Willimantic Writers Literary Magazine Volume I: 2020-2021 Willimantic Writers Literary Magazine Volume I: 2020-2021
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Willimantic Writers Literary Magazine Volume I: 2020-2021 Willimantic Writers Literary Magazine Volume I: 2020-2021 This literary magazine contains submissions from writers who participated in the Willimantic Writers Group in 2020. The Willimantic Writers Group meets monthly to share our writing with other writers. Anyone who writes is welcome to attend and participate. The Willimantic Writers Group is grateful for the support of the Willimantic Public Library, and especially Director Dan Paquette’s technical assistance. If you are interested in joining the Willimantic Writers Group, please contact the library at [email protected] or 860-465-3079. We hope you enjoy reading this literary magazine; we hope it inspires you to write and then share that writing. Willimantic Writers: Volume I 2 Willimantic Writers Literary Magazine Volume I: 2020-2021 From the Willimantic Public Library’s Director, Dan Paquette: It has been a pleasure to host the Willimantic Writers Group at the physical and virtual library over the past year. I have been amazed every month at the variety and depth of the pieces that have been submitted and the way that the group works together to help each other hone, craft, and rework their pieces in a supportive environment. I hope that you enjoy our first literary magazine and if you are so inclined, join the writer's group at their next meeting! Authors retain all rights to their work published in this literary magazine. Reproduction or redistribution of works contained herein without the author’s permission is prohibited. The Willimantic Public Library supports and celebrates local writers and freedom of expression. The following material does not necessarily represent the views of the Willimantic Public Library or its employees. Willimantic Writers: Volume I 3 Table of Contents Cover photo (front & back) Randy McMahon Choosing a King for a Castle Virginia Light 5 How will you remember this time Karen Adrian 6 January Morning Sandy Geres 8 Pandemic Doubt Sandy Geres 9 Railroads Diane Ayer 10 Silent Season Mary Mullen-Barnett 11 Tethered Mary Mullen-Barnett 12 The White Hen Susan Marie Powers 13 Third Thursday Street Fest Diane Ayer 14 When the Muses Call (What I Love) Virginia Light 15 White Grains of Sand Karen Adrian 17 Wild Hearts Susan Marie Powers 18 Author biographies 19-21 Willimantic Writers: Volume I 4 Choosing a King for a Castle I would not want a husband Better for me would be Who, though otherwise good and steady, Cnut the Great bore the name of Æthelred the Unready I would ignore the can-nut /can-noot Conundrum And though he might be a stylish dresser And make him my mate I would not marry Edward the Confessor Virginia Light Too hard to call to dinner would be A husband called Harthacnut I would get confused, Can you, can-nut, or can-noot? Willimantic Writers: Volume I 5 How will you remember this time We sit watching scary movies I lay beside you that make us laugh so hard as the hour grows late we lean on each other and spoon you because I like it, with careless disregard maybe more than you do, because you can’t squeeze your heart a warm snuggle into foolish small spaces where I lay my head in loving you and I can because your days are too long just be myself. and mine are stretched too thin We laugh to hold it all together. So until I can’t breathe, I tickle you silly, until you fill my lungs with a whisper of your joy my cold fingers reaching and I inhale up to your armpits the scent of happiness. because I told you Willimantic Writers: Volume I 6 that it’s the warmest part The world may have stretched of your 8-year-old body, farther apart, while you fight me threads in a tapestry with giggles and squeals no longer tethered in the arsenal of your love. together and desperate I smile gently for a normalcy because neither of us that’s already been replaced. believes such silliness But I cling to my heartbeats, since the warmest part each one pulsing with memories has always been your heart, that aren’t tainted with just fear. and I cleave to the vain hope that you’ll never outgrow Karen Adrian our nightly “cold-cold” snuggles. Willimantic Writers: Volume I 7 January Morning Watching the breakfasting birds from the window makes me smile. Handsome cardinal, hungry chickadees enjoying seeds and suet. Bluejay and downy woodpecker, lopsided on the feeder, lean in. Well-fed gray squirrel taking note from the nearby maple. All fascinating and calming on this cold and quiet winter morning. No clear pecking order at the feeder. The birds enjoy their repast; each in turn seems invited in, looks around, nodding to feathered friends, bright eyes alert to sounds as evergreen branches flutter. Forecast hints of snow, but just now morning skies are clear and frosty-breath cold. Quiet and lovely. I take this in, inhale deep gulps of such feathered beauty, and exhale a sense of serenity. Sandy Geres Willimantic Writers: Volume I 8 Pandemic Doubts This pandemic life I am living is months old now, Sadness. Worry. Self doubt. yet still wildly uncomfortable, unfamiliar. I am caught in a labyrinth of loss. I want to reject it-- Loss of the precious elements push it away, and choose a different life of my seventy years of living that I took for granted, from what the past year of disease and feel gratitude to have had. Fruitful years has exploded onto this earth. raising a family. Doing fulfilling work. Singing. Weeks upon weeks of increased stress, I feel regret for my children-- young adults waning human interaction, more sleep time, whose many dreams and hopes for this life but not the sleep that restores. are being crushed in this pandemic. Insecurity about what is coming next. And I feel powerless Shadowy dreams that I barely remember to keep their dreams from shattering. when I wake, bone tired. Sandy Geres Willimantic Writers: Volume I 9 Railroads Downtown railroad juncture holds me up in traffic - She called theirs a fatherless family - watching swift waters cut below weary branches he was too busy following rails dropping yellow leaves that race through the Shenandoahs - under the bridge, under me, and astride the mills kept the kids coming while he kept going River ran the thread mill, railroad made it profit - mill’s quiet now, train’s tattoo entrances Last car rumbles by, no caboose, but a red light while I wait to get home fades into leaning birches as the gate goes up Traffic jostles across the tracks and I see the sun set My grandpa drove locomotives on the rusty oiled tracks shimmering gold hauling coal out of blue ridges like promises to keep, paychecks to deliver he’d bring home his paycheck and his love and then disappear in a cloud of smoke Diane Ayer Willimantic Writers: Volume I 10 Silent Season Frenzy to finis— I have entered decades of Januaries, Between done and rebirth, December is done, but now the bulbs are busy below. ending with New Year’s ruse: I hear found space In this silent season mostly, a mere digit changes. in this disconnect of calendar and season they choose The new year promises calling me doing over dormant, light and change— outside the rows fertile over fallow, but not here, not now. of my steady expectations. discovering over enduring. We just inch to longer days. I listen. New England’s winter lurks ahead. Mary Mullen-Barnett Willimantic Writers: Volume I 11 Tethered In blustery breezes Tethered, October leaves whip until you’re not. high and yellow against the cloudless blue— Drop to dust? tethered, Decay? until they’re not. Or, swirl and spin gently within What next? fed by gravity’s grounding— Gravity’s spiral— to grow large then crinkle to dust, and find a new way? or melt in matted decay. Mary Mullen-Barnett Willimantic Writers: Volume I 12 The White Hen Atilt, a white sailboat tipped askew lovely moon-shaped eggs waiting for her warmth. the hen propels her bulk. I hold my breath, will her to hurry, Claws tear dry leaves, wings raised, and she reaches the coop. I know, she imagines flight and trundles toward her coop. without looking, she has planted herself atop eggs The hawk’s shadow circles, reptilian eyes head first, tail feathers protruding -- a bouquet. target the soft curve of her neck: The hawk circles in the sky. the place where talons sever heads. One less death in a world that wears us out, She hurries, my hen, July sun on her feathers, this hen’s victory a small joy to relish. nothing more important than the nesting bin I return to the house, my own nesting bin. where there are no predators, only Somewhere there are lovely moon-shaped eggs. Susan Marie Powers Willimantic Writers: Volume I 13 Third Thursday Street Fest A paper plate then rolled right past our feet; we saw a wicked wind bruise gray the sky, Third Thursday fest enticed us down Main Street. yet this fun fest enticed us down Main Street. We shared a slice, samosas too, waving hi; the bank’s front steps, some danced a polka beat. Downpour just threatened, edged off the heat, cool air brought laughs, release - our faith held high: My cuz, your old colleague. Then more to eat - good times prevailed, we chased our blissful beat. popcorn, a beer; we watched people stream by - this Thursday’s fest enticed us down Main Street.