Notes about The Clinch Mountain Review The Clinch Mountain Review is the literary review of Southwest Virginia Community College. This year, the CMR celebrates its sixteenth year of publication. All of the authors have a tie to the southwestern Appalachian region of Virginia. In these pages, you will find poems, short stories, and memoirs; the hope is that something will endear itself to you. Additionally, I want to remind you that the CMR accepts submissions from authors and artists who live, work, or have a tie to southwest Virginia. SWCC students can also submit poems, short stories, and memoirs, as well as artwork for the cover. Submission guidelines can be found on The CMR website: http://www.sw.edu/cmr. S. Russell Wood, Editor September 2020 The Clinch Mountain Review 2020 Cover Art by Kohava Blount Cover Art Design by John Dezember Copyright 2020 The Clinch Mountain Review All rights to works in The Clinch Mountain Review revert to individual authors after publication herein. Authors should cite The Clinch Mountain Review as place of original publication when republishing a work elsewhere. Poetry Where I’m From Chrissie Anderson Peters 3 Kitten Lou Gallo 5 Through This Year, If David Wayne Hampton 9 The Loneliest Thing R. R. Beach 12 Neighbors Craig Kurtz 14 The Crocus Inheritance Piper Durrell 16 Wild Kingdom David Wayne Hampton 18 The Way of Life Katherine Chantal 21 Isolation 2020 Les Epstein 24 Devil Drives a Corvette Matthew J. Spireng 26 Radio Matthew J. Spireng 28 Transient Gale Kohava Blount 29 The Café Chrissie Anderson Peters 30 On to Infinity Piper Durrell 31 Glutton For Punishment Frank Shortt 34 This Too Shall Pass Oscar L. Price 36 Hideaway B. Chelsea Adams 37 A Mind of Leaves Lisa Ress 39 Marks of Beauty Macon Clement 41 When a Parent Dies Joe Womack 43 Disheveled Linda Hoagland 44 Winter Scene Ben Rasnic 47 Fiction Control Chrissie Anderson Peters 48 Creative Non-fiction/Memoir Never Enough Hugs Chrissie Anderson Peters 61 Royalty Russell County Oscar L. Price 67 Ten Years Too Late Linda Hoagland 78 Contributors’ Notes 2 Poetry Where I’m From By Chrissie Anderson Peters I am from poor dirt farms, from Pocahontas ginger ale and Ford automobiles. I am from the doublewide paneling, old, yellowed, and smelling of Pledge. I am from daisies, delicate white flowers with yellow buttons, and my mother’s mother’s mother. I'm from midnight Michigan pilgrimages and Sunday fried chicken. From Arthur and Dorothy, I'm from the Little stubbornness and the Vance love of money. From witches living under the bed, 3 and St. Bernards playing leapfrog. I'm from slick-backed Baptist hymnals, Rock of Ages, cleft for me. I'm from Adria and Baptist Valley, cheap red hotdogs, and Toney’s lunchmeat. From the water moccasin that bit Papaw’s ankle as a boy, The glass eyes of Uncle Paul and Uncle Earl, I am from Mamaw’s photo albums inside her coffee table, the doors that slid open, yielding treasures inside; I am even more made up of the stories Papaw fed me on from childhood ‘til Alzheimer’s took them from him, Spring 2014. 4 Kitten By Lou Gallo We take her as a sign as we have always done, The kitten who showed up on our deck yesterday When Cat left for work, calling me on the cell A bit later to effuse over this new one, sweet, Cold and hungry. “When you leave,” she said, “be sure to feed her again.” I adore the decency And kindness of this woman. As for the kitten—grey and white, pinkish nose, Her purr resounding as she rubs against your pants As you attempt to walk to the car without Tripping over her, so desperate and intent she is. We figured she would have vanished when We returned hours later—but no, she rushed Out from under the deck to greet me, then Cat 5 A few minutes later. “She must be lost!” Exclaimed my wife. “What should we do? It’s supposed to freeze and maybe snow tonight. She’ll die or get slaughtered by the groundhog.” We couldn’t carry her inside. Who knows What fleas or afflictions she might have That could infect our other two cats And occasional dog when the girls visit? We set up an old carrier with blankets And a little food, and she crawled right in As if prescient to our intents. Then the outrageous vet bills—eight thousand Already on one Visa for four years of vaccines, Medication and repairs during the last four years. How could we take on another? Or should we declare ourselves a neo-St. Francis And minister to the lost and hungry? 6 It’s already enormous work to take care of the others. On whom would the burden of still another fall? We keep lamenting, too much to do, too little time . And now this forlorn yet gentle, fragile guest? Has she had her shots, been checked for feline leukemia And all the rest of it? Did some wretch toss her out? It will be cold, cold, cold tonight, Artic invasion Across the country. My daughters, of course, yearn for us to keep her. They can’t because Cinnamon would go nuts In their small apartment. What to do? I think of the cages immigrant children Have been locked into and feel rage sizzle in my blood. 7 Poor little creature, we actually loved you at first sight. What harm might befall you, another innocent Beset by predators, weather, hunger and loneliness? Anybody out there want a beautiful little kitten? St. Francis, where are you? 8 Through This Year, If By David Wayne Hampton I already missed living at my grandmother’s when we moved into the 2-bedroom factory house, and I didn’t want the top bunk over my sister, but my mom let me hang my Garfield calendar in the kitchen next to the back door, and she wrote on Wednesday, June 15th, “this is the day I stopped drinking.” My fourth-grade textbooks were as heavy as the walk home from the bus stop, and the September sun cared little of whether his car was in the driveway or not, but I held my little sister’s hand tighter, as the diesel fumes dissipated, and hoped we had pudding pops in the freezer. When I jumped on my Huffy, I didn’t wait 9 for the pouring of confessions to my mom, or see the look on her boyfriend’s face after finding his empty liquor bottles drained in the sink. I pedaled hard to escape the smashing glass on pavement, popping like the rifle fire of choice words behind me. I inhaled freedom with every cold, sucking breath. Maybe she told him to take his Trans Am and leave. I wasn’t around for the fallout, so I don’t know. My sister, I think, was safe in our room watching TV, and having tea parties with Skipper in the Dream House. We had been on this ride before, and it was all my fault, but even over a bowl of Frosted Flakes I couldn’t get her to see, 10 even when I ripped that calendar right off the wall. There wasn’t as many boxes this time, thank God, and I didn’t care if my GoBots were mixed with her Barbies. My sister and I would get our own rooms, thanks to Mom’s new job and help from the Housing Authority. I can’t say when I learned about that fickle relationship, though, when people asked, we were always doing just fine. But somewhere between the over-bite of a ripe peach and a missed visit from the tooth fairy, I found it was right there all along, that familiar, gnawing, hard little pit. 11 The Loneliest Thing By R. R. Beach I was sitting on William Trainor’s porch up in the hills of Tennessee listening to the little rill running down through the mountain laurel asking myself when the crooked tree on the far slope all decayed and rotten was going to give up the ghost and come crashing down while off in the distance an old logging truck was burning up its gears on the road over Buffalo Mountain with the smell of woodsmoke working its way up the hollow 12 as I was looking off into the purple haze of my existence I saw the loneliest thing ever a tired old propjet like the ones with the Rolls Royce engines that should have been mothballed years ago beating its way through the mottled sky uncertain of its destination as if it ever had a place to land with twenty souls or so condemned to fly over these sad hills forever 13 Neighbors By Craig Kurtz My neighbors I don’t really know – I wave “Hi” from the patio; we see each other outside when we’re mowing our lawns now and then; I only know them from afar when one of us waxes their car; I’m all for being neighborly providing there’s a boundary; I’ll be polite but breaking bread I will not do with the undead. I wave to them from my driveway – they wave back, say “Have a nice day”; a cup of sugar, lend a tool, a jump start even, that’s all cool; 14 but if they think I’ll shake their hand they’re really out in La-La Land; and if they think I’d let my kid get near theirs, then their brains have slid; I’m not so snobby how they’re bred but I don’t hang with the undead.