Karen has been writing as long as she could hold a pen. Her works can be seen in several literary magazines and websites including Nowhere Poetry & Flash Fiction, Tuck Magazine, Pif Magazine, Unlikely Stories, Tuck Magazine, and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. She founded the Aransas County Poetry Society and hosts a monthly Open Mic in Rockport, Texas. She has a Kindle edition book of poetry, Stumbling to Breathe. She is the Editor-in-Chief of Gnashing Teeth Publishing.
My husband wears his red-brown skin like a badge of honor. It wasn’t always so. He tells me stories of being young and of difference, being teased and hit for that difference. He tells me of finally feeling the first hints of acceptance when he got his “Indian Roll Card.” He carries this worn square of paper proudly. His name and a number. He is Recognized. He is not Native American; there were no Americans when his great-great-grandfather stood against an invading force. He is not Native. He is now bound by a government he resents. He is Miami. He is Myaamia.
She is white-passing. She will not let her skin dictate who she is. She of half of me and all of him. She is wild and more free than I ever was. She doesn’t know the ancient stories: she feels them in her bones. At 2 days old we could see it in her eyes. She was Wise Woman. She was Ancient Mystery and Healing. She was Before.
I am white. Or maybe white. Adopted into white. No one knows. White appearing. I have no voice in the matter. In any matter. I sit in tears watching my family ignored, treated as if they don’t exist, treated like reservation trash. I must stay silent. When I try to write of my love for them, for their humanity, I am being problematic. I am too white to have words for the dissonance I live in.
flowers push hard against earth,
brown sandy loam gives way to
a impetuous green, stroked all
night by moonlight before fracturing
into pink and white and petals, splayed
open, inviting insects to dive in, butts
in the calm Spring breeze, partaking
of the nectar, satisfying their buzz
the slideshow sky is a lesson in
cloud physics, cumulonimbus reposing
in naked delight across the stratosphere,
unashamed of it’s virga, it’s streak
exposed for the world to see
my husband ambles around our
small acre, imagining where to place
the much-talked-about fire pit which
never materializes; there is salt water
coating our windows, forcing us outside
to see the eruption in our yard, the
stickers and stinging nettle reaching out,
cleaving onto our soles, our pant legs,
their hope for reproduction depending
not only on the wind, but on our wandering
my daughter is studious in her bedroom,
her online classes keeping her engaged
beyond the four walls of our home, a
hope for the continuation of our version
of normal continuing beyond this Spring,
our ancient imperatives echoing inside of us,
the innate knowledge of Spring as a bringer
of futures, where Death is not welcome
Lee Hultin found success in writing technical manuals from plumbing to technology that led her to a career in application development. After retiring early and looking for new adventures, she left Chicago’s cold winters and settled on the Island. These days, she spends her time enjoying island life on the Gulf with her rescued husky mix and writing about life.
My ancestry is Russian, from the cold tundra north with a bit of German. You would have thought I wouldn’t mind cold weather, but I did. I have blue eyes and light hair. And I can sing. I often sang the song of my people. My birth mother taught me to sing the day I was born. She taught me the songs of our people and I have never forgotten them.
Not long after my birth, I was placed in a home. The home was cold, and I wasn’t treated well. I guess they thought I was a reject because my room was so cold. I was sold to a couple that had other kids. They were a lot older that me. I didn’t stay there long, because soon I was placed in a foster home. I don’t know why. No one ever told me.
I was transferred from home to home. The last one was nice. There were lots of kids my age to play with. I liked that home. I stayed there for about 5 months. It became very crowded with new kids. I guess they figured I needed to move on to make room for other kids. One day, I was picked up and put in a car. It was a long ride and there were other kids with me. When we finally stopped, I was led out of the car and up to two people standing in the parking lot. That’s where the transfer took place. Pictures were taken and I tried my best to smile. Then some paperwork was exchanged and signed. I had been adopted, again. Before I could say anything, I was put in another car with the two people and went for another long ride. I cried the entire ride.
The person who drove the car was older and the other person was young, not a kid, but not old. Finally, the car stopped, and we all went into this house. It was bigger than my foster home and warm. I even had my own bed, something I relished after sharing in the foster home. The younger person left after a couple of days, and it was just the two of us.
She always made me things I loved to eat and played with me every day. We took daily walks outside. I was called the dancer by neighbors and people we passed because during our fresh air walks, I danced on the sidewalk down the street. I danced to tunes in my head I had heard some time back. We went to the playground daily, often twice a day. The park was filled with other kids, some older, some younger and some my age. Some of the older kids were bullies, but I always stood my ground. She didn’t like this as I was often scolded but she also scolded the bullies, which made me smile. Memories of my past faded into this new life.
Then winter came and it was very, very cold. I wasn’t used to these winters. They were cold and very long. We still went to the playground every day even in winter. I loved playing with the other kids. We chased each other in a game of tag and sometimes had races to see who was the fastest. She even played ball with me, a game I loved even though it’s a boy’s game and I’m a girl.
And then we moved to a warmer climate close to the ocean. We moved to the Island before I turned four. It was a long trip, but I didn’t cry once. The car pulled into a garage and I didn’t want to get out. I screamed and cried and pretty much threw a hysterical tantrum. The garage was empty and cold. It reminded me of the first time I was placed in foster care when they took me to this room with basically nothing in it. I thought she was abandoning me and putting me in another foster home. She finally understood and backed the car out of the garage. We walked into our new home through the front door. I couldn’t have been more proud of our new home. There were lots of rooms and big back yard.
We went on daily walks along the beach, once in the morning and again in the evening. I really didn’t like getting my feet wet but loved walking on the beach. People often stopped us to say how beautiful I was. I liked those compliments, they made me feel proud. I always walked after with my head a bit higher and an extra dance in my steps.
We had a pool in our new home, but I never went in. I just didn’t like being in that much water. Even on our beach walks, the surf would sometimes rush in up to my belly. I quickly ran out of the water. Walking on the sand was much nicer.
I cried a bit on that long night’s journey to Laredo escaping from the Hurricane. Hurricane Harvey it was named. The road, one lane in each direction, was so dark with only a blinking light from an occasional tower in the sky lighting the evacuation path. When we arrived four hours later, I screamed and cried when we started up the open stairs to our room. It was on the second floor even though we had requested a first-floor room. I had never seen stairs and didn’t know what they were and where they led. People came out of their rooms looking to see what was going on. We went back to the front desk as she explained we needed a ground floor room or one accessible by elevator. Two people behind me testified to hearing my screams. We got a ground level room. We had to move the next day to another ground floor room. I don’t really know why. But I was really glad to not have to go up those stairs again.
We came home and neighbors helped take off all those metal shutters so we could get into our home. We had no electricity for the first night back and once we opened the doors, we couldn’t close them. She called this man who came over and fixed the doors. The electricity came back on and life returned to normal again.
She taught me to be gentle with tiny flying things. But I still chased the dragonflies, damselflies, and birds every day when she wasn’t watching.
One day she opened the back door slowly eyeing what was on the deck. She went over to it closely looking at it. Was it a moth or a butterfly? Its wings were upright against the deck and she remembered moths spread them flat out against the surface when resting while butterflies folded their wings together. It was missing a leg but still had both antennas. She held it gently in her hand and showed it to me.
She moved it to a safe place, first by the Bird of Paradise bush. Then to the Ixora that hadn’t been planted yet and was still in its growing pot. The butterfly moved from leaf to leaf each day. Finally, it moved to the bottom of the plastic tub and yet it moved around there too. The next night, the temperatures dropped below freezing. She wanted to save that butterfly but didn’t quite know how or what to do. We checked the butterfly each morning and it was still alive. Then one morning it just spread its wings and flew away.
We settled into a routine of great food, treats and lots of snuggling and love. We walked on the beach every day, in the morning and again just before sunset. We watched movies together on the couch, sitting side by side. Sometimes I lay across her legs or with my head in her lap.
I loved breakfast and dinner with treats in-between. Weekend breakfasts were always extra special treats, especially when I got eggs. Cucumbers, chicken, watermelon and sometimes blueberries were my favorites. But I only ate the blueberries if they were sweet. Otherwise I spit them out on the floor. She wasn’t pleased about me spitting food on the floor, but she never chastised me.
She got me my own bed, several in fact, but I preferred to sleep with her which she let me. Her bed was big, in fact huge. I could spread out on it, often on an angle. Sometimes I would place my body against hers with my head on the extra pillow.
One day she noticed a small lump on my chest and took me to the doctor. The doctor immediately put me in the hospital and performed surgery to remove the lump. It was cancerous but the doctor had removed all of it. Or so we thought. I began to have shakings as I called them. I never told her about them and did my best to hide them from her.
It wasn’t long before I could no longer hide the shakings. One morning I fell into the pool. She rushed me to the doctor again. He gave me some medicine after several tests. But the seizures, as the doctor called them, started to come on more rapidly and I was scared. She rushed me to the emergency room that night at midnight. Brain tumor the doctor said. Brain tumor, brain tumor, brain tumor; the words echoed repeatedly in my mind. What did it mean?
The doctors gave her some medicine for me to stop the seizures. Only the medicine didn’t work. I got worse and it was a bad time as the sun rose in the morning. We went back to my regular doctor that morning.
Shiloh Morrighan Hultin, a beautiful blue-eyed, cream colored Siberian Husky Shepard, passed away peacefully at 8:36am on January 14, 2019. She was 8 and half years. Lee was at her side holding her gently.
Read more great fiction like this in Corpus Christi Writers 2018: An Anthology.
I woke in the dark room. All the doors were closed, the drapes and blinds drawn tight. Jack didn’t like the sun waking him. He lay still sleeping by my side. I couldn’t sleep anymore and I had to see the sun, the light, the Gulf. I decided I wasn’t going to waste any more time waiting on Jack.
Outside, Marty was tinkering on the boat. It was red with white cushions, and his pride and joy. He had just traded up, his older boat for the used red one. It was bigger and more powerful than the old one, and seated eight, a definite boost over the four-seater older one. He had only logged a month on it and was still getting used to how it performed. He was having problems with the GPS working properly and a few minor issues with the motor.
Inside, I helped Jessica put the beer in the tote along with chips and nuts. “Let’s get going,” Marty said as he entered the sliding glass doors. Jack emerged finally, freshly showered and grabbed a cold beer. Jessica laughed and said, “A bit early isn’t it Jack.” Jack just smiled and said, “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” letting out a not so quiet belch while walking down to the pier. I grabbed my sunglasses, hat and hairclip, taking the tote on the way out the door. Jessica locked the lanai doors and walked the 15 steps to the boat. Marty was already in the boat yelling at Jessica, “Did you bring my sunglasses?” “Right here” she said, handing them to him. With everyone on board, Marty turned the motor on and backed out of the pier, put the boat in gear and drove slowly down the canal.
I never tired of the slow crawl moving past beautiful houses, looking at the landscape and imagining living in one. Some still had their hurricane shutters up, meaning it was a second home. I wondered what these people did for a living to have more than one house. They had perfectly manicured lawns with foliage discreetly hiding patios and swimming pools, jet skis and large boats in private piers, and they were so much bigger than my own house. Jessica remarked on a red, garden pagoda in one yard on the corner lot to the Intracoastal. “That’s new,” she said. “The couple who bought that house also owns a new Asian restaurant on Water Street.” Jessica always knew when something changed or who was home or who had bought or sold these beautiful homes.
Marty opened it up, and the little red boat was flying, the engine purring loudly. Three dolphins, attracted by the engine sound and the bubbles the large wake created, were following us. Soon they were jumping alongside, greeting us on this mostly cloudless day. I pulled my hair back and secured it at the nape of my neck with a large clip.
Marty turned right, slowing as he came to little patches of sand islands. They really weren’t islands, only what was left of sand bars moved by the sea and tide. It was the long way around the Island to the Gulf. Marty had said earlier we would stay close to shore since the forecast predicted a few storms. I didn’t mind, I loved being in the boat and taking a little journey around the Island.
Soon we were into the Gulf with the Island on our right. You couldn’t stay too close to the Island because of shallow waters and unexpected sand bars, so Marty moved a bit further out, still keeping the Island in sight. I moved upfront sitting beside him and opened the windshield windows. I loved putting my feet up and feeling the boat bouncing off the waves. The wind picked up and the waves were now becoming swells rising higher and higher on both sides of the red boat. I was laughing at each jump the boat made over the waves, coming down hard on the sea. Thrilled by the roller-coaster ride, my laughter got louder as the adrenaline pulsed in my veins. I looked back at Jack and smiled. He acknowledged me by raising a can of beer. He only liked sitting up front when the waters were smooth as glass.
To the west, we all saw it. Dark skies were rapidly moving east and in our direction. Marty sped up and Jack started to get nervous and said so. Jessica and I switched seats so she could help navigate and I sat beside Jack. Jessica was trying to get the GPS on her cell phone to work. “Let’s get back Marty. I don’t like the looks of that storm coming in,” she said calmly. Before she even finished her sentence fog appeared seemingly out of nowhere. I looked at Jack, a silly grin on his face, taking a sip from another can of beer. In seconds the fog covered the red boat and we could only see a couple of feet in front of us. Jack exploded, “Were all going to die.” I chuckled, “I fully trust Marty, and I think we are in capable hands. After all, Marty knows these waters and has been driving in the Gulf for over 15 years.” Jack’s face, reddened by the coastal sun from our few days of vacation, was now pale. He gripped the bar around the side of the red motorboat with one hand, his knuckles as white as his face, while keeping his other hand firmly around the beer can. “Marty, I don’t want to crash or die,” Jack voiced in a hoarse whisper.
I could see the side of Marty’s face: it was as pale as Jack’s. He said softly, “I’m not sure where we are. I don’t know if we are close to the Island anymore.” The swells and wind were lifting the boat in the air. We hit the water with a hard slap that shook the boat and lifted us from our seats. The fog was so thick I couldn’t see beyond the edge of the boat. Only then did I begin to wonder if maybe, just maybe we might be in trouble.
copyright Lee Hultin
Sister Lou Ella is a former teacher and librarian. She is a certified spiritual director as well as a poet and writer. Her poems have appeared in numerous magazines such as America, First Things, Emmanuel, Third Wednesday, and new verse news as well as in four anthologies: The Night’s Magician: Poems about the Moon, edited by Philip Kolin and Sue Brannnan Walker, Down to the Dark River edited by Philip Kolin, Secrets edited by Sue Brannan Walker and After Shocks: The Poetry of Recovery for Life-Shattering Events edited by Tom Lombardo. She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2017. Her first book of poetry entitled she: robed and wordless was published in 2015. (Press 53.)
rowing words into poems
like a boat on water
the page wakens
after a poetry reading
i was asked today where my poems come from
Read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2019
Louise Pettigrove's upcoming book, MY CATTLE AND MY DEAR ONES, tells the sweeping story of several generations of her family. Mollie was the first wife of Wallis Wade, owner of the Wade Ranch in Sandia in the early 1900’s. Louise's great-aunt, Lou Ella Buchanan Wade, was his second wife.
One of the barriers Wallis and Mollie encountered in their relationship was the Nueces River between them. It often flooded, and crossing it would’ve been impossible on horseback or with a horse and buggy. A ferry had been there since 1877, but it didn’t run in bad weather. In September 1891, Mollie wrote, “So [I] guess you have had plenty of rain. We heard the river was up until today, so Joe and I would not start over to see you all: seems as if fate were against me getting over there.” After six months, Wallis was beginning to grow tired of the difficulties in seeing her, and he saw her apparent hesitation as another barrier. When he stopped answering her letters, Mollie began to worry about losing him. She sent a letter, saying: I’ve concluded to write and ask if you have forgotten my existence. Thought probably some other girl is ahead of me. And should [I] not wonder if there was? There being so many more attractive than poor little me. I do not wonder at your withdrawing your affections for you have certainly been sufficiently tried. 11 Their correspondence resumed. Mollie began to understand she was in love with Wallis when, at the conclusion of an argument between them, she’d noticed he was crying. “I did not realize how it would hurt you until you cried. I felt I knew you better than ever before.” When Mollie realized how much she cared for him, she began to write more openly. On Christmas Eve, Mollie wrote, “I feel somehow as if you had found another girl. It ought not to make any difference with me, but I really do feel jealous. I sometimes think I care for you more than I thought I did.” In January of 1892, Mollie had finally made up her mind to marry Wallis. She wrote, “If you have not forgotten what I promised the evening we went riding, come tomorrow week ‘on Sunday’, and I will tell you something, unless you have learned to care for some other girl, then of course I can’t.” By February 9th, Mollie had given Wallis her answer, and she wrote to assure him: Now Wallis I have given you my promise, and don’t you think for a moment I will break it.” Then she turns to practical matters. “You spoke of having the marriage earlier than June! I can’t promise to yet but may consent for it to be the latter part of April. . . . I have not yet mentioned anything to Mama or Papa or anyone. Will soon tell Mama. Mollie’s letters also tell of visits to friends and family, visits which often stretched into weeks. And now that Mollie was engaged, she became the object of teasing. “I think I will go home Tuesday or Wednesday. I have been having a very good time here … They tried to tease me a little about you but were not at all successful.” In a letter written in March, Mollie explained about some comments from friends and relatives who had tried to influence her: Wallis you do not blame me for answering you the way I did! Did you? I just tell you I did not know you enough to know my own mind, and I had a good deal to work against too: you have been told things on me and so have I on you. But I would not believe until I found out for myself. As to your talking, I have found out that the more I know you, the more you talk, true, you do not talk as much as most young men; but I am not afraid of your not talking enough. What you don’t talk, I will make up for you. Molly wasn’t swayed by the gossip, and by March 19, she was counting the days until their marriage. “The time isn’t two months off now last Friday.” But the biggest barrier of all, Mollie’s health, soon became the couple’s overriding concern. Her first mention of measles occurs in late March. “I guess next Sunday I 12 will have the measles, for Davis has broken out with them today.” She’d been right and soon was sick herself. Mollie was optimistic about her recovery even when she was very ill. On April 19th, she wrote, “This is the first day I have sat up in 5 days. If it were not for the fevers, I think I would have been well by now.” In the April 19th letter, she tells him, “I am so weak, more so than when I was sick with fever last summer. I guess you begin to think what you heard about me being an invalid is about so. Sure has been that way for the last three weeks.” The last letter from Mollie was written on April 26, 1892. She was getting ready to go back to the doctor and was expecting a quick and full recovery. It seems though that Wallis was quite worried. He’d asked Mollie if she believed in prayer, and she’d answered, “Indeed I do. Would be a poor Methodist if I did not and was taught from a child to kneel down and say my prayers every night.” It seems that Mollie and Wallis did marry late in May at her parents’ home in Mathis. There’s another letter that was saved in the packet with Mollie’s letters. It’s from Mollie’s mother. She’s writing after the wedding and expressing worry and concern: \ Dear daughter, I am sorry that you are having fevers again. Be sure and tell Dr how you have been and felt all along since you had the measles. If I come, I will be at the train. You and Wallis come Saturday if the river is low enough. Mollie’s poor health continued, and she died only months after the wedding. Wallis buried her in the Wade Cemetery on the Ranch where he would later be placed next to her. His second wife, Lou Ella, would be buried on his other side. Mollie’s tombstone says simply: Mollie Madray Wade 1868-1892 Today, that tombstone, half-covered by cactus, and the 15 love letters written in a clear flourishing hand are all I know that’s left of Mollie Madray
Lizz Fraga Cosgrove has a BA in English from UT Austin. Her adventures this lifetime include being a teacher, a paralegal, an event decorator, a writer, a wife, a mother, a caregiver but most importantly a Light Seeker.
I’m running late again…
My morning writing, that attempted to become my afternoon writing,
has manifested itself into my evening writing.
I don’t ever desire to be late…
I don’t ever take pride in being late…
But I do take ownership of the relationship I have with Late.
Late and I are very familiar, comfortable companions – sometimes I follow her around, sometimes she follows me - but no matter who is trailing whom, we always seem to be no more than an arm’s length from one another.
Sometimes Late is my enemy – on my wedding day she showed up, uninvited, in the form of me trying to get myself, the bride, and my four young daughters, the bridesmaids, dressed and to the ceremony on time.
Sometimes Late is my best friend – the day of my mother’s funeral she showed up as a mourning dove who had somehow made her way into my home, into my mother’s bedroom and perched herself on the headboard of my mother’s bed – the bed in which she took her last breath…
She forced me to forget about the schedule to be met that day and allowed me to stare into her eyes and remember how much my mother loved feeding the birds in our yard – those days when time didn’t matter and Late was always welcome.
Somehow when you know the time is limited…
when you know each day is a gift…
when you pray for every hour to feel like an eternity…
You also pray for Death to be best friends with Late.
Read more great writing like this in Corpus Christi Writers 2019
Lucas Diercouff was born in Denver, Colorado. He was a Combat Medic with the U.S. Army with tours to Iraq and Afghanistan. Shortly after, he attended New York Film Academy in Burbank, CA where he received a BFA in Filmmaking. He is a member of the Veterans in Media and Entertainment and alumni of the WGF's Veteran Writing Project. His first short film 'Strawberry Barbara' screened at LA Shorts Fest and he has been involved in film productions ever since. His writing has been recognized in the UK Film Festival, BlueCat, and ISA's Emerging Screenwriters competitions. While his focus has largely been screenwriting, he is eyeing a novel and making Texas his home for the foreseeable future.
HARVEY TATE REPORTING: “This footage can give you…the heebie-jeebies! The Gulf of Mexico has RECEDED approximately one hundred feet from the shore! As you can see from this home video, it happened almost instantly. Like a drain pulled from a bathtub! What COULD have possibly caused this? What does this mean for the WORLD? When we receive more information we will pass that along. Wait. Are you kidding me? Is that a surfer?”
Read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2019
Nikki Ikonomopoulos works as an artist, web/graphic designer and writer throughout the South Texas Coastal Bend. Her love of nature shows through the multiple roles she takes on in life. As an artist she works in many mediums including painting, drawing, sculpture, mosaic and more. Her art works including murals, portraits, ink drawings and online store can be viewed at www.alphaomegaart.com. Nikki also operates online resource guides local to South Texas which can be viewed at www.coastalbendattractions.com. After the impacts from Hurricane Harvey she launched a FREE booklet published bi-annually which can be viewed online at www.portaransaswildlife.com or picked up in one of several locations through out the South Texas Coastal Bend. Some of the profits from that book are donated to benefit local organizations that help protect wildlife. As a creative soul she loves the natural beauty that inspires life.
Whispering wind screaming so loud, calling your promises throughout the deaf crowd.
Listen close & hear the sound, your feet will plant firmly into the ground.
Read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2019
Lisa Mason is the author of Summer of Love as well as other work
On July 4, 1980, my neighbors and I decided to throw a big bash for Independence Day. We each had a nice one-bedroom penthouse apartment atop a lovely building in the Noe Valley neighborhood of San Francisco. We each had a good view of the City. There was a wide hall separating our apartments. We each opened our doors and invited party guests to roam between our apartments.
Probably two hundred people showed up. I sequestered Sita, my Siamese girl-cat at the time, in my bedroom with a big sign—“Cat Inside! Do Not Open!” People respected that.
Otherwise, people cleaned out my kitchen of food and booze. My father (of all people) advised me to keep bottles of whiskey, vodka, and gin to serve guests. I’ve never drunk hard booze—still don’t now, I drink my Zevia tonic straight up—but I followed his advice. The party guests cleaned me out, as well as the cookies and the cheeses.
I didn’t mind. It was a fantastic party. No one stole my art books, but I saw one man seated cross-legged on the floor poring over my big hardcover, American Indian Art. When he was done looking, he carefully put the book back on my bookshelf.
I had another book placed on my coffee table, a book I was really excited about—The Dancing Wu Li Masters by Gary Zukav and illustrated by Tom Robinson. The book combined Eastern philosophy and quantum physics and was written with so much wit and clarity, it was a big bestseller.
Around midnight in walked a tall, lanky, red-haired man who was invited by a friend of a friend. He’d traveled across town from the San Francisco neighborhood of North Beach. The friend of a friend called him from my neighbor’s apartment, imploring him to come.
He was Tom Robinson, the illustrator of The Dancing Wu Li Masters. Quantum physics and synchronicity in real life!
We had our first date a week later, on July 11, and married on July 7—not in the same year!
Shortly after July 11, 1980, I moved to an apartment on Telegraph Hill in the North Beach neighborhood with a view of the Bay Bridge (“Viewtiful,” as the late, great Herb Caen used to write). Gary Zukav lived in an apartment a block up Montgomery Street. I met Gary at the Puccini Café later that week. My parents were appalled at how much the apartment’s rent was—then, I believe, $500, now $3,000—but I could walk five blocks to my law book publisher downtown.
Tom had an enormous art studio on Broadway, two blocks away from the apartment. So we could easily walk there, too.
When my publisher moved to the East Bay, we moved with it so I could walk to the office again. I only lived five years in North Beach and I was working a full-time job and working on my writing at night and on weekends. Sadly, I didn’t get to fully engage in the community but gladly I wrote the story “Arachne” there, which sold to Ellen Datlow for OMNI Magazine while I lived in North Beach and was published while I lived in my spacious new East Bay residence.
So it will be 41 years since we first met. Happy Anniversary, Tom