bang on time would come James andAlex Carcenet, accompanied by Alex’s indomitable mother Betty. Bernard Durand and his wife Lili would make up the party.

Sure as eggs were little green apples, another knock on the door would come. One, or several, of the neighbours would drop in to wish them Joyeux Noël, and gaze wistfully at the happy group round the log fire, until invited to join them for a glass of pastis or, for the more adventurous, mulled wine. Eventually, as all the uninvited guests were shooed gently out of the door, the feast would begin.

Astamp of boots in the porch roused Martha from her musings.

‘That you, love?’ she called, as Richard made his way into the room, shrugging off his heavy overcoat. He was, she noticed, carrying a large brown paper bag; there seemed to be something moving inside it.

‘Oooh! Presents?’ Martha exclaimed, making a beeline for the bag.

‘No,’ said her husband, looking slightly bewildered. ‘I found this on the doorstep. It isn’t addressed to either of us. In fact, it isn’t addressed at all.’

‘Well then, let’s see what’s to do.’Martha plunged her hand into the bag, then jumped back with a yelp. ‘Something bit me!’ she said, sucking her finger. ‘You haven’t gone and got a puppy, have

you?’

‘Of course not,’ said Richard indignantly. ‘You know Visitor prefers to be an Only Dog. Let’s see what it is.’

Patterson turned the bag upside down and shook it gently. With a most un-Christmaslike oath a very small person tumbled out. He was dressed in a green suit with green and white striped stockings and a tall green woolly hat with a bobble on it.

‘Who on earth are you, where did you come from and what are you doing in my kitchen?’Patterson wanted to know. Martha was quicker on the uptake.

‘I know!’she said. ‘You must be one of Santa’s Little Helpers.’ The small person glared at her.

‘That job description is not only obsolete, it is demeaning. I am the Senior Assistant to the Deputy Chief Vice President (Seasonal Operations). You may call me Galadriel.’

‘Galadriel?’Martha and Richard exclaimed in unison.

‘What can I tell you? My mother was a Lord of the Rings fan.’

‘But,’ Martha began, wondering how to put this tactfully, ‘wasn’t Galadriel, er, female?’

‘Dear, dear, you really are behind the times,’said the elf crossly. ‘Such outmoded gender stereotypes have no place in this century. My pronouns, by the way, are itsElf and itsElfin.’

‘Yes, but why are you here? And how did you get here?’ said Martha.

‘Well, that’s quite a story,' said the elf. ‘I saw a brown paper bag on Santa’s table and I thought it might be my pizza from Deliveroo

A MIDWINTER NIGHT’S DREAM

by Patricia Feinberg Stoner

Gnome Service. I was hungry, so I climbed inside, but it only had a crummy old PlayStation in it. I was about to climb out again when someone (I name no names) grabbed the sack. I was whisked through the air and dumped into the sleigh before I could shout for help.’

‘I don’t wish to be rude,’ Richard Patterson butted in, ‘but how are you planning to get back?’

‘Back? I should coco. It’s cold up there, and there’s nothing to see but white outside, and a lot of stupid elves inside. Oh, and Santa’s great fat bum as he fiddles with…’

Here Martha gasped.

‘… his sleigh.’ The elf concluded, with a reproving look in her direction. ‘You’ve got a lovely fire going, and a great big sparkly tree. Might there be a present under it for me?’

‘There might not,’ said Richard firmly. ‘You and your boss are supposed to deliver presents, not get them.’

The elf’s shoulders slumped. His lower lip came out.

‘There, there,’ said Martha. ‘It is Christmas, after all. You can stay for a glass of mulled wine, but you must be gone before our guests get here. They wouldn’t understand.’

As if summoned by the words “mulled wine,” a peremptory knock was heard at the front door. Martha glanced at her watch with a worried expression. Now was not a time to entertain more guests. Her husband, meanwhile, was ushering in a tall, distinguished (if somewhat rotund) gentleman in impeccable evening dress. His white beard was groomed to perfection and his

eyes twinkled with appropriate merriment.

‘I do hope I’m not intruding,’said this apparition, ‘but I believe you have a young employee of mine here.’ His English was flawless, yet was there just a hint of something – perhaps Scandinavian? – in his accent.

The elf was doing his best to hide behindVisitor and the two cats on the hearth. Banjax swatted him away with a sleepy paw.

‘I’m not here’ he mouthed frantically at Martha, who ignored him.

‘A young employee?’said Richard Patterson. ‘If you are who I think you must be…’ the stranger bowed in acknowledgment ‘… then shouldn’t you be wearing a red suit and long black boots?’

‘Good gracious, dear boy,’ said Santa – for indeed it was he. ‘You don’t think I’d come calling in my work clothes? That would be most frightfully rude.’

‘Well, this will take some explaining,’ said Martha. ‘Come and sit by the fire and have a drink, and we can sort it all out.’

‘You brought me here, boss,’ said the elf. ‘You swept me up in that paper bag, and before I had time to say “Oi!” you’d dumped me in the sleigh, and the next thing I knew I was on these good people’s doorstep. And I have to say it’s a lot nicer here than up North.’

‘Why, what’s wrong with up North?’ Santa looked concerned. ‘Don’t we treat you properly? Meal breaks and time and a half for Sundays and so forth?’

A MIDWINTER NIGHT’S DREAM

by Patricia Feinberg Stoner

‘Yes, that’s all very well, but it’s boring up there. And it’s hard work too, all that stuffing X-boxes and Furbys into sacks, and the endless trudging back and forth, back and forth to Amazon since they’ve refused to deliver to the north pole.And the cold, don’t get me started on the cold…’

‘It does sound a little harsh,’said Martha sympathetically.

‘Yes, perhaps, but it’s only for a couple of months. And then there’s the long summer holiday to look forward to.’

‘I didn’t know they get a holiday,’Richard said.

‘Of course they do! This isn’t the dark ages. But I’d forgotten our friend here is very young – he only joined the team this year. He probably doesn’t know he gets a holiday. I’ll bet he signed his contract without reading it – they all do.’

Richard had a faraway look in his eyes that Martha knew all too well.

‘Now I wonder,’ he mused, ‘where Santa and the Elves go for their vacation?’

‘Mrs Claus and I prefer a quiet time in Europe, now we’re getting on a bit: we’ve got a nice little villa in Tuscany. But for the elves we always arrange a trip to somewhere warm. This year I believe they’re going to the Seychelles.’

‘The Seychelles?’ the elf pricked up his ears. ‘I’ve always wanted to go there.’

‘So, what’s it to be? Are you staying here with these good folk, or are you coming back to the north pole with me?’

‘Hang on, guv, I’ll get my hat!’

A MIDWINTER NIGHT’S DREAM

by Patricia Feinberg Stoner

Half an hour later Richard and Martha were sitting by the fire, a cat on each lap and Visitor asleep on Richard’s feet, discussing their strange encounter.

‘That’s one story we can never tell,’ Martha said. ‘Nobody would believe us. They’d think we’d taken leave of our senses.’

‘You’re right,’ her husband agreed, ‘it’s a story we can never tell. On the other hand…’

Martha smiled to herself. Soon her husband the poet would be reaching for his notebook.

‘I’ve got an idea for the poem,’ she said. ‘Why not call it A Midwinter Night’s Dream?’

She leaned forward in her chair. Richard did the same. Solemnly they high-fived.

Patricia Feinberg Stoner is an award-winning British writer, a former journalist, copywriter and publicist. She is the author of three humorous books set in the Languedoc, in the south of France - At Home in the Pays d’Oc, Tales from the Pays d’Oc and Murder in the Pays d’Oc - and also three books of comic verse. Her latest book is a collection of stories about the redoubtable Mrs Arbuthnot, now available from Amazon. You can find her on Facebook on her author's page - Paw Prints in the Butter – and in the writers' group Arun Scribes.

The Last Straw Saeed Ibrahim

The rich musical tones of the antique doorbell sounded once more in Prema Ramaswamy's drawing room as one more member arrived at her Book Club morning. Prema's thirty year old book club was one of Bangalore's oldest and most sought after book clubs with a select membership of well informed and well-to-do society women. The group met once a month in Prema's spacious and stylish home in Richmond Town, one of the few surviving remnants of the old colonial-style bungalows. With the city's fast changing architectural landscape her residence stood out prominently with its imposing front porch, stunning Tuscan pillars and unmistakable ‘monkey tops’ - pointed canopies covering a Mangalore tiled sloping roof.

The women present were getting a bit impatient as they waited for the two absent members to show up before the start of the proceedings.

“I don’t think either of them is coming today,” offered Mrs. Menon. “It’s no use waiting for them anymore.”

“Don’t tell me they have had another quarrel and don’t want to face each other or be seen together,” queried Mrs. Deshmukh with a knowing smile.

“Don’t you know? That is precisely what has happened. I have all the details from Mrs. Coutinho,” piped in Mrs. Singh smugly with the air of someone who is privy to information that is not known to others.

The assembled ladies turned to her with renewed interest as she continued, “Mrs. Coutinho was away for two weeks on a holiday

in Europe and she left her plants in Mrs. Chatterjee’s care to be watered and taken care of in her absence. It seems that on her return, Mrs. Coutinho found that all her plants had died and she is totally upset with Mrs. Chatterjee for her carelessness. Quite obviously the two are not talking to each other.” There was an audible sigh of resignation from the gathering and the book club meeting got underway.

Mrs. Alice Coutinho and her friend Mrs. Sonali Chatterjee had been neighbours for as long as they could remember and whilst their friendship had blossomed and flourished over the years, it had not been without its ups and downs, and its blow hot blow cold moments. Many in their circle of friends marvelled at the closeness they shared but wondered at the love-hate nature of their relationship as they fell out with each other at regular intervals, but then predictably made up again soon after.

During episodes when they were apparently not on talking terms, the two ladies passed the word around amongst their mutual friends about the reason for their discord and each presented her side of the story. But their friends knew better than to take sides, for they were confident that sooner or later the thaw would set in and it would

once again be business as usual. The fact was that their mutual dependence made it impossible for the two women to be at war with each other for too long, and yet their vastly differing natures made their periodic rows part and parcel of their existence.

Alice was a spare and sprightly woman in remarkably good shape for her 70 years. Having been a captain in the national women’s hockey team, she continued to exercise regularly and never used the lift to go up and down the stairs to her third floor apartment. She was meticulous in her habits and led a Spartan lifestyle, having stoically adjusted to her single status after losing her husband twenty years earlier. She was frank and outspoken and expressed her views freely about people whose habits she disliked or issues that she did not see eye to eye with. Often, she would openly criticise even her close friends in front of others making the latter feel uncomfortable and wondering what she said of them when they were not around.Wary of her caustic tongue, people had come to realise that it did not pay to get on her wrong side.

Alice’s neighbour Sonali, at 55, was a much younger woman, laid back and with an artistic temperament, dreamy and forgetful; some even called her slightly wacky. She dabbled in oil paintings which were at times quite impressive and gained her a lot of profit and praise at the annual art exhibition that she held at a local gallery. Her husband, a scholar and visiting professor, adored her, rarely got in her way when he was around (which was not often), and allowed her plenty of space.

Despite their different temperaments, a certain bond had been

created between the two women and they found comfort in the fact that they were there for each other when the occasion demanded. Alice would cat sit for Sonali when she and her husband were away and she also helped keep the accounts for the money earned from Sonali’s painting exhibitions. Sonali, for her part, was not herself fond of cooking but hired a cook who served up fairly decent meals. She knew that living on her own, Alice survived on snack type meals and she would often send up a particularly well prepared dish or one that she knew was one of Alice’s favourites. Sonali also accompanied Alice for her annual medical check-ups andAlice had given Sonali a spare key to her apartment to be used in case of an emergency.

Apart from these mutually beneficial arrangements, the odd spat occurred from time to time such as whenAlice hadn’t shown up for one of Sonali’s painting exhibitions and Sonali had felt slighted; or when Sonali had, without checking withAlice, allowed a friend to borrow one of Alice’s precious coffee table books and the book was never returned.

After the last incident of Alice’s withered plants, harmony and peace had somehow returned.Alice had obviously forgiven Sonali because the following month Sonali received a phone call from Alice.

“Hello Sonali, this is Alice. You know it is my birthday next Saturday and I am having a few friends over for cocktails. Please do come and join us. 7:30 should be fine.”

Sonali was overjoyed at the apparent patch up, “Thank you,

Alice. Of course, I will be there. Is there anything you would like me to bring along?”

“There’s nothing I need, Sonali. I have ordered everything from our usual caterer. Maybe you can just come and help me with the flower arrangements.”

Sonali arrived early, and with her usual flair decorated Alice’s living room with charming little arrangements from the flowers that Alice had ordered. The party was a grand success. Alice had made sure that there was a plentiful supply of wine and spirits and she had ordered a range of delicious snacks and short eats from a catering service she used occasionally. One of Alice’s friends had brought along a birthday cake and they all stood in a circle around her singing “Happy Birthday” as she tried to blow out the solitary candle stuck in the middle of her birthday cake. Despite several attempts the trick candle just wouldn’t get blown out. Everyone was in a jolly mood and there was much laughter and leg pulling all around. Vast quantities of wine and liquor were consumed and the snacks ordered by Alice were relished and quickly disappeared. Sonali was the last to leave. It was late at night when, tipsy and feeling quite

happy with the world at large, she staggered back to her own home and passed out on her living room sofa.

She woke up the following morning with a massive hangover. Still a bit disoriented, she reached out, as per her habit, for her smartphone to check her messages. She groped all around her but her phone was nowhere to be found. In vain she searched high and low and looked all over the house, her mobile was not there. She had almost given up on ever finding it again, when like a flash it struck her that maybe she had left her phone the previous evening inAlice’s kitchen whilst helping to refill the snacks and short eats. However, in her dishevelled state she was feeling too embarrassed to go and askAlice for her phone. The cobwebs seemed to clear as a brilliant plan formed in her mind. She knew that Alice always took an afternoon nap soon after her lunch, and she was going to use that to her advantage.

She quickly went up to the inner drawer of her cupboard and pulled out the spare key toAlice’s flat. Without bothering to check her appearance in the hallway mirror, she quickly ran up unannounced to her friend’s apartment, turned the key in the lock as noiselessly as possible and stealthily let herself in.Aquick dash into the kitchen and she would regain possession of her precious telephone and exit the apartment without detection. Or so she thought.

Sonali’s luck ran out that afternoon. Alice for some reason had not been able to sleep, and she sat up reading in her rocking chair in her bedroom. She thought she heard a sound coming from the

main door and felt the presence of someone walking towards her kitchen. She got up and went out to investigate, and let out a horrified scream as she saw Sonali retreating towards the front door clutching something in her hand.

Sonali had been caught red handed. She tried in vain to offer apologies and excuses, but Alice was in no mood to hear her explanations. For Alice this was the last straw and a permanent rupture loomed threateningly ahead.The minor disagreements that they had had in the past were nothing compared to this. A burglar type break-in, a flagrant invasion of her privacy, and a breach of her confidence and trust was something that Alice could neither stomach nor forgive. Her mind was made up.Things could never be the same again between them.

She, however, decided to remain calm and collected. Instead of confronting or remonstrating with Sonali, she decided on a non-combative approach. After a sheepish Sonali had left, Alice with a note of finality picked up her phone, called the locksmith and had him change the front door locks.

Saeed Ibrahim was educated at St. Mary’s High School and St. Xavier’s College in Mumbai, and later, at the University of the Sorbonne in Paris. He is the author of two books - “Twin Tales from Kutcch,” a family saga set in Colonial India, and a short story collection entitled “The Missing Tile and Other Stories.” His short stories have appeared in “The Blue Lotus Magazine,” “Borderless Journal,” “The Hooghly Review,” “Different Truths” “Lothlorien Poetry Journal” “Well Read Magazine” and elsewhere. His other writings include newspaper articles, travel writing, book reviews and two essays for the Museum of Material Memory. Both his books are available on Amazon platforms worldwide.

Illustrations by Indo-French artist, Danesh Bharucha

HELLO

WRITERS &ARTISTS

CALLFOR SUBMISSIONS IS OPEN!

*No prompts or themes - no boundaries*

WELL READ is looking for submissions from writers and artists who have stories to tell – through words and art. We combine new and established voices from diverse backgrounds and celebrate different perspectives. We want people who aren’t afraid to shake things up, speak their mind, and share their humanity.

Click here for SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

CLAIRE CONSIDERS

“The

Athlete Whisperer:An Improbable Voice in Sports”

byAndrea Kirby

Reviewed by Claire Hamner Matturro

Andrea Kirby, a groundbreaking female sports broadcaster and later a media coach for athletes, tells a fascinating, honest, and personal story of how she broke into sports reporting in 1971, when that field was still almost exclusively male. In her memoir, “The Athlete Whisperer:An Improbable Voice in Sports” (FriesenPress, 2025), Kirby tells her story with an engaging, confident voice— and sentences that grace the page with their fluid, natural rhythm. As her story of being a trailblazer as a female sports reporter is compelling, the fact that she tells it so well is an added bonus.

The memoir is full of respectful stories—interviewing big-name coaches like the legendary Paul “Bear” Bryant, covering games on live TV with “no mulligans,” revealing her love of sports, and offering personal glimpses into both her own life and that of the people who figure large in her story. She turned down Mike Tyson as a potential client of her media coaching business, was a colleague of a young, then unknown Oprah Winfrey, and befriended a woman who would later make dark history by committing suicide on air. When Kirby learned to surf in Hawaii, it was broadcast live

onABC as part of a lead-in to a surfing competition Kirby was covering for ABC’s “Wide World of Sports.” Through it all, she reminds readers that she loved a challenge.

Kirby had both positive and difficult dealings with athletes whose names even non–sports fans will recognize. She traveled from a small TV station in Sarasota to Baltimore, California, and New York. In 1977, ABC Sports hired Kirby as its first full-time female announcer, and soon she was traveling the globe on behalf of ABC’s “Wide World of Sports.” At a time when she was often ignored or told outright that she had no business in sports broadcasting, Kirby withstood uncooperative co-anchors, cameramen, and even outright sabotage.Yet she is no complainer—her memoir emphasizes the many people in sports who helped, mentored, and supported her. The tone throughout is respectful, sensitive, and uplifting.

Kirby was born in a part ofAlabama she describes as “tucked in the northwest corner of the state near Mississippi and Tennessee, [and] covered with pine trees as if hiding.” She recalls a charmed early childhood—though this would change with divorce and death—in which “every child ran free if she were so inclined.”After her parents split and then her father died, she and her siblings moved to Memphis, where she struggled with being an outsider. Later, she attended the University of Alabama, majoring in broadcast and TV journalism. After graduation, she took a job in broadcasting in Atlanta, met her future husband, married, and then, as she writes, “it was time to give up my first broadcast career for the

special one of being a mom.”

When her two children—Caroline and Gentry—were still quite young, Kirby found herself in Bradenton, Florida, as a divorced mom. She tells the next part of her story with disarming honesty, including how she used a bit of subterfuge (but only a little) to land a breakthrough job as a sports broadcaster at a startup television station in Sarasota, Florida. It wouldn’t be long before she was traveling from that small station to Baltimore, California, and New York.

From being a trailblazing network sports broadcaster, Kirby’s insight and empathy soon led her to create a wholly new field when she realized that professional athletes, especially younger ones, often struggled with media interviews. She was among a group of reporters interviewing a future NBA star when she noticed how stressed he was and how poorly he handled the questions. She observed that he “looked trapped and uncomfortable…as he squeaked out one- or two-word answers.”

Kirby recognized that the intense media attention was far outside this young man’s comfort zone—and that he was not alone. Perhaps this level of discomfort contributed to poor interviews that reinforced the “dumb jock” stereotype, she thought, even as a lightbulb went on. “Athletes would benefit from being confident, thoughtful, and collaborative with the media—a win-win for players and reporters. I could coach athletes to be great with the media.” Within months, her first media workshop took shape, and in 1984 Kirby launched not only a new career for herself but an en-

The Athlete Whisperer: An Improbable Voice in Sports by Andrea Kirby

tirely new field related to sports. She had wondered why no one else provided such a service—but as soon as she succeeded as a media coach for athletes, others soon followed.

Kirby’s fascinating story, told with warmth and insight, is also beautifully written with a distinct and authentic voice. It should come as no surprise that Kirby writes so well.As a broadcast journalist, her job involved more than just being on camera—she also wrote and edited copy and scripts.Those talents for getting quickly to the heart of the story and not wasting words are evident in her memoir. Written in clear, crisp sentences, “TheAthlete Whisperer” is an intelligent and engaging memoir from someone with a brave story to tell and who crafted a compelling and important book. It’s a pleasure to read “TheAthlete Whisperer.”

Andrea Kirby graduated from the University of Alabama in Radio & Television. A lifelong sports fan, she is partial to SEC football, big games in any sport, and hearing a great television broadcast team call a game. The perpetual tomboy plays an energetic game of tennis and a competitive game of duplicate Bridge. Kirby lives near her children and their multicultural families in Charlotte, NC.

Finding Inspiration in Unexpected Places

THE WRITER’S EYE

with Susan Beckham Zurenda and guest author, Karen Zacharias

Karen Zacharias and I live on opposite sides of the country, but from the moment we met a number of years ago (both being published by Mercer University Press at the time), I took an instant liking to her. Soon I was reading her work. I was deeply moved by her recent historical novel, No Perfect Mothers, based on the life of Carrie Buck, a victimized girl who became the plaintiff in the Supreme Court Case upholding the constitutionality of eugenicsinspired, forced sterilization. I’ve not yet read Karen’s newest book, The Devil’s Pulpit & Other Mostly True Scottish Misadventures, co-authored with her friend E.J. Wade, but I’m looking forward to these stories inspired by these friends’ wanderings through Scotland. In this month’s column, Karen tells us about another wandering that gave inspired her:

There were several warning signs on the 30-foot towering gates, the most ominous of which depicted a handgun and the promise that “We won’t call 9-1-1.” I had to translate it for my daughter: “That means they’ll shoot first then let you bleed to death.”

Most reasonable people would likely have hotfooted it back to their vehicles and sped out of the dead-end road, but disciplined writers are rarely disinclined from pursuing a good story due to threats from nebulous sources. Unrelenting curiosity must always override whatever fears torment a writer. Besides, nobody has ever accused me of being reasonable.

Weeks earlier, I stumbled upon the tale of The Temple of Oculus

Anubis the way I do so many of my stories - via the interminable internet rabbit hole. A writer may draw inspiration from common routines or uncommon adventures, and sometimes, as was the case for me on this day, from a single word. I was researching the word “creepy” when a picture of the entrance to the estate of Dr. Dean Neal of Damascus, Oregon, popped up. The ophthalmologist ran a popular eye clinic in which he made millions by defrauding insurance companies, much like Senator Rick Scott allegedly did when he was CEO of a health provider company in Florida.

By the time the State of Oregon got around to hauling Dr. Neal into court, he was dead and the monies he’d stolen had been funneled into his elaborate estate replete with the imposing iron gates and a troupe of massive Egyptian stone figures. So the state sentenced his son to jail instead, insisting that he had been his father’s accomplice.

It didn’t take long to find the goddess Sekhmet, given that she is taller even than the formidable gate with a lone eye glaring down at all those like my daughter and me who dare to defy the Don’t Trespass warnings. The Sekhmet statue is shrouded in part by a dense forest of evergreens and golden maples. Konnie and I crept along less than a quarter-of-a-mile before encountering the white stone statue with the lioness head crowned with a sun disk, representing Sekhmet’s birth from Ra, the Egyptian sun god. It’s hard to hide such a creature, especially one that’s 40-foot tall, even in an Oregon forest. But I’m not sure Dr. Neal really intended to hide anything. Sekhmet is just one of many Egyptian-

inspired statues around the Oculus estate. Dr. Neal placed these figures along enticing pathways, drawing those who trespassed closer to the property’s main house, much like Grimm’s fairytale of the witch that lured the lost Hansel and Gretel deeper into the woods. Or like any worthy writer ought to do when bewitching a reader to dive deeper into a book, white-knuckled and breathless until the, hopefully, satisfactory end.

Konnie and I stood staring up at the commanding presence wondering what many who’ve trespassed before us have wondered: Did Dr. Neal belong to some whacko cult? This is Oregon after all, home to Heaven’s Gate, the religious movement inspired by Haley’s Comet. Dozens of otherwise intelligent and educated people packed up their bags and moved to the Oregon coast in 1997 in order to catch the comet into the afterlife. And don’t even get me started on Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, the Indian mystic who took over the town of Antelope, Oregon, just up the road a’piece from where I now sit writing to you.

Turning, I walked under a canopy of shimmering yellow leaves. Tempted by the blue skies and brilliant sun overhead, I was sure no harm could come to us in such enchanting woodlands. I walked onward.

Until Konnie called out: “MOM!”

She’d read the online stories suggesting that occult activities were practiced on the grounds. While she had been all eager for an adventure only a half-hour earlier, she’d seen enough. Her husband works as a jail nurse. She had no desire for either of us to end up

incarcerated.

Or worse, missing in a bewitched forest. We hotfooted it back to the gates and to the car, breathless and laughing at our daring adventuresome spirits. The way readers want to feel whenever they’ve read a really dazzling bookspellbound.

Karen Spears Zacharias is an American writer whose work focuses on women and justice. She holds an MA in Appalachian Studies from Shepherd University and an MA in Creative Media Practice from the University of the West of Scotland. She lives at the foot of the Cascade Mountains in Deschutes County, Oregon, where she volunteers with the League of Women Voters. Zacharias taught First-Amendment Rights at Central Washington University and continues to teach at writing workshops around the country.

“This story is important because it is history that isn’t history—women still don’t have sovereignty of their reproductive rights. This story is propulsive because it gives us a character to root for. This story is memorable because of Zacharias’s command of language and insight into human nature. No Perfect Mothers is a book that provides all the pleasures of a great novel and then some.”

—BethAnn Fennelly,

author of Heating & Cooling: 52 Micro-Memoirs

No Perfect Mothers Karen Spears Zacharias

2-year/60-hour Program

Study One-on-One withAward-Winning Writers

Online Courses

Learn from Home

3 Writing Residencies

3 Entry Points to Start in the Program

Beautiful Rural Campus Nestled in the Etowah Valley (550+ acres)

Nestled in the shadow of Pine Log Mountain for the perfect writing experience, the Etowah Valley is a bridge betweenAtlanta and theAppalachian South, where nature meets culture. At Reinhardt University’s Etowah Valley Master of Fine Arts (MFA) Low-Residency Program writers create a literature that is story-driven and grounded in the places where we live, whether rural or urban.

Each summer, students visit our beautiful campus in North Georgia for a 10-day intensive residency to be immersed in writing daily writing workshops, craft classes, experiential excursions into natural and urban environments, and nightly readings on campus from our visiting writers. Our students travel from all over the United States to attend the summer residency to learn from some of the finest writers. In doing so, they embody a unique mixture of cultural traditions and lifestyles.Amid the thrivingAtlanta film scene and Southern environmentalism, we believe in the art of storytelling that develops voice and meaning to the individual artist.

For more information, visit the MFA website or contact the MFA director, William Walsh, at bjw@reinhardt.edu

Core Faculty:

Anjali Enjeti (creative non-fiction/fiction)

Southbound: Essays on Identity, Inheritance, and Social Change The Parted Earth

Jessica Handler (creative non-fiction/fiction) The Magnetic Girl Invisible Sisters

Soniah Kamal (fiction)

An Isolated Incident Unmarriageable

Donna Coffey Little (poetry/fiction) Fire Street

Wofford’s Blood

Michael Lucker (screenwriting)

Crash! Boom! Bang! How to Write Action Movies Rule One

Past Visiting Writers:

Laura Newbern (poetry)

Love and the Eye A Night in the Country

Gray Stewart (fiction) Haylow

Megan Volpert (poetry/creative non-fiction)

Why Alanis Morissette Matters Boss Broad

William Walsh (poetry/fiction)

Haircuts for the Dead Fly Fishing in Times Square

John Williams (fiction/creative non-fiction) End Times

Monroeville and the Stage Production of To Kill a Mockingbird

Adrian Blevins, Daniel Black, David Bottoms, Richard Blanco, Earl Braggs, Jericho Brown, Annemarie Ni Churreáin, Denise Duhamel, Stephen Dunn, Pam Durban, Alice Friman, Anthony Grooms, Beth Gylys, Ann Hite, Kristie Robin Johnson, Andrea Jurjević, John Lane, Ellen Malphrus, Reginald McKnight, Christopher Noel, Robert Olmstead, Janisse Ray, Megan Sexton, George Singleton, Sharon Strange, Chika Unigwe, Monica Lee Weatherly

I’m an indie author of two short story collections – Walking the Wrong Way Home and Sharp as a Serpent’s Tooth – Eva and Other Stories, and a novella, Oliver. I’m the editor and designer of WELL READ Magazine’s Best of 2023, and Best of 2024 anthologies, the Encounters With Nature anthology, and coeditor of The Best of the Shortest: A Southern Writers Reading Reunion. I’m also a freelance writer for Amelia Islander Magazine, and the Editor in Chief and Publisher of WELL READ MAGAZINE.

I’ve learned so much about formatting, interior design, cover design, and self-publishing since my first short story collection came out and oddly enough, I’ve had fun doing it! But it can be frustrating and overwhelming trying to figure it all out on your own. I’d like to use what I’ve learned to help you.

Whether you’re thinking of self-publishing, querying agents or small presses, I can get your manuscript ready to send out without costing a fortune or waiting for months for a finished product.

Cover Design Pricing starts at $250 - Price include covers for both your print and ebook with unlimited tweaks until it’s perfect. See the next page for a few examples of covers I’ve created.

Interior formatting - $1 per page, $2 per page if edits will be needed. Photos and/or images included in your manuscript - $2 each

Professional Critique - $2 per page

For more information, click here, or contact me at mandy@mandyhaynes. com for a free consultation.

You come to the city because your passion called you here. Whatever that passion may be. That thing you love. And you wander out into the streets searching for a place to pull up a stool, order a drink, chat with the bartender about all things divine.

Welcome to God On The Rocks. Serving up great drinks and soulful conversations since time began.

I’m looking for Authors Interviewing Authors and would love to shine a spotlight on your favorite Independent Bookstores, Book Sellers, Libraries, and Librarians.

These pages are a great way to let readers know who you are and they are FREE.

Send orders for ads, interviews, or the stories mentioned above, as well as any questions about the magazine to:

A monthly column that takes us off the page and into the

TheAzalea in the Junkyard

For the last twenty years I have been a college English professor, and one of the courses I teach semester after semester is the infamous English 1102, also known as the castor oil of English classes; you take it because it is good for you. I try to make it as painless as possible—the students don’t call me Kindly Old Mr. Atkins for nothing—but this is a state-mandated course that every college student must complete before moving on. For 16 weeks each fall or spring, students learn how to conduct and present research in a (hopefully) objective and correctly formatted manner, and by the end of the course they are then prepared to write all of the subsequent research papers they will be required to produce in their other college courses. I will never forget the conversation I had early in my career with a struggling student about the necessity of the course.

Struggling Student: I want to be a doctor! Why do I even have to take this?

Kindly Old Mr.Atkins: Because the Governor said so.

One of the topics we spend a good deal of time exploring is that of identifying bias. Students are taught that all sources of

information are inherently biased, sometimes intentionally and sometimes not, and that it is their job to identify this spin and to account for it. To help clarify this concept for them—and you—I tell them about the azalea in the junkyard. Way back in an earlier life I was a mechanic, and one day while I was combing a junkyard for a starter for a ’63 Chevy Impala, I came across the most beautiful azalea bush I have ever seen. As I tell my students, if I had taken a picture of just that amazing bush and posted it on Facebook with a caption implying a pastoral setting, no one would ever know that I was actually standing in the middle of a sea of wrecked and rusting cars. Of course, we didn’t have Facebook back then, and young mechanics didn’t actually carry cameras, but the point I am making for my students is that where you don’t point the camera is just as important as where you do.

These days most students do their fact-finding online, and there is nothing wrong with that. Most non-students do as well, me included. The knowledge of the ages is literally at our fingertips, and each of us has the equivalent of the Library of Congress right there in our back pocket. Well, I don’t, but the rest of you do; I still have my old trusty flip phone, but if it ever quits working, I, too, will secure my own personal librarian in the form of a smart phone. Believe it or not, though, this ease of access is one of the impediments to successful research. In this age of information overload, we are awash with facts, opinions about facts, opinions about opinions, wild speculation, and just plain utter nonsense, but to the untrained eye these all seem to bear the same weight when

they show up as the results of a Google search.

When I wrote this essay, the recent government shutdown was in its 25th day. I Googled that, and in less than a second I had 247,000 results. From those I looked at the first ten. Four of those potential sources of information seemed to lean Left and were of the opinion that the shutdown was due to Republican intransigence. Five of my top ten seemed to bear to the Right and were written from the point of view that the shutdown was caused by Democrats who were not willing to compromise. The final one was just crazy nonsense, but, and here is the key takeaway, all of them were presented as “news” and all carried the same weight in my search engine.

This is where Confirmation Bias comes in. Confirmation Bias is the tendency to favor information that supports your existing beliefs while ignoring or dismissing evidence that contradicts them. It’s a common psychological phenomenon that affects how we gather, interpret, and remember information. In the above example, if you are a liberal Democrat, you have found “facts” to back your position, and if you are a conservative Republican, you have done so as well. Where is the actual truth of the matter? Well, that is sort of tricky. The truth is buried up in all of it—even the crazy one, which provides context—and to be well-informed, you must look at all of it.Then, from all of that, you must arrive at your own personal truth.

You can’t just look at the azalea bush. You must look at the junkyard, as well.

Mandy Haynes, Editor-in-Chief, Designer, Publisher, & Founder

Mandy Haynes is the author of two short story collections, Walking the Wrong Way Home, Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth Eva and Other Stories, and a novella, Oliver. Her stories have appeared in several anthologies and literary journals. She is the editor and designer of Encounters with Nature, a collaboration ofAmelia Island Writers and Artists, The WELL READ's Best of 2023 anthologies, and also the co-editor of The Best of the Shortest: A Southern Writers Reading Reunion.

Raymond L.Atkins, Contributing Editor for OFF THE PAGE

Raymond L. Atkins resides in Rome, Georgia, on the banks of the Etowah River in an old house with a patient wife and a lazy cat. His hobbies include people-watching, reading, and watching movies that have no hope of ever achieving credibility. His first novel, The Front Porch Prophet, was published in 2008 and was awarded the Georgia Author of the Year Award for First Novel. Camp Redemption, was awarded the Ferrol Sams Award for Fiction and the 2014 Georgia Author of the Year Award for Fiction. Sweetwater Blues was a Townsend Prize nominee, the 2015 GeorgiaAuthor of the Year runner-up for fiction, and the 2016 selection for One Book, Many Voices. South of the Etowah, his first creative non-fiction book, was released in 2016. It was nominated for a Push-cart Prize and was the 2016 GeorgiaAuthor of theYearAward runner-up for essay. In 2017, he was awarded the Lifetime Achievement Award by the Georgia Writers Association.

Robert Gwaltney, Contributing Editor for INSIDE VOICES

Robert Gwaltney, award winning author of southern fiction, is a graduate of Florida State University. He resides in Atlanta Georgia with his partner, where he is an active member of the Atlanta literary community. Robert’s work has appeared in such publications as The Signal Mountain Review and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. His debut novel, The Cicada Tree, won the Somerset Award for literary fiction. In 2023, Gwaltney was named Georgia Author of the Year for first novel.

Meet the staff

Ann Hite, Contributing Editor for MOUNTAIN MAGIC

In September of 2011 Gallery, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, published Ann Hite’s first novel, Ghost on Black Mountain. In 2012 this novel was shortlisted for the Townsend Prize, Georgia’s oldest literary award. In the same year, Ghost on Black Mountain won Hite Georgia Author of the Year. She went on to publish four more novels, a novella, memoir, and most recently Haints On Black Mountain: A Haunted Short Story Collection from Mercer University Press. In December 2022, Haints On Black Mountain was one of ten finalist for the Townsend Prize. The collection was a Bronze Winner in Foreword IndieAward 2023 and GeorgiaAuthor of the Year Second Place Winner for Short Stories 2023. Ann received a scholarship to the Appalachian Witers Workshop Hindman Settlement in the summer of 2020 and was invited back in 2021. Her passion for history influences all her work.

Jeffrey Dale Lofton, Contributing Editor for INSIDE VOICES

Jeffrey Dale Lofton hails from Warm Springs, Georgia. His years telling the stories of playwrights and scriptwriters as a stage and screen actor taught him the pull of a powerful story arc. Today, he is Senior Advisor at the Library of Congress, surrounded by books and people who love them. Red Clay Suzie is his debut novel, a fictionalized memoir written through his lens—gay and living with a disability—in a conservative family in the Deep South. It was longlisted for the 2023 Center for Fiction First Novel Prize and awarded the Seven Hills Literary Prize for Fiction, among other distinctions.

Dawn Major, Contributing Editor for TRIPLIT with D Major

Dawn Major’s debut novel, The Bystanders, was named finalist for 2024 GeorgiaAuthor of the Year for Best First Novel. Major is an associate editor at Southern Literary Review and advocates for southern authors via her blog, Southernread. Her literary awards include the following: the Dr. Robert Driscoll Award, Reinhardt University’s Faculty ChoiceAward, and the James Dickey Review Literary Fellowship. Major is a member of the William Gay Archive and has edited and helped publish the works of the late author. She serves on the board for Broadleaf Writers Association and is also a member of M’ville, anAtlanta-based artist salon. Major lives in the Old Fourth Ward inAtlanta, GA and is working on her next novel, The Dandy Chronicles.

Claire Hamner Matturro , Contributing Editor for CLAIRE CONSIDERS

Claire Hamner Matturro is a former attorney, former university writing instructor, avid reader, and the author of seven novels, including four published by HarperCollins. Her poetry appears in various journals including Slant and Lascaux Review. She is an associate editor ofThe Southern LiteraryReview and lives happily in Florida with her cross-eyed rescued black cat and her husband.

Annie McDonnell, Contributing Editor forANNIEASKS

Founder of The Write Review Literary Community, Podcaster, Book Reviewer, Author Consultant and Matchmaker. She also teaches workshops on top of all of this!Annie has been introducing us to books and authors since 2006, when she began reviewing books for Elle Magazine. Proud Stiff Person Syndrome Warrior, and several other illnesses.

Susan

Beckham Zurenda, Contributing Editor for THE WRITER’S

EYE

Susan Beckham Zurenda taught English for 33 years on the college level and at the high school level toAP students. She is author of the award-winning Southern literary novel, Bells for Eli, and the recipient of numerous awards for her short fiction, including the South Carolina Fiction Awards, twice. Her second novel, The Girl From the Red Rose Motel (Mercer University Press, September 2023), was the recipient of the 2024 Patricia Winn Award in Southern Fiction, Gold Medal winner in the 2024 IPPY Awards for Southeast Fiction, a 2024 Pushcart Prize nominee, a Shelf Unbound 2023 Notable 100 books, and a finalist in theAmerican Book FestAwards. Susan lives in Spartanburg, SC.

Junebug Fischer by

Mandy Haynes

Junebug Fischer will be ninety-six come June. She's ready to set the record straight and let you know what really happened the summer she turned fifteen. It’s true, she killed someone, but she never killed nobody on purpose. That was purely accidental.

“I don’t know what caused me to shoot the arrow. I didn’t think about it. I just did it. Was it fear or was it pride?”

5.0 out of 5 stars One of the most compelling story/book writers in America.

“Outstanding book. Intelligent, and yet creative, in the best sense of the word. The story/book keeps you engaged right up until the final page. Great, great book!!!”

5.0 out of 5 stars Will leave you wanting more!

“Junebug Fischer is the kind of strong, feisty young lady hero we love, and Mandy's writing of her story draws you in from the start. You'll feel like you're sitting on that porch with her, and I guarantee you'll want more. Her characters come to life in all of her stories, and I recommend you read everything Mandy has written, and will write! You won't be disappointed.”

5.0 out of 5 stars A Southern Voice to Remember

“There's an echo of 'To Kill a Mockingbird' in the voice of the central character here, and I mean that as a high compliment. You'll like her after the first two sentences and root for her the rest of this short but powerful book. I don't want to give anything away. Buy it and read for yourself. 5 stars.”