GREAT writers --A

 Aislynn Jamison Campbell has 6,500 Facebook followers and is active on several social media platforms. Follow her on Facebook.

Who do you think you are?

I am called. 

Called to the earth.

Called to the table.

Called to speak up.

Called to community.

Called out.

Called to feel.

Called to stay. 

Called to heal.

Called to grow.

Called to listen.

Called to sow.

Called to faith.

Called to break rules.

Called to make rules.

Called to learn.

Called to play.

Called to share.

Called to observe.

Called to be the change.

Called to live. 

My name is Aislynn and I was called to lead. 

What is calling?

Facebook

X

Instagram

Linked In

You Tube

 Alan Berecka was the Poet Laureate of Corpus Christi from 2017 - 2019. His work has appeared in numerous publications. More about Alan at the end of this section

the next time the universe and time conspire 

to bring you back to work in Waco at that library 

run by that maniacal director with an iron fist, 

the woman who fired your predecessor the day

he closed on his house, the woman who just put 

into policy a draconian measure—a ten dollar fine 

for each library item that sets off our anti-theft system—

accident or not—please be smart enough to ask 

the first kid with accidently bagged books for his ID 

before you explain the new policy. This simple act 

will keep that look of hope from suddenly forming 

on the his face just before he runs through the giant 

loophole you provided and out the front doors.

Note to my future self, if you see

the wily and wispy kid take off,

do not chase after him, or, if 

in the white heat of the moment,

you feel you must, please remember

you are now a middle-aged couch potato;

your soccer playing days are long,

long in the past, so do not attempt

to vault over the circulation counter;

it will not work, and your foiled attempt

will give the escaping kid a healthy

and unneeded head start.

Note to my future self, cinch up your belt

before you bolt through the library’s doors;

your dress pants have gotten a bit too small

and will work their way down your ample

sumo-sized hips with each ponderous stride, 

so just as you begin to gain on the fugitive 

and reach the brick stairs near the main fountain 

on campus, you won’t find yourself running 

on the inside of the knees of your falling britches, 

so you will not learn that tripping down brick steps 

can shred skin on exposed knees and elbows,

nor will you learn that pain and the sight of blood 

will kick in even more adrenaline as you tumble 

out of your literally half-assed Aikido roll.

Note to my future self, do not vocalize

your anger. Yelling at the top of your lungs,

“You better run you son of a bitch,

because if I catch you, by God I’ll kill you,”

will not encourage a book thief to stop.

So you will chase him through parking lots,

as he hides and crawls beneath parked cars

in an attempt to get away, until in total 

desperation he begins to sprint down 

the middle of the busiest street in town.

Note to my future self, you are about to learn

you have exercise-induced asthma.

Your past athletic career, poor as it was, 

was a minor miracle. It wasn’t a lack 

of conditioning that kept you winded 

during games. You should see a doctor 

about your lungs years before this fit sets in, 

so the rescue inhaler you now so badly need 

will be in your pocket when you find yourself 

gasping for air miles from the library.

Note to my future self, this time as you find 

yourself wallowing in defeat as you limp 

and wheeze your way back to campus 

and that homeless guy with the concerned look

stops you to say. “Hey pal, I think you need this 

more than I do,” as he extends a dirt caked hand

that opens to reveal a Halls metho–lyptus cough drop 

in a graying wrapper covered in what might be 

hair and pocket fuzz, accept his gracious offer. 

It will make both of you feel better. 

Note to my future self, when you make it back

to campus, do not return to the library,

for you will never be able answer, 

“What the hell were you going to do

if you caught him?” and no matter what 

you do from that day forward, in Waco

you will forever be known as the psycho 

librarian who nearly killed himself chasing

after a couple of cheap paperbacks.

Instead, go straight to your car, drive home,

apologize to your wife and kids,

and contemplate a career change.

read more like this in Corpus Christi Writers 2020

“He needs to find a job.”

My boozy mother’s voice

echoed throughout 

our cabin-sized house

as she worked at the stove

frying breaded pork chops.

“What the hell for? We ain’t broke”

My father home from his shift

at the sheet metal shop,

covered in sweat and grime

sat in the kitchen unlacing 

his Redwing high tops, his beer 

sweating a ring to his side

as it waited on the table.

“It’ll be good for him.

He’s not doing a damn thing

this summer, let him learn

some responsibility?” “Stella,

I’ve been working like a dog 

since I was fourteen. It ain’t taught

me didley about squat yet.” “Albert

it’s time he does some growing up.”

“Stella, he’s got one year of school

left. Let him enjoy it. He’ll be working

the rest of his life. Three months

flipping burgers can’t buy anything 

better than time.” She let the argument 

drop. I sat on my bed, book in hand, 

smiling, grateful for the reprieve.

My friend Pete Merkl’s dad sold copiers. 

A salesman’s salesman, the old man’s smile 

could turn any stranger into a friend. 

His patter was so smooth he could smooze 

a Temperance Leaguer into a booze 

of the month subscription. I asked 

him once why he plied his trade

selling inferior products. He told me,

“Alan, a Xerox can sell itself, but it takes

a real pro to sell an A B Dick copier.”

read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2019

How far can a fog lift

before it becomes a cloud?

Whatever it was, it hung

above the causeway,

a few feet above each car

and truck, as we drove

over the shallow end

of the Gulf, consumed

with the needs

of our daily commute.

I noticed how the gulls

and pelicans disappeared

diving up into the thickness

but thought little of it, until

I rounded the long curve

near the final exit,

and there it hung

like a shroud, completely

obscuring the upper two-thirds

of the Harbor Bridge.

While being pulled along

by the constant traffic,

I watched the countless

sets of tail lights

ascending into obscurity,

taking on faith that beyond

it still lies the bridge

into the city of Corpus Christi.

copyright Alan Berecka 

Buy on Amazon. From the cover: Berecka's commedia is not so much divine as it is deeply human-a retrospective poetic, accompanied by a wince and a grin. Scott Cairns Author of Compass of Affection: Poems New & Selected Alan Berecka probes his blue collar roots with honesty and insight, depicting, with haunting detail and striking imagery, everything from family members who "smell of cabbage and onions" to the love "that pins us down." Ranging in tone from the elegiac to the hilarious, these impressive poems shimmer with craftsmanship, the work of a poet who takes his art seriously, who works the jagged stones of his poems until they sparkle on the page like faceted gems. Larry D. Thomas 2008 Texas Poet Laureate The hardest task of a serious writer is to be able to write funny, but Alan Berecka not only does this, he does it brilliantly. These are laugh­-out-loud funny poems on child abuse and alcoholism, profanity and prayer, via some of the most unlikely subjects: the Pope's T-shirt, the Beatles' appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show, Carl Yastrezmski, Jiffy Pop popcorn, Playboy magazine. These poems will both break your heart and alter your vision; I guarantee you will never look at the world in quite the same way again. Barbara Crooker Author, Line Dance and Radiance Berecka embraces the "flaw" without a hint of resignation-never hesitating to administer the sacrament of laughter where others might erect a wall of ridicule. This collection is a Eucharist, beginning to end. Bread and wine have their place; but the sacramental elements might just as well be baseball, popcorn, t-shirts, a puzzled Pope responding to a phrasebook reference to lost luggage-or the poet's old man flipping a bird. He has an uncanny ability to sense the presence of God in such acts, and that is a welcome invitation to take our shoes off and get comfortable on this holy ground we share. Steven Schroeder Virtual Artists Collective  

 Buy The Hamlet of Stittville on Amazon.  "There is much ado about monkey in Berecka and Klossner’s poignant and humorous search for meaning in The Hamlet of Stittsville. It’s monkeys all the way down, with Shakespearian commentary on current politicalevents mixed with the deep, personal observation we’ve come to expect in Berecka’s work. Klossner’s art offers both counterpoint and reflection in Berecka’s tongue-in-cheek universe. Together they pack a knock-out punch that will, for an infinite moment, take our minds off the baloney of our political present and give us the comical perspective necessary to enjoy our dawning days. L.A. Times Bestselling Author Stephen Jay Schwartz Alan Berecka starts with a wily premise of infinite monkeys, infinite typewriters, and time. But the monkeys are us and time is running out as sad little monkeys continue to ring the bell, hoping for a banana. And we all know what the definition of insanity is..." 

Alan Berecka was the poet laureate of Corpus Christi from 2017-2019. He is the author of five books of poetry, the latest A Living is Not a Life: A Working Title (2021, Black Spruce Press) which explores the concept of work was a finalist in the Hoffer Awards. His poetry has appeared in such journals and web sites as The Christian Century, The Concho River Review, The Texas Review, The Texas Poetry Assignment and The Main Street Rag.   He earned his living for many years as librarian at Del Mar College in Corpus Christi. In January 2023, he finally lived long enough to put down the date due stamp and retire. He and his wife Alice reside in Sinton, Texas where they raised their now two adult children.

Ali Ko is an Executive Producer at Art Gallery Productions. More on Ali at the end of this section.

This photo is representative of an idea I had about selfies being artifacts, not of narcissism and vanity of which they are charged, but of self-introspection and feminine control of female perception. I believe that the millions of cell cameras in young girls' hands, will one day result in women becoming photographers, filmmakers, visual artists, etc. en masse. Women then would be able to create their own image and not be culturally governed by the male gaze, which reduces women to objects, who may be muses but not authors of their own art and expression. One day, we will experience full autonomy, in this neo-patriarchal society, but that can only happen when we, as women, have taken back our own representation.

copyright Ali Ko

Ali Ko is an Executive Producer at Art Gallery Productions. She studied at the NYU Tisch School of the Arts. A graduate of NYU Film School, she worked in production and post-production in New York. Presently she lives in Miami . LEARN MORE.

Alisa Hope Wagner is an award-winning author, editor and publisher of over 20 books.

Devon jumped from the final step of the city bus. He didn’t care what the other passengers thought about his childish gesture. He had waited for this day most of his life. He had achieved something his family had never accomplished. He had graduated from college. In a few days, he would walk the stage and take hold of his best life, but first he had a promise to keep.

He looked around at the tall buildings of the city. When he was a boy, the important sidewalks and bustling buildings jeered at him. Now, the sidewalks would bow, and buildings would stand at attention. His mother had worked in the city all his life, cleaning rooms of elegant hotels with their ballrooms and swimming pools. Hotels never closed. Suits still worked and vacationers still played.

And his mother had cleaned until she became worn and sick.

Once, when he was eight years old, he came to the city with her on a school holiday. She pointed out a man who wore a sleek grey suit with leather shoes and a felt hat. He looked like he belonged in the city, and Devon felt out of place in his jeans, t-shirt and tennis shoes. 

“You see that man?” his mom asked.

“Yes, Mamma,” he answered, noticing that the hotel seemed to lean away from the man in awe.

“He’s a businessman. You can be like him someday, but you have to get your college degree. Do you understand?”

The boy quickly moved his gaze from the businessman to his mother’s serious stare. He felt the weight of her words, and they dropped into his soul like handfuls of acorn seeds that scattered the dusty ground of his school’s playground. He nodded solemnly and stared back at the man in the suit. He was stepping into a shiny SUV. “I like his hat, Mama. When I become a businessman, can I get a hat like his?”

His mother gently nudged her calloused finger into the backpack he held. “You can get any hat you want. I overheard him asking the concierge where he could purchase a nice felt hat. They sent him to the hat shop only a few blocks from the hotel. It has been there for almost a hundred years, and it has many hats to choose from. The hats from that shop are very well made, yet very expensive. I’ll take you there after work, and you can look through the windows. Would you like that?”

The boy nodded his head fervently. 

“Okay,” his mom said, standing. “Now we must go. I can’t punch in late.”

Tension stole Devon’s childhood memory, as the shadow of the hotel fell across the section of city where the bus let him out. He could have gotten off at the next stop and been closer to the hat shop, but he needed the hotel to take note. Devon levelled his chin and puffed out his chest while swinging his arms and legs in long, purposeful strides. The next time that hotel saw him, he would have a college degree in his hands, not a ratty, old backpack. 

As Devon reached the windows of the hat shop, he hesitated. He had never walked into the window-framed image of fashionably flaunted hats before. The scene seemed to him more of a painted illusion, but it would momentarily become a firsthand reality. A sun-faded sign that read, “Selling Hats for 100 Years,” winked at him from one of the glass-pained sections of the door. He promptly groped for the bills in the right pocket of his slacks. He worked on campus to supplement the scholarships and grants he had received. Each month, he’d save every crumb of coinage that fell at his table. Finally, he exchanged the scraps of cash for five fresh Benjamins rolled up like brass knuckles in his pocket ready to break the ceiling of lack over his life.

He could have waited until his first paycheck to secure his hat. The college career services helped him receive a paid internship with a bank thanks to his minor in finance, but paychecks were for practical things, like rent and food. This purchase, however, was a declaration to the universe that his will would rewrite the unfolding scroll of time. He would buy the businessman’s felt hat and walk the sidewalks that once shooed him away. Then busy buildings would open their arms to him, but only a hat from this shop would do. His mom had said so, and she stressed that they were expensive. Determinedly, Devon grabbed the curved brass door handle of the shop and stepped inside. 

Devon’s skin soaked up the smells of the hat shop, absorbing the aromas of wealth and affluence. If ever he designed his own cologne, it would smell like this moment, and he would douse his suit daily in its self-assured essence. An elderly man appeared next to him, and his smile stretched across his aged cheeks into his wrinkled eyes. “My name is Eleazar, but my customers and friends call me Ellie. I am the owner of this hat shop. It has been in my family for over a century. I can see that you are a young man in need of a good hat, and I am ready to assist you in that endeavor. Our hats are each hand-made with the finest natural materials. You will not find better workmanship with more integrity on this side of the continent.” 

The intimidation Devon had unknowingly carried into the hat shop dissolved, and he withdrew his right hand from his pocket of money and offered it to Mr. Ellie, the hat shop owner. He had never questioned the cost of the hats. His mom had said that they were the best, and he took her convictions by faith. However, the shop owner’s statement of quality added a measure of assurance to his acquisition. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ellie. My name is Devon DeWitt, and I just earned my college degree. I’m here to purchase a felt hat, so I can begin my career in the city.”

The old shop owner took Devon’s hand into his calloused palm and gave it a few good shakes. Something about his fingers reminded Devon of his mother, and he knew more than ever that he was meant to be there. The rest of his life began here, and suddenly, the weight of his momentary choice fell on him like four years of learning squeezed into a single, dense second. The rows of arranged hats called out to him, and the five-hundred-dollar bills in his pocket burned. Perspiration gathered on his forehead, and an image of staining his new felt hat with sweat stabbed his chest with fear. 

The old shop owner seemed to notice the change in Devon’s countenance, and he nodded with understanding. Then he placed his calloused hand on Devon’s shoulder and peered into his anxious expression. “Don’t you worry one bit,” the old owner affirmed. “I’ll help you find the right fit and hat. I’ve been helping my customers for a very long time. There are indeed many hats to choose from and lots of styles and colors to consider, but we can whittle down the choices a great deal once I get your size and you tell me what you are looking for.” 

An air of relief filled Devon’s lungs and his heavy chest lifted lightly. “Mr. Ellie, I’m looking for a felt hat, and when I see it, I will know.”

The old shop owner gave a meaningful nod. “I believe you will. Here,” he said, as a measuring tape unfurled from his fingers. “Let me measure you for the perfect fit.”

Devon leaned his head forward. He hadn’t noticed the measuring tape in the shop owner’s hand, but he was an expert hat maker and knew what he was doing. Devon felt Mr. Ellie place the tape’s end above his left ear and wrap the length of it around the circumference of his head just across his eyebrows. Then he released the loose end and pinched the tape at the right measurement. 

“Yep, just what I thought, but I wanted to be sure. Now follow me,” Mr. Ellie said. The shop owner made his way into the middle of the showroom and waited for Devon to join him. Then he pointed to the far left. “Those are flat caps,” he said. Then his pointed hand veered to the right, inch by inch, as he listed the rest of the hats. “Those are buckets hats. And those are bakerboy caps. Next are trilby hats and then Panama hats. And finally,” he said, motioning to the far right. “Those are fedoras. There are different designs within each collection, but you can at least make your way to the section of the store you favor most. Within each collection, we have different materials—felt, leather, tweed, linen, straw, silk, and more—but since you want felt, your choice will be even easier to make.”

Devon realized there was more to the word hat than he had considered, but once he saw the shelves of fedoras, he knew where he needed to look. “Definitely the fedoras,” Devon said confidently. 

“I thought just as much. Fedoras have a feel for the city. Why don’t you make your way over there and examine each felt fedora closely? They may look similar from a distance, but I assure you they each have a distinctive design and hue. There are no wrong choices. Now that we know your size and desired collection, the rest is a matter of opinion and taste.”

Devon waivered. He had all but forgotten about price. “I must also mention, although I have saved for many years, I do have a budget of no more than five hundred dollars.” 

“I respect your budget,” Mr. Ellie assured. “Some folks come in here ill-prepared to hear the price. They either get angry and storm out of my shop or they become embarrassed and apologize. However, your budget should cover almost any felt hat in the store, save the top hats on the racks behind the register. I didn’t mention those because they didn’t fit your need.”

Devon gave a low laugh with relief. “No, I will not be looking at top hats for a while. If you don’t mind, I will look at your selection.”

“Take your time,” Mr. Ellie said. “I’ll be checking my inventory-list behind the register. Let me know if you need anything.”

Devon watched the old hat shop owner step behind the counter of his register. He eyed the top hats lining the wall behind him. No, he didn’t need one of those. He turned his gaze to the rows of elegant fedoras and made his way to their location. Mr. Ellie was correct. There were many felt fedoras to choose from, and he could envision the businessman wearing each one. He reached his hand toward the taupe-colored fedora with a pinched shaped crown and narrow brim, but he stopped abruptly when a hissing voice came from behind. 

“Are you sure that is the perfect one?” the tall man sneered. He wore a dark-colored fedora that reflected the celling lights of the showroom. It had an exaggerated pinched crown, forming the two points of the letter “M” and an extra wide brim that shaded the man’s face entirely. 

“Mr. Ellie and I decided that I should choose my hat from here. I want a felt fedora, and this is my selection.” 

The man scoffed. “Why felt? What a boring material. My silk fedora glows.”

“I am a young man. I want a hat that will last me,” Devon said, trying to dismiss the man.

“Why would the owner even limit you here when there are hundreds of choices,” the tall man pressed, spreading his arms like he owned the shop. “You cannot make this decision lightly. The price is too hefty for just any old hat.”

Devon stepped back. He had been working toward this decision for years, and he didn’t want to choose incorrectly. He did find the man’s hat attractive. He looked to his left, and the other appealing collection of hats beckoned him—every color, every size, every design and every function bombarded his thoughts with what-ifs. He turned back to the man to seek further advice, but he was stunned to see that the man’s silk, cream fedora was now replaced with a checkered, tweed flat cap that flopped across his face like a mourning veil.

“Did you change hats?” Devon asked in disbelief.

“Well, of course I did!” the man hissed. “Why would I want to be stuck with the same hat day after day, week after week and year after year when there are so many hats to choose from?”
 Devon did find the man’s hat intriguing. Then another hat captured Devon’s side-gaze. It was one of the trilby hats. It was the same taupe color as the fedora he had picked out, but this one had a leather band around the bottom of the crown. “I do like that one also,” he said, pointing. “It looks a lot like the fedora except the crown is not so pinched.” He closed his eyes, remembering the businessman from when he was young. His hat had been a fedora, but he didn’t have to match it exactly.

The trilby would be nice.

Devon turned back to the tall man to get his opinion, but now he wore an oversized, linen bucket hat that hung over his ears and eyes like a stemless, grey mushroom. That hat truly excited him. “You changed your hat again!”

A sly smile curled along the man’s lips like a greasy mustache. “I don’t keep the same hat for long. It bores me, so I must have something new.”

Devon glanced back at the fedoras in front of him. The leather ones looked nice; although, they probably cost a lot more that the felt fedoras. He could see if Mr. Ellie would allow him time to pay the rest with his first paycheck. “What about leather?” Devon asked the tall man.

When he turned back, he was unable to suppress his shock as the man now wore a towering crimson top hat. Devon had to suppress the urge to take the red hat for himself. “You changed it again!”

“Yes, and you can too. You shouldn’t have to stick with just one hat. You can have any hat you choose. I have loads of credit as this store. Just put them in my name, and you can pay me back over time.”

Devon’s chest clinched as images of hats scattered his mind like cards flying out of a bad shuffle. He looked toward the cash register to find Mr. Ellie, but the shop owner was nowhere in sight. Suddenly, he no longer trusted the tall man’s advice. He felt anxious and confused, like he was drowning under an endless pile of would-be hats. “No,” Devon declared, directing his thoughts. “I will pick from the selection that Mr. Ellie and I already agreed upon.” He looked back at the taupe felt fedora he had examined first. He did like it, but it was a little bland. 

“Would you like me to put a band around it?” the old shop keeper asked.

Devon looked around. The tall man was gone, and Mr. Ellie stood at his side.

“Yes, I would like that. Will it be leather?” Devon asked.

“The leather band would go over your budget, but I have a fabric band that would look just as nice,” Mr. Ellie said.

Devon took hold of his new hat. “Yes, that will be perfect.” 

“I’ll box it up for you,” the old owner said, taking the hat from Devon’s hands.

“I’ll take the box but don’t pack up the hat. I want to wear it out,” Devon said. 

“I think that is a fine idea,” the shop owner agreed. “You have chosen well.”

When Devon exited the shop, a sunray reflecting off a city window shined on him like a spotlight. The sidewalk became his stage and the buildings his audience. He tilted the fedora with a gesture of greeting. 

“Welcome to the city, Devon DeWitt!” the traffic roared.

Allyson Larkin is a family physician specializing in wound care.  She reads and writes voraciously in her spare time. More about Allyson at the end of this section.

Matt Still retreated to the tiny sliver of shade provided by the emaciated salt cedar growing behind his trailer. This day was shaping up to be the same as every one that had preceded it in Dryfall, Texas. The sun baked the asphalt, cracked the dirt, and leeched the spirit out of every living thing. The air was so hot and dry it burned the back of his throat.

He watched the three men readjusting the huge truck-mounted drill bit in his back pasture, driving it into the rocky soil. They’d been at it since seven and hadn’t hit a drop of water. He’d sold his father’s F-250, the only thing with any cash value on the place, to raise the money to drill. He’d been sure they’d hit water if they just went deep enough. The Sandovals had and so had Mr. Smith down by the river—and Smith didn’t know his ass from his nose.

When Rudy, the drill mechanic, lumbered over wiping his face with a dirty rag, Matt knew the news wasn’t good. 

“Nothing at 200.”

Matt frowned, “Of course not. Nothing with this place is ever easy.”

“You want us to keep on?”

Matt worked the stubble on his chin, his gut churning. He was gambling on water just like his dad used to gamble on Eight Liners, and it looked like his luck was shaping up to be just as crap. If this well came up dry, he was flat broke. Maybe Ally was right. Maybe he was following his dad’s footsteps straight to hell. 

“Too late to back out now,” Matt peeled ten twenties out of his wallet leaving one lonely bill behind. Rudy and his guys were working off the clock as a favor, so it was a cash deal. 

“Keep on to 350. But that’s the end of my money, so make it count.” 

Rudy slapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll find it, boss. I feel it in my bones.”

Matt snorted. “When was anybody ever your boss?”

“The man with the dinero is always the boss. Even when he’s a candy ass like you.”

Matt shook his head, “Whatever you say, but I can’t watch. I’ll be in the shed. Let me know when you hit it.”

When, not if, as if believing could make it happen. What was it his mother used to say? If wishes were horses… 

******

True to form, Matt’s father had died at the worst possible time, right in the middle of finals in the fall term of his senior year. Matt was just one semester away from his mechanical engineering degree. This had surprised no one more than Matt, himself, who’d pretty much only gone to college to follow Ally.

Her mom had gotten him the college admission and scholarship applications and stood over his shoulder until he filled them out at her kitchen table. Mrs. Sandoval didn’t have a high school degree herself, but the woman believed in education. After Matt’s mother left them, Mrs. Sandoval picked him and his brother, Dave, up at the bus stop along with her own four kids every day and sat them all down at the kitchen table to do homework—every bit of it, no breaks, till they were done. Then she fed them dinner and dropped Dave and Matt at their front gate in time for bed.

Her efforts for education succeeded. All of her own kids went to college, and Ally was now an intern in emergency medicine in Lubbock. Dave was the lone holdout refusing college; but even there, Mrs. Sandoval managed to get him enrolled in a welding program. Now he made damn good money working offshore.

Matt, it turned out, was good at math. More than good. Numbers and engines made sense to him in ways people never did. He’d kept the pumps, trucks, and generators going on his place and the Sandoval’s from the time he was twelve. So at West Texas State, engineering was a good fit. He managed to slog his way through, working on the side to pay his bills.

He had been planning to drive to Lubbock to visit Ally after exams, when he got the call from Mrs. Miller, the owner of Dryfall Feed and Hardware.

“Matt, I’m real sorry to tell you, but your daddy passed,” Mrs. Miller said in her low smoker’s growl.

“Dad? Dead?” Matt stopped cold in the middle of the walkway sure he’d heard wrong. The throng of students parted and pushed past him like a rock in a river. “You’re certain?” 

“Wouldn’t call if I wasn’t. Sometime on Saturday we think.” Mrs. Miller continued, her words reaching Matt like echoes down a long hall. “Your dad went to the annual Wild Game Supper at the general store and was stewing himself in Jack Daniels per usual, when he got in a fight with Mr. Garza. Called him a wetback.”

Matt winced. The Garza family had lived in Dryfall at least as long as the Stills, but his dad considered them interlopers by virtue of their last name and preferred language. 

Apparently, Mr. Garza’s son-in-law didn’t know Mr. Still was famously full of shit and took offence. A fight commenced pretty much along racial lines, and at some point, his dad took a beer bottle to the head. He was off his rocker after that. So Greg Ferguson, the closest thing his dad had to a friend, dragged him home and put him to bed. The next morning, his dad didn’t get up to move his horse or fill his troughs, so Greg looked in on him. His Dad was dead, stiff in bed. 

“We need you to come home right away and make the funeral arrangements,” Mrs. Miller finished. 

Matt closed his eyes struggling to make sense of it all. He’d had a huge blowout with his dad the last time he saw him. He’d been planning to propose to Ally after graduation, and for reasons beyond all reckoning, decided to share his plans with the old man. His dad hadn’t liked the idea, and one thing led to another, and he ended up giving Matt a black eye. Matt hadn’t spoken to him since. Matt had figured things would blow over. They always had. Now, he’d never get the chance to say sorry or even screw you for that matter. It left him feeling unfinished like a half-eaten meal. 

Matt called Dave right away. “Just fly back and get things set with the funeral home,” Matt pleaded, “I’ll come as soon as I finish exams.”

“Screw em,” Dave replied. “Bastard can rot where he lies for all I care.” 

It was the response Matt had expected. The old man had been shit for a father with a heavy hand, and Dave was not the type to forgive. So Matt arranged to take the rest of his finals after break and headed home that same day. 

As soon as Matt arrived in Dryfall, the sheriff, their cousin from way back along the family tree, came to see him. He wanted to know if Matt wanted to pursue an investigation. According to the pathologist report, his dad had died from a bleed in the brain. There was confusion as to who’d struck the fatal blow, but it was likely Garza’s son-in-law. The pathologist’s report also noted that his father’s liver was shriveled and his right lung had a mass the size of a baseball. He’d have been dead in a year, two at the outside, regardless. 

Matt shook his head. “Done is done. They probably saved him some suffering.” 

It was more than the old man deserved. He’d driven Matt’s mother away, and even at ten years old, Matt couldn’t blame her—except for leaving him and Dave behind to face things alone. 

Matt wondered if she knew about Dad. He supposed he ought to tell her. It might come as a relief. He’d heard from Mrs. Smith that she’d married a rancher and moved to New Mexico. Matt had always meant to look her up, but up to now hadn’t. If she didn’t have a damn good reason for never sending him a word, he might end up hating her too; and there just wasn’t enough room inside him for that. 

The funeral arrangements were made, and the body was cremated two days later. Mrs. Sandoval even managed to scrape together a few mourners for a short service. Then, surprisingly quick, it was  over. 

Dave finally showed up at suppertime, and they sat alone in the trailer with the shiny, gold urn Ally had picked out. It was bizarrely out of place in the dingy gloom of the trailer and seemed to glower down at them from on top of the entertainment center. Matt and Dave escaped to the back porch and finished the last of their dad’s Jack Daniels.

Matt stared at the sky. “I wonder if Dad is up there, somewhere.” 

Dave snorted, “I’m pretty sure he went straight the other way.” He spit a gob of tobacco into the fire. It flared and sizzled as if making his point. 

“I asked Mom once why she fell in love with Dad,” Matt said. “She told me he two-stepped his way into her heart. She said he was the best dancer in Terrell county and told jokes so funny she laughed till her ribs hurt.”

Dave shook his head, “Hard to imagine.”

Matt had to agree, where does so much laughter and dancing disappear to? “What do you think about fixing this place up? With solar panels and a well we could run a full-scale goat operation here.”

“Hell, no. Sell this patch of weeds.”

“Think about it, Dave. We could finally make this place good for something besides bad memories, like the Sandoval place.”

“You’re a colossal dumb ass if that’s what you think. But do what you want. I don’t give a shit.” 

“It wasn’t all bad you know.” 

Dave shook his head and retreated back inside, the screen door banging closed behind him. 

He was three years younger and couldn’t remember the good times like Matt did. And there had been good times, especially before their mother left. Cool nights they made blazing bonfires and lay on blankets staring up at the huge black sky. Matt liked to trace the slow paths of satellites from horizon to horizon. The stars were so bright they seemed to reach down and tag him with their twinkling tails. 

Hot summer afternoons they lounged on the couch in their Superman Underoos luxuriating in the cool breeze of the window AC and watched movies with their mother for hours. Matt’s favorite was about a little long-neck dinosaur whose mother died protecting him from a sharp tooth. After her death the tiny dinosaur wandered frightened across a desertscape full of danger until he made friends who helped him along the way. Matt watched the movie so many times it grew scratchy and finally snagged in the VCR. 

Looking back, Matt wondered if his mother had known, even then, that she would leave him one day; and if maybe, somehow, he’d known it too, and that was why he’d loved that poor motherless dinosaur so much. 

When Matt and Dave were older they spent entire days outside playing cowboys and bandits in the huge expanse of desert. They explored the hidden valleys and brown flats becoming junior naturalists without even realizing it. Matt, who’d always liked lists, counted the deer, hogs, and coyotes, that teemed in the arroyos and hidden canyons. Dave captured lizards, mice, even snakes and kept them as pets in two old, cracked aquariums they rescued from the trash heap behind the general store. Dave would sneak up behind the snakes, even corals and diamond backs, and snag them with an old swimming pool skimmer undaunted—no—excited by the danger. 

This lack of fear had scared Matt about Dave even as a kid, but he admired his brother for it, too. Dave was a man of action and opinion. Angry often, happy only sometimes, but he was never overwhelmed by the whirling blackness of his own thoughts as Matt so often was.

Rain was rare, but roared when it came, forming roiling rivers in the dry creek beds. Afterwards Matt and Dave scavenged through the heaps of debris left behind, finding railroad ties, horseshoes, old forks and spoons, bottles and cans, once even a Spanish doubloon. Lost treasures, Matt had imagined. He still had a box full of the stuff under his bed. 

As a boy it gave him a sense that he owned a place in the history of the land; and he had to admit, in his heart, he believed it still. Maybe that was why he couldn’t let the land go. He owed it to their great, great grandfather who had homesteaded the place after the Civil War, and their grandfather who had doubled their acreage, and even his dad though the only legacy he’d left behind was a trailer pretty much held together with plywood and duct tape.

The next morning when Matt woke, Dave was already gone. Matt knew he wouldn’t be coming back. Matt climbed back into bed and stayed there all day. Then he slept in the next day and the next. Before he knew it he’d missed a week of classes. Then it was too late to take his finals or start the next semester. 

Ally lost it when she learned Matt hadn’t gone back. She drove back to Dryfall and literally tried to pack him up herself. 

“If I leave now I’ll never come back. It will all be lost. Look at Dave,” Matt tried to explain.

“This whole thing is nothing but an apology to a man who doesn’t deserve it. Your dad was a total shit. I’m sorry to say it, but you know it’s true. You staying here and drinking yourself into a pickle will never change that fact.”

“Just give me a year,” Matt pleaded. “If I can’t make a go of it by then, I’ll go back to school.” 

“Take as long as you need. I’m done.” 

Ally cried as she got into her car and pulled out slowly, giving Matt plenty of time to stop her. He almost grabbed his bag and ran after her; but some freak gravitational pull locked him in place. He watched Ally’s car until it was a dot on Highway Ninety, knowing full well he was making the biggest mistake of his life. 

*****

Now, six months later, Ally was still so pissed she wouldn’t answer his phone calls or texts. Matt glared at the brown flat curve of horizon melting into nothingness all around him. He felt a chill despite the blazing heat and the ground seemed to tilt beneath his feet. Matt, grabbed a wrench, and slid underneath the 4x4 Bronco he had up on blocks. 

Ally was right. If he wasn’t careful, this place was gonna lift him up and drop him right off the edge of the world like it had his dad. Matt drained the oil out of the pan then went to work on the spark plugs. Ally was the light in the dark spaces of his mind. Without her it was all for shit, regardless. Once he got the Bronco back running, water or no, he’d drive to Lubbock and talk to her. She wouldn’t ignore him if he came in person. And if she made him choose, he would—the right way this time.

Matt was popping in the last spark plug when Rudy sauntered around the corner. 

“We’re in business.”

Matt jumped so fast he slammed his head on the hood, “You serious?” 

Rudy gave Matt a thumbs up. “Never doubt the Rudinator.”

Matt grinned, “The Rudinator is not a compliment. You know that, right?” 

Rudy snorted. “Come see your water, Jefe.” 

Matt forced himself to keep Rudy’s slow pace as they walked to the well. He bent down and inspected the gauge. The needle was all the way right, full pressure. Tension uncoiled inside him. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face, embarrassed by the moisture that filled his eyes, then bent closer to see. The depth on the shaft was 450 feet. “Aww Dude, you went way deeper. I’m not sure-”

“No worries. The Rudinator takes care of his compadres-but keep it on the down low.” 

“You bet, thanks.” Matt grabbed the big man by both shoulders and tried to give him a hug.

Rudy shoved him away. “Get off me white boy. I’m not your girlfriend. But it’s good to have you back. This place will be real nice with you working it. It’s good land.”

Matt laughed. “If you like rocks, snakes, and heat.”

“Exactly.” Rudy folded his oversized body into the cab of the truck and saluted. “See you.” 

He pulled out, leaving Matt coughing, in a cloud of dust. Matt fumbled for his keys, then headed straight for the Bronco. It was a long drive, but if he booked it he might make it by dinner. Ally liked pizza… 

The school bus sped away in a cloud of dust. Tony started up the steep drive to the ranch house. The afternoon sun baked the back of his neck. His backpack bit into his shoulders and sweat dripped into his eyes. 

Tony wiped his face and rolled his neck. He swallowed hard. Ever since his mom died in the car wreck six weeks ago, he felt like he couldn’t take a full breath. It was like an invisible hand was wrapped around his throat choking him all day long. 

He kicked a rock. It ricocheted off a stump and hit him in the knee. It figured. Tony was mad all the time but couldn’t figure out at who. His mother for dying? His father for dishing him off on his grandpa? His grandpa for living so far out in the country that he had to ride the bus an hour to school? 

When Tony finally reached the house, he was surprised to see the sheriff’s truck parked out front. The sheriff and Tony’s grandpa were deep in conversation.

“Two sheep. Completely drained of blood on Wednesday,” the sheriff said. “And last night, three calves and Mrs. Smith’s Blue Heeler. All dead, with nothing but puncture wounds on their necks.”

“No other injuries?” Tony’s grandpa asked.

“None.” The sheriff shrugged. “It’s the darndest thing.” 

“It’s a Chupacabra,” Tony’s grandpa said. “They’ve been round these parts before.”

The sheriff laughed. “I’d not jump to that conclusion, Mr. Saenz. More likely a cougar wandering out of the mountains. Still, you’d best pen your stock tonight.” 

Tony’s grandpa didn’t argue. “Thanks for letting us know.”

As soon as the sheriff pulled away, Tony said, “Grandpa, you can’t go talking like that. People will think you’re crazy.” 

Grandpa shook his wooly, grey head. “Crazy is denying what’s right before your eyes. Cougars eat their prey. They don’t suck their blood.” 

Inside, his grandpa pulled a faded photo from a drawer. It was Tony’s mother. She was about his age and had long brown pigtails and was cradling a baby goat with a pink collar in her arms. 

“The Chupacabra killed Lulu, your mother’s favorite goat, last time it was round these parts. Your mother cried for days.” 

Tony walked away. He didn’t want to talk about his mother. It felt like the blood was being sucked out of him every time he tried.

After dinner Tony headed outside to round up the goats. Once there had been a whole herd on the ranch. But now his grandpa only kept a nanny, a billy, and a baby goat born last spring. 

The baby was black with white patches above each hoof and looked like she’d stepped in a can of paint. She followed Tony around when he did his chores, chewing on his sleeves and begging for treats. 

Grandpa had told Tony he could name her, but Tony hadn’t. He didn't want to care about a baby goat—or anything else for that matter. Still, he fed her the best scraps and made sure she got her fair share of oats and hay before the bigger goats moved in. At night he brushed her till her coat shined.

The nanny and the billy were dozing under the porch and refused to come out when Tony called. He had to crawl underneath and pull them out by their collars. The billy gave Tony a sharp nip on his hand to show his displeasure, but both were happy enough when Tony filled their troughs with fresh hay and water. 

Then, Tony searched the yard for Baby Goat calling and shaking a cupful of Cheerios, but she didn’t answer. He walked the entire back pasture, but she wasn’t there, either. So he headed down the hill to the meadow by the river, carefully avoiding the family cemetery that stood on its edge. 

The meadow had been Tony's favorite spot on the ranch when he was a kid. It was shady and next to the river with a nice fishing hole. But now, since his mother had been buried there, a fresh mound of brown dirt marking the spot; he hated the place. He hadn’t fished a single time, even though Grandpa had bought him a new rod and reel.

Tony scoured the underbrush walking up and down the river’s edge calling for Baby Goat, but she was nowhere to be seen. He gave up when it was too dark to see.

“Any luck?” Grandpa asked when Tony returned. 

Tony shook his head. 

Grandpa squeezed Tony’s shoulder with his strong, gnarled hand. “She'll wander on home when she’s ready.”

Tony nodded and headed to bed. He hadn’t slept well since his mom died. During the day he could barely hold his eyes open. But at night his brain ran on overdrive replaying memories of his mother. 

Grandpa had brought her old comic books and baseball cards down from the attic. Tony pored over them. Baseball was Tony’s sport, and his mother had loved it, too. They both played third base. She’d played softball in college and after that on a woman’s league. She'd been on her way to a tournament when her car was hit by the tractor trailer. 

He was staring at the clock at midnight, when he heard an urgent, high-pitched bleat. He hopped out of bed slipping his bare feet into his boots, grabbed the flashlight on the counter next to the door, and ran outside toward the sound. The cries continued frantic and shrill. 

Tony sprinted through the yard and into the pasture wearing only his boxers and boots. Brambles tore his skin, but he didn’t slow. The bleating led him to the top of the hill. He hesitated, wondering if he should get his grandpa. But then Baby Goat cried even louder. There was no time. 

As he raced down the slope, a cloud passed over the moon. The darkness became so deep, Tony couldn’t even see his feet. He stumbled on rocks and ruts but didn’t slow. He followed Baby Goat’s maws into the meadow then skidded to a stop. The bleating was coming from the cemetery. 

He shined his flashlight inside the stone walls, but the thin yellow light couldn’t penetrate the thick mist.. It hovered over the ground hugging the tombstones like a living thing. It seemed to breathe.

Tony wanted to help Baby Goat, but his feet were frozen as if chained to the ground. He looked around for someone, anyone, to help him. But he was all alone.

Baby Goat shrieked again, higher now, desperate. The sound made the hairs stand straight up on Tony’s arms. But, somehow, released the lock on his feet. 

Tony opened the gate and ran inside. A huge beast like a hairless, coyote with thick, grey skin crouched over baby goat pinning her tiny body to the stone wall with a giant paw. 

“Get out of here!” Tony yelled.

The beast looked up at Tony with angry yellow cat eyes. Blood dripped from its two long, curved incisors. Tony smashed the beast’s muzzle with his flashlight. The beast roared and raised up on its hind legs towering over Tony. 

Tony turned and ran. The ground shook as the beast pursued him. He could feel the beast’s hot, rancid breath on his neck. It was gaining on him. Tony focused every ounce of his energy into running as fast as he could toward the river praying the beast could not swim.

But barely a foot from the water’s edge, the beast roared and leapt onto Tony’s back, knocking him to the ground. As he fell he glimpsed a girl running towards him through the mist. She held a baseball bat in front of her like a club. 

Then, Tony’s head smashed the ground. The beast pierced his neck with its razor incisors. Tony screamed as blood began to flow out of him. In that moment the girl reached them. She struck the beast with her bat. It roared, releasing Tony. The girl whacked the beast again, swinging the bat as if she was hitting a line drive. Tony heard the crack as the bat impacted the beast’s skull. 

The beast yelped and took off running along the river’s edge. The girl knelt next to Tony and pressed her hand against his bleeding neck. 

“Don't worry. I'll take care of you.” 

Tony wondered, briefly, why she seemed so familiar. Then he blacked out.

When Tony came to, light shone through the barn window. His grandpa was crouched over him. 

Tony sat up. “Grandpa, how did you get me up the hill?” 

“I found you here, just now.” 

The events of the night rushed back to him. Tony brought his hand to his neck. A thick dressing was taped to his skin. 

“Grandpa, a chupacabra killed Baby Goat. And there was a girl—”

“Baby Goat is fine.” Grandpa pointed. “She’s here with you.”

Sure enough, Baby Goat lay curled next to Tony with a bandage on her neck that matched his own. She had a collar, too. It was faded pink but clearly read, “Lulu.”

Grandpa sat back on his heels. “Isn't that strange?” 

Tony scratched Lulu’s chin. She mawed and butted him gently with her baby horns. 

Every inch of Tony’s body ached, but he didn’t care. For the first time since his mother died, the invisible hand had released its grip on his throat. He could breathe again.  READ MORE LIKE THIS IN CORPUS CHRISTI WRITERS 2021

Allyson Larkin reads from "Dryfall" from Corpus Christi Writers 2020

Jesus Lopez mows his own lawn. So do I of course. So do most of us; but Mr. Lopez is paraplegic. 

Twenty-five years ago, a bullet lodged in Jesus Lopez’s back severing the neurologic connection between his spine and legs. Now no signal reaches the muscles below his waist. Paralysis and deformity ensued. His feet are contracted and twisted upside down so that they look like curved bowls -- no good for walking or even standing for that matter. So, Mr. Lopez mows his yard in his wheelchair. 

***************************************************************

Mr. Lopez’s home health nurse keeps calling me, complaining that his dressings are dirty or have fallen off when she goes out to care for him three times a week. She can’t figure out why. So this visit I’ve got to have a “heart to heart” with him about his role in the healing process.

“Mr. Lopez, you won’t heal unless you are compliant with our wound care plan. If your dressings are dirty or wet when the home nurse sees you, you will never heal.”

“Sorry Doctora.” That is what he calls me. “I think it might be the mowing. I’ll tie a grocery bag on my foot from now on to keep the bandage clean.”

“Mowing? How do you manage that?”

“I pull my chair right up next to the mower so I can pull the crank at the same time I squeeze the start paddle on the handle.”

“It’s a push mower?” I cannot believe what I am hearing.

“You bet, self-propelled. Once I get it started, the mowing is easy.”

I shake my head.

“I pull my chair up behind the mower and push it with my left hand. I drive the wheelchair with my right.”

“That doesn’t sound safe,” I say as I inspect the horseshoe-shaped ulcer on top of his right foot, which due to his contractures, is actually resting on the footplate of his wheelchair. 

“I tie that belt around my legs to keep them from flopping if I hit a rut.” Mr. Lopez points to a frayed brown leather belt draped on the edge of his seat. A jagged tear in the cushion has been repaired with silver duct tape and a shopping bag chock full of gear -- a sack lunch, an umbrella, a blanket -- hangs off the handles. “I’ve never had a bit of trouble.”

The wound is pink and shallow. It looks like it should heal right up; but never does. It is maddening. “Dirt and debris getting into your dressing isn’t doing your foot much good either,” I say.

“I have to do it, Doctora. I have a big yard and if I don’t keep it cut, the city will fine me $75. I’m not made of money. ”

That’s true. He gets to my office by bus, but unlike a lot of my bus patients, he is never late. I should have Mr. Lopez give a class: “How to Master Public Transportation and Arrive On Time.” I didn’t even know he took the bus until one day I ran so late that I made him miss the last pick-up. He had to borrow the phone at the front desk to shift around for someone to pick him up. 

*********************************************************

“Jesus Lopez’s mother died,” my medical assistant warns me before I go in for our next visit. 

“I'm so sorry, Mr. Lopez,” I say as I look at his foot. 

“Thank you Doctora. I miss her. We were very close, but she was old. It was her time.” 

“You lived with her?” 

“Yes, just her and I. The house is very quiet now.”

“How are you managing? Have you had to move?”

“Doctora,” Mr. Lopez pauses waiting until I look up and give him my full attention. “My mother couldn’t get out of bed this last year. I managed to take care of her. I sure can take care of myself.”

I blush. This is the closest to an angry word I have ever had from Mr. Lopez, and I deserve every bit of it. I’ve been treating him for a year, but I don't understand a thing about his life.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean -- I just assumed.” I struggled for words. I did not want to offend this man, always so courteous and patient. “But how do you possibly manage? It’s not just your paralysis, but your feet. You can’t even -- ”

“Doctora. I got shot over twenty years ago -- and it was pretty much my own fault. For a few weeks I thought all about ‘I can’t.’ I couldn’t get out of my mind all the things I would never do. But then I decided, ‘Hey, I’m alive. The Lord is not done with me.’ So, every day I just do everything I can do.”

I am humbled and have no response. 

“So I took care of my mother. I owed her that. She gave me life and I wasn’t gonna put her in a nursing home.”

“You’re like MacGyver,” I say. 

“Oh Doctora,” Mr. Lopez laughs, “I love that show.”

I have an idea. “Do you think if I put home health on hold, you can figure out how to you reach down to your foot and dress the wound yourself everyday?”

“I’ll find a way if you tell me what I need to do.”

***************************************************************

“Jesus Lopez is healed.” My medical assistant moon walks in the hall outside Mr. Lopez’s room at his follow up appointment two weeks later. 

I walk into the room, hoping but not convinced. I shine the spotlight on his foot. Indeed there is a thin, translucent layer of pink tissue over the wound.

“Mr. Lopez, you are healed.” I can’t help but grin. 

“I thought you’d like that, Doctora. Thank you for healing me.”

“Mr. Lopez, are you kidding? You did it. I’m just sorry I didn’t have you change your own dressings months ago.”

“That’s OK, Doctora. You always did your best. Sometimes it takes trying different things before you get them right.”

Copyright Allyson Chavez Larkin

Allyson Chavez Larkin is a family physician specializing in wound care. She lives in Corpus Christi, Texas with her unfailingly patient husband, a Midwest transplant who still cannot get used to the heat, and three lovely children who are turning into amazing people right in front of her eyes. She reads and writes voraciously in her spare time. Middle grade and young adult fiction are her guilty pleasures.  

Alyanna Mena lives in Corpus Christi. She believes many choose to live to work, but she reminds herself to work to live. She enjoys reading, painting, drawing, and singing.

When the sun and the moon pass off shift report as the moon dresses for work.

Being a white night owl, the hue in the sky signals my need for candy. Because within a place, all different sorts of confectionaries await to be swallowed. 

Each step on the tile, rhythmic like a heartbeat. The door beeps behind me as the lock engages and I breathe in the cold air perfumed with alcohol.

I study each jar carefully deciding which will fill my craving. As I lift a bottle the soft rattle increases the anticipation as I choose my sweet. My mouth waters like a toddler.

My fingers twist the lid open and I place 3 small red pills onto my palm of my hand. I lick my lips, work has just started. 

River walks, cobbled stones,

speckled slender pistachio kisses in mint condition

A vinyl record repeatedly dancing in the Camden Castle

as they took their first steps together

Houston, we have a problem

Striped sunlight smears as warmth wrapped the fabrics of you and me

Binding the story that started with Steam in October on a blue day

Waves carried the fine sand, picked off rocks from Rockport with each granulation encapsulating color.

A bed of stars sporadically spiraling with synchronicity until the orbit releases gravity preventing those constellations from colliding in catastrophe 

Instead skating further away from each other on cracked pavement, and when I fall from the flawed foundation I am blinded by those fibers that once held us together. 

Fibers that glittered and frosted the trees along the river walk, guiding our boat with a shimmering fire that casted the cold aside with your Columbia jacket and radiant eyes. 

Deafening static fill the speakers until all I hear are barks, the bubbling of the coffee machine, cars racing down Ennis Joslin, and a record stuck on repeat.

The record of heartbreak reverberating from bitter blindness caused by our collapse.

After all, stars shine the brightest before they perish leaving nothing but molecules, dust, and elements awaiting another beautiful creation with you. 

And in this case, I store that bittersweet heaven in locked memory cabinets that open while asleep. And stay stuck on repeat.

 Can’t tell tale this time 

Without taking a sip of scotch

And a shot of the past 

The cable swivels onto the right channel

And our play resumes in the green theater

A grin and a grimace 

The show recalls, and the actors bow and exit to different stages of life

Static, another swivel, and a familiar production from the conduction of electricity 

Here comes my favorite part, when the reruns take us back to the bar and back to the start.

What an enticing wrapper

Dried, the rustling cover sounded of leaves

Yet when wet, scarlet bleeds through

What an enticing wrapper

Dried, the rustling cover sounded of leaves

Yet when wet, scarlet bleeds through the delicate paper onto your fingertips

The holder doesn’t remember the sweeties’ origin other than from their pocket

Your lustful eyes gaze upon my naked body 

My clothing crimped in one hand while gripping me softly in another

You place me between your lips and suck the sweet juices 

The swirling cinnamon burns the tongue but cools when inhaled 

So long as you don’t choke.

Do you know what it’s like to feel used? I am used every day in different ways. I’ll explain later. 

While most people wake, drink their morning caffeinated beverage, and go to their 9-5, I stay encapsulated in a decorated can. Humans have free range to roam, but that is not the case. I’m encased! Depending on the living you humans make, I  can be quite expensive (or cheap). People come from different backgrounds, and I’m used by all of them. I live in and through everything. I stain. However, I don’t make an appearance unless I have to. Honey, I’m actually quite shy. I can’t control it either, so please forgive me. There’s a puppeteer at play, and I am their doll. 

Remember I told you I would explain? Riddle you not.  READ THE REST IN CCW2022

Alyson Greene facilitates a weekly writers' support group and book club via zoom through The Writers' Studio of Corpus Christi. She is happiest when playing in the waves with her husband and children.

I didn’t want to go out on the water. Seth, Amber, and I had spent our childhoods running along the soft sand and splashing in the warm surf. But we weren’t kids anymore and Amber had moved away. In the weeks since she’d left, I saw everything in the sharp contrast of before and after. I didn’t know how to be the same girl without her. 

But when Seth flashed a dimpled grin asked me to go kayaking, I thought maybe we could find a way to bridge the gap between the kids we were and whatever we were becoming.

We didn’t speak as we paddled away from where his dad had beached the boat. The wind worked against us, but even without words, we soon became synchronized and both did two strokes on the right for every one on the left. 

Once we were around the bend of the weed-covered shoal, I felt Seth stop paddling behind me. I stopped too and balanced the paddle across my knees. Droplets of water dripped down my legs.

“I’m sorry,” Seth said.

“For what?” I tried to turn to look at him, but the kayak wobbled too much.

“I don’t know. Are you mad at me?”

“No. I miss Amber,” I said. 

“Yeah.” Seth cleared his throat and swirled his finger through the water beside us. “I mean, it was just practice, right? It didn’t mean anything.”

The night before Amber moved away, she’d explained how she couldn’t start ninth grade without knowing how to kiss. The three of us had shared so many firsts together, and she’d said she couldn’t imagine having a first kiss with anyone else. Hope had bloomed in my chest at her words, but as I watched Amber’s lips meet Seth’s, it curdled in my stomach. They’d pulled away, giggled, and kissed again. I’d run out of the room, nauseous.

“Were you jealous?” he asked.

“No,” I lied.

“Everything’s fine, then?” He sounded skeptical.

“Yup.”

He slapped the surface of the water, splashing me. Despite its warmth, my spine tightened at the shock of it. I let out a laugh.

“Come on, talk to me,” he whined. “Amber’s gone and I can’t…”

His voice trailed off, but I knew what he meant because I felt it too. In one night, I’d lost them both.

I was too scared to look at him, but I’d never held back from him before.

I gathered my courage and passed my paddle back to Seth. “Hold this.” I inched my body around to face him. The kayak rocked as I moved but Seth shifted his weight to counterbalance mine. 

“Have you ever kissed anyone?” he asked.

“No. You know I haven’t.”

He shrugged as if I could have a harem of lovers he didn’t know about. “Have you thought about kissing anyone?”

I scoffed. “Of course! Loads of people.”

“Oh, okay.” His dark brows lifted above his sunglasses. “Could I see this list?”

“What list?”

“Of the people you want to kiss.” He made small splashes in the green water.

I felt my lips twitch up in an uncontrollable grin. “Why do you want to know?”

He splashed me again. “You know.” 

I laughed and splashed him back. “Say it!”

He leaned over to fling more handfuls of water at me. The kayak rocked. We stopped splashing and steadied ourselves. Seth shifted his weight. “Can I kiss you?”

I took a steadying breath. “Everything’s changing.”

“That isn’t a bad thing.” His face softened.

I leaned toward him, placing a hand on his shoulder. I stopped with my face centimeters from his and whispered, “Don’t let me fall in.”

“Never,” he whispered back.

I kissed him. His mouth was warm and salty like the gulf. The buckles of our life jackets clicked against each other. The kayak swayed. We pulled apart.

“See?” he smiled, like everything had been fixed.

Except it hadn’t, because I wished his lips were Amber’s.

Facebook

X

Instagram

Linked In

You Tube

Ana Varela lived in Los Angeles, Buenos Aires, and Taipei before moving to Corpus Christi, and then to Denver. More about Ana at the end of this section.

The valley knew that it would change my life forever. The longer that I spent in it, the more sure I was of where I needed to be. Nothing could be the same after that summer in the desert. 

I met Jay in the three days that I spent at the end of spring in the Joshua Tree Desert. I would not leave for good until the come and go of a year of seasons. If I was once a seed I had grown into a mesquite, and I was finally enjoying my shade. Before, I had wandered content, well-nourished from the freedom of decisions that had led me to this event. When I reached the desert, I gave in to a restful time and listened, for once, to the message of a music festival. If “music is the soul of life” then the desert is the body from which energy might manifest as humming, the vibrations as song. I met my Jay in Joshua Tree, and, one day, I flew away with him.

My first winter with Jay was a high-desert January and a world of wonder. I drove the three hours from Los Angeles, as I had done so many times throughout the summer, to reach our paradise in the desert. The last hour of the drive, heading up the mountain after a windmill valley, was hard on the car but easy on the mind. I passed the small but popular Joshua Tree city, catering to the tourists that came from around the world to visit the national park, the businesses boutique with faux-desert facades. Farther up the road Twentynine Palms -- an even smaller bucolic town that most only know if they have heard of the military base. Two different cities, like two very different beasts, feeding on that which keeps them growing. Turning off the main street there, I drove for a quarter of an hour more as the asphalt turned into dirt road. Not too far in the distance, with its red stripe around its side, the 1970’s El Rey camper was my minds favorite sight. I imagined that I could hear Jay's small dog panting as he listened for my tires driving up the property. I was moments from Jay's smile and feeling the weight of the wine glass in my hand.

The sky in winter matched Jay’s eyes -- a crisp and clean bright, blue grey. By morning, I was happy to be in the El Rey, warmed by the closeness of our bodies. If this had been August, the camper would be empty by midday, and we would be somewhere else searching for shade. Winter called for a noontime wandering. When the morning freeze had melted under the sun, we set out from our cozy home. Imitating the flower buds of the cacti around us, we wrapped up in layered bundles, bursting with anticipation for spring. Vast and limitless, ours was the most beautiful backyard in the world. Except for the few trails we had worn around the property, we explored in a new direction every day. There was every shape of twisting branch discovered for each pairless shoe found. When the afternoon warmed enough, we stopped anywhere in a greasewood bush field to drink wine, laugh, and watch as the stars appeared. 

The Joshua Tree seemed the greatest teacher, the desert the greatest classroom. For it to survive, the Joshua Tree gave parts of itself to the desert; fruit for the sloth (extinct to humans) and seeds for Yucca Moth larvae to eat. When the flowers bloom in spring, the appreciative moth pollinates other trees. It is a thousand year old dance of coevolution. The philosophy of the Joshua Tree was simple; keep only that which you need to survive and a partner to help you grow- the rest is too heavy to carry. 

Jay had a bird’s eye view of the world, and could see farther than I ever could alone. He could see where the wind would blow, dropping pieces of desert trash and treasures in a secret sand bowl. It was a long valley, hidden between a row of small mountains and sand dunes. Burnouts and storms and time had turned parts into pieces and sections to shreds. Collecting our favorite fragments of broken plates, plastics, and metals, Jay and I spent afternoons creating our mosaics. Longing for a body of water, the sound of a crashing wave, or the salt saturated spray of ocean mist, he brought a sea creature to life in the dry desert. With teeth of glass and shotgun shells for scales a devilish angler fish appeared from the sand. Once, a friend, stopping in our desert on a roadtrip across the country, painted a monarch over a wide boulder in our secret mosaic sand bowl. Before him, that boulder had looked like an abandoned Volkswagen bug in the distance. Then, it was as if the butterfly had flown swiftly into the side of the boulder and left her color splattered all over the sand. So vast, in fact, was this mosaic valley, that when we returned to find the massive monarch, with a wingspan twice as large as mine, she seemed to have flown off. Perhaps the Volkswagen had suddenly driven away. 

Nothing dies in the desert. A seemingly dry greasewood, when its bare branch snaps, reveals a jade green center, ready to feed the new leaves of spring. If something begins to lose life, it crumbles over the sands' surface and smooths to preservation becoming an important particle of the ever growing land. Everything becomes the desert again. 

The first time I crashed a motorcycle I fell into the soft embrace of the desert. The deep trail behind me snaked its way more sharply the closer to where I lay. Jay hadn’t seen me yet. I didn’t want him to think that I was hurt. I unburied myself from the sand and, despite the pain in my shin, walked over to the other side of the little red Honda to pull it up. By the time Jay had noticed, I was loading onto the bike again. I only fell once more that day as we were leaving the mosaic valley, burying my front tire into the side of one of the dunes. Again the snickering snake led to exactly the point where I was splayed across the sand. 

Summer had gone months before but the grab of its rays still burned like yesterday in our memories. Each blazing day of that season, when the rocks and the trees and the mountains began to see their shadows, we set off on another ride. The buzzing motorbikes echoed through the canyons we explored. The world hummed to the tune of our adventures. Eager for curious visitors and luring us in with their shade, we rode up to the mouth of the hungry caves. Abandoned mines that had no notion of time. It would be weeks before the next desert riders would find them again. Leaving behind the cold and burning superheated summer surface world to the lizards, we walked into the earth and entered the cool, endless darkness. Deep blue turquoise streaks lined the inside of the otherwise rough earth; perfect lines of oxidized copper led us deeper and deeper inside. 

Like Plato's allegory of the cave, I wondered if my high-desert stories made sense to many city dwellers or the strictly social media savants. Would they see the value in the voids or the expanses of the desert? How might I convey the worth in the woe of an abandoned mine? After allowing our internal temperatures to drop, and our inner thoughts to cool and calm, we wander back to see how the sand of the summer had changed. Time is measured by the sun, and it waits for no one. 

We were never lost following the cooing and whispering hints of the wind, then the allure of the light. Emerging from the mine, we were enveloped in a warm embrace by the two; the sky and the sun welcomed us again. Unlike a city, where the alleys at night should be avoided, this world would not punish me for walking into the darkness. 

Regardless of the season, each morning my eyes were opened by the gentle kiss of sunrise, calling for me to come outside to face the rising Ra. These 2,700 feet above sea level are pure -- similar to starving the muscles for oxygen, so does the elevation strengthen the soul. There is little room for the toxic smog of my mind that I bring with me from the city each drive and soon it is all taken away by the very same wind the urges me forward. I must have followed that very wind to that Spring festival that took me away with Jay forever. Each day in the desert since then, we did as the animals did and looked to find shade at noon otherwise, we would be bake in that retro and aluminum camper. We had to move or risk withering away as I once did on the third day that I had met my Jay.

I was falling in love with a blue Jay, and distracted I forgot to drink water, to eat, or to sleep under the stars. So, I unknowingly was fading away until I finally fainted. Catching me, as if I were a seed, Jay took me under his wing and placed me in the shade of my desert realty; there is no room for toxicity, remember the lessons of the Joshua Tree; only take what you need, and he chose to take me, the rest was too heavy to carry.

While in that daze of those days, I remembered the day Jay firmly dodged the first time I reached for his chin. In a tent booth full of precious gems and crystals, he was the most captivating -- the most valuable thing. Resonating over the entire Joshua Tree valley, the festival music enveloping the tent seemed muffled and low to the mocking Jay’s song. Would he believe that we would spend so many sunrises together in this very desert? Or riding home each sunset before the darkness could envelop the two of us on our motorbikes? One day, although it was sudden, we would fly away. We were unlike the valley’s ephemeral blooms, destined instead to flower forever. Nothing was the same after that summer in the desert and, after a year of seasons, we flew away together, my desert Jay and I.

Pacing back in forth in the lobby of a women's shelter

she paused at the paperwork, looked at the baby and felt that no one could help her.

She lifted her daughter, flipped up her hoodie and walked back into the blur.

Pacing back and forth in the lobby of a women's shelter

she paused at the paperwork, paused at the baby and noticed the same day on the calendar.

She lifted that baby, and she put her back down and tried to remember where they were.

Pacing back and forth where they said that they can help her

she paused at the thermostat, thought about smoking crack

and wondered where she could get hers.

She flipped up her hoodie, flipped it back down-

She couldn't feel the right temperature.

Pacing back and forth, wondering about her worth

She looked past the paperwork, stared at the floor

and saw her crawling daughter.

She lifted that baby, walked back into the blur and felt that no one could help her.

You are talkative, aren't you?

Oh! Expressive too! 

Too 

Emotional, maybe

Overwhelming lately.

Out of nowhere, really 

you are 

Overreacting or just

Out of your mind 

or out of control And 

Suddenly, Involuntarily, and Perpetually

out of line.

you are SO

out of it and in over your head 

and losing your shit.

Now calm down. Go back to bed. 

You were just dreaming. 

Okay, sweetie?

 EL MUNDO INHALO (The World Inhaled)

Alguna vez te paraste a los pies de un árbol alto? Miras hacia arriba y pareciera que las últimas hojas tocaran el cielo. Dentro de su tronco hay un rio corriendo desde la tierra hasta llenar las nubes. Como vos, toma lo que le da su mundo y crea algo nuevo; frutas, aire, sombra, ideas, energía, apoyo. Alguna vez sentiste la tierra, recorriendo por tu ser, y de tus pies hacia tu cabeza, surgieron palabras frescas y deliciosas, las cuales el mundo inhalo.

THE WORLD INHALED (El Mundo Inhalo)

Have you ever once, stood at the feet of a tall tree? You look up and it is as if the tallest leaves could touch the sky. Within its trunk there is a river running from the earth to fill the clouds. Like you, it drinks what the world gives it and creates something new; fruit, air, shade, ideas, energy, support. Have you ever once felt the earth, flowing through your entire being, and from your head to your feet, fresh, delicious words appeared, those which the world inhaled. 

Ana Varela lived in Los Angeles, Buenos Aires, and Taipei before moving to Corpus Christi, and then to Denver. She has proudly worked at a domestic violence shelter, as a paralegal at a non-profit immigration law firm, and spends her free time finding volunteer families for international students.

Since 1981, Annie Huckabee has worked as an adjunct instructor in English at Del Mar College. She also supervises first-year teachers as they complete their certification journey.  More about Annie at the end of this section.  

 “Cucumber martini, Titos, and one Turks Head, please.” 

It’s the usual drink order here at the Shelf Life Swim Up Bar in the Caribbean, where I’ve worked as a bartender for the past twenty years. Varieties of vodka are endless today, and everything having to do with hops and yeast is now crafted sport, but most calls are what they’ve always been—some kind of draft, a shot of hard liquor.

And that’s how it is when you live and work at these island getaways; everything especially prescribed and made to order. Stereotyping here, but most bartenders catering to the holiday tripper know what drink the divorcee is going to begin with: wine always; bubbly champagne for the first year anniversary couple; beer, shot, beer, shot, beer, shot, shot, shot…yeah, the predictable bachelor party.

Working for most of my adult life in the tourist industry, my complaints seem pretty petty. Steel drums dominate anything coming out of the bar speakers most of the time, but once a month, I design the playlist. I like to go with themes —John’s “Hard Day’s Night,” Billy’s “Tonight,” Alicia’s “I Love the Night Life,” Cory’s “I Wear My Sunglasses at Night,” Justin’s “Nights in White Satin,” and so on. Nightengale herself Ella always ends the set with Cole’s classic “Night and Day.” It’s a perk for sure.

The spa therapists are allowed to accept gratuity, but they’re good folks, and I don’t want to take anything away from them. I mean, after all, they actually touch their clients. I try to make contact in a more cerebral way. 

Customers wade, float, or sit on the half dozen seats surrounding a counter I keep sparkling and spacious with plenty of elbow room for those just stopping in for a refill, a slice of lime, or to offer social commentary.

As proud of my work as I am, I’ve given two weeks' notice. It’s time to head off to some landlocked locale, my beloved bottle opener in my back pocket. Endings always make me philosophical. I realize what keeps cynicism at bay is the unexpected, the random. In the middle of the sameness and the routine, my favorite times behind this bar have been those chance, unforgettable human connections.

***

She ordered a gin and tonic for the urn seated to her left.

“Whiskey neat for me,” she added. “We’ve always loved the Caribbean. It’s where we stop every now and then while we’re on our RLS journey.”

“I didn’t realize people took Restless Leg Syndrome trips.”

The laugh exploded as she gave a furious wave.

“No, no —it’s Robert Louis Stevenson.” Her eyes lit up. “We first met at the Stevenson cottage in Saranac, New York. I was a soon-to-be out-of-work caterer; they were a Stevenson aficionado. I joined them visiting every place Louis had ever lived — Scotland, Belgium, France, some ramshackle hovel in Nevada. At least I found a decent casino nearby.”

“A writer’s trip, that’s cool. At least you aren’t on one of those True Crime adventures. Do you remember the woman Aillen who murdered six or seven men in the 80s in the South? Before I came here, I barbacked at the place where, years before, Aillen had made her last call before the FBI arrested her. Even years later, fans came in wanting to know the exact stool she sat on and what she ordered.”

“What was it?” she asked.

“Beer. Her last meal before lethal injection? Barbeque chips. Ironically, the name of the bar is the Last Resort. Stevenson, Treasure Island?”

“Right — Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, A Child’s Garden of Verses, Kidnapped.”

She glanced over at her companion.

“Can I freshen?” I asked.

“They’re fine. I’ve always been the drinker of the two of us. Anyway, we are winding up our bohemian travels headed to our last stop, Stevenson’s tomb on top of Mount Vaea in Samoa. When he suddenly died, the Samoans, who knew him as Tusitala the storyteller, carried his coffin up Mount Vaea’s for burial. For over 140 years, devout Stevensonians have made the trek to the summit to pay their respects. The beautifully dangerous steep path to his grave is called the Road of Loving Hearts.” 

She lowered her glass and stared past my left shoulder. Even for me, a practiced preserver of silence, the pause proved almost uncomfortable.

“By the way, we admire your expert multi-tasking, listening, pouring,” and here she breaks into a very pleasant alto, “coooom--mis-er-ating—Green Day lyric, right?” 

“Blink-182, but on the same musical map. Anyway, the Turks Caicos novices got nothing on me—I’ll have you know I’m the fastest shot slinger this side of the Caribbean.”

A nod. A grin.

“Let us leave you with a gift, dear barkeep, Stevenson’s epitaph that he wrote himself.” She recited it.

“Under the wide and starry sky,

Dig the grave and let me lie.

Glad did I live and gladly die,

And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:

Here he lies where he longed to be;

Home is the sailor, home from the sea,

And the hunter home from the hill.”

They didn’t stay any longer. The waters seemed to part when she stood, urn cradled and secured.

***

Cacophonous splashes break my reverie as I look up to see most of the outdoor staff swimming up to the bar, even the head of maintenance is doing a mean free style. 

“Our best bartender, our life coach, our confidante, our man of the hour. You may be gone from here, but let us assure you that a little slice of you will always remain behind that bar, my friend. From all of us, we present you with a special tribute that will hang in this hallowed place of honor.” 

The owner draws back to reveal my name imprinted in big, bold capital letters on a three ft. by three ft. metal plaque. It’s in the shape of a bar key, appropriately enough. I can’t help but give a cheer when it’s hung between the Macallan and the Hennessey instead of over the frozen daiquiri machine. You can’t wipe the smile off my face.

A sudden atmospheric drop in pressure cuts short the ‘ray’ in “Hip, Hip, Hooray.” 

And then no one can breathe. 

***

Remote chance, that’s what scientists prophesied about Ceres breaking free from its orbit.

In fact, far-thinking scientists had long championed the idea of setting up life on the ever-stable Ceres, the dwarf planet rich in carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen. But, as it turned out, Ceres couldn’t wait for the world to get its act together, and on a warm early December day, hurdled all of its septillion-pound mass into a stunned earth.

Survivors in their privately owned $79,000 underground bunkers had waited for the catastrophic, and their patience certainly paid off. Two generations flourished in the underground communities. When the time seemed right, the committed survivalists decided to stay put in their womb-like existence, while those who itched for new discoveries chose to leave. 

Feeling in their souls that they had been granted a second opportunity, the ones who exited the interior vowed to get everything right this time. Intolerance had doomed humankind in the first place, so warping the world that differences were never valued. When exploration began, all pledged that they would respect cultural subtleties and would honor all that they did not understand.

Incredible views punctuated the four-mile trek up the mountainous trail on the newly found island gem in the West Indies. When the exploration team reached the island’s summit, careful excavation began. Four feet down, the team found a thirty-inch-deep ditch, and then to the thrill of their adventurous hearts, half a dozen molded seats appeared facing a definitive center. Hypotheticals commenced. Could it be a defensive moat? A bath of healing waters purging sins and offering rebirth in the presence of six devout disciples who observed the spiritual transformation? Discovering the first shards of colored glass in the center only added to the wonderment. Had stained glass protected a holy shrine? Did these originate from bottles holding consecrated oils? They understood that their work had been blessed when a sun ray played upon the fragmented mosaic.

Brushing off the last remnants covering the script on the newly discovered three ft. by three ft. metal plaque, the excited group rushed the artifact to the dig director. He paused to read silently, mouthing the letters carefully so as to not fate the sacred name into a lifetime of mispronunciation. 

Facing the faithful, the misty-eyed leader lifted the prized relic and made the announcement in a voice worthy of triumphal proclamation. 

“Their god has a name. Let us hail the great and the mighty——HARRY.”

(an excerpt from Such Character)  

Many years after my sister's death, I came across her creative writing journal from the senior class of 1953, Spring Fever. What a find. I love all the pieces in this book, but especially her critical review of Mickey Spillane's Kiss Me Deadly. Judy argues a strong case that no one builds a scene quite like Spillane. The teacher comments that she needs to study her punctuation and compound sentence structure. Really, Ms. Creative Writing Instructor.

At the age of 38 Judy traded in her role as stay-at-home mother for a short stint as a cocktail waitress/bartender. Not server, waitperson, or wait staff, no in the 1970s women serving drinks in bars were cocktail waitresses. With her shoulder-length raven black flipped hair, pink halter top, white terry cloth hot pants, tanned tights and white knee-high boots, she commanded any tavern she entered. I have to add that the woman could wield a mean eyeliner pencil.

A good waitress, she proved an even better bartender. I believe that her prowess as a bartender stemmed from her incredible listening ability. Only two members of my family never interrupted the person speaking: Judy and my dad. Patience personified, they observed and waited for their turn to speak. And she possessed an essential trait of every successful bartender—a boisterous, honest laugh.

I like to think of Gilgamesh's Siduri as my Judy, the sage-like ale woman who listens intently, dispenses needed wisdom, and embraces the mantra: Live Life.

Siduri

   ~the alewife from the Epic of Gilgamesh

Stop me if you’ve heard this one…

Gilgamesh, Hemingway, and a lost soul walk into a bar.

Eyes downcast

mumbled mesopotamian moans

not the hero everyone expects,

the unchecked king laments

‘It comes as a bitter truth

that immortality is a sham.

Base offenses fill 

my mortality ledger -

pillaging, plundering,

defiling the brides of countrymen,

failing to cherish a selfless brother in arms, 

I’ve only one question –

what merciless gods have brought me to this place?’

Not searching for a clean, well-lighted place,

begrizzled, besotted, bedeviled Ernest bellows

‘Shut your goddamned whining. 

You want to know why you’re here, buddy -

You drink first to preserve 

a place

a woman

an idea

but at the end

you drink to erase

a place

a woman

and the irony of all ironies,

they shock the ideas right out of you.’

Like a Kilimanjaro echo, Papa’s words 

reverberate 

and then quickly disappear…

The lost soul says, “I’ll take whatever you have on tap.”

Since 1981, Annie Huckabee has worked as an adjunct instructor in English at Del Mar College. The indisputable queen of the side hustle, Annie serves as the State Head Essay Judge and Trainer for the United States Academic Decathlon and is fortunate enough to supervise first year teachers as they complete their certification journey.  Her collection Such a Character celebrates cherished characters from her personal and literary life.  

Facebook

X

Instagram

Linked In

You Tube