The

A Journal of Contemplative Literature

Vol.2 Issue.2I S S N 2 1 6 9 - 3 1 4 5

Wayfarer

Featuring the poetry of Lynn creager, Holly Day, Amber Koneval, Michael Lee Johnson, Diana Dur-ham, christian Reifsteck, Andrea Janelle Dickens, John Davis Jr., Asnia Asim, and Dawnell Harrison. Also featuring a preview of the forthcoming novel, Th e Nameless Man. And a conversation between Actress/novelist nora caron and Editor L.M. Browning.

Shades of Beingby Shari Landeg

Versions of KabirTranslated by J.K. McDowell

Feature PoetC.B. Anderson

Awakening in the Desertby Mike Higbee

Feature PhotographerKrischan D. Rudolph

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contents

3The

A Journal o f Contemplat ive Literature

WayfarerVol. 2 Issue. 2

FounDing EDitoRL.M. Browning

AssociAtE EDitoRMathew Devitt

A wayfarer is one who chooses to take up a long journey on foot. The journey we chronicle within the journal is that of our path across the inner-landscape of our own being, as we reach for an-swers to the central questions of our existence. spirituality is the culmination of the individuals desire to understand the deeper meaning in life. The works found within The Wayfarer are those small truths we gather while traversing the breadth of our days; shared in a belief that through an exchange of insights we help one an-other move forward.

The Wayfarer is a quarterly journal distrib-uted by Homebound Publications that explores humanitys ongoing introspective journey.

About Homebound Publications

it is the intention of those at Homebound to re-vive contemplative storytelling. The stories hu-manity lives by give both context and perspective to our lives. some old stories, while well-known to the generations, no longer resonate with the heart of the modern man or address the dilem-mas we currently face as individuals and as a global village. Homebound chooses titles that balance a reverence for the old wisdom; while at the same time presenting new perspectives by which to live.

2013 Homebound Publications All Rights Reserved. All rights to all original artwork, photography and writ-ten works belongs to the respective owners as stated in the attributions. All Rights Reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or intro-duced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or oth-erwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and publisher. Except for brief quota-tions embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Photo by Krischan D. Rudolph 2

Shades of Being by Sjari Landeg 3

Versions of Kabir by J.K. McDowell 9

Feature Poet C.B. Anderson 10

Poetry of Andrea Janelle Dickens 12

Crossing Paths: Interview with Nora Caron 13

The Poetry of Lynn Creager 16

The Poetry of Holly Day 16

The Poetry of Diana Durham 17

The Poetry of Amber Koneval 18

The Poetry of Michael Lee Johnson 18

Awakening in the Desert by Mike Higbee 19

Photo by Christian Reifsteck 22

The Poetry of Christian Reifsteck 23

Photo by Krischan D. Rudolph 24

The Poetry of John Davis Jr. 25

The Poetry of Dawnell Harrison 25

The Poetry of Asnia Asim 26

Preview of The Nameless Man 27

contents

Shades of Beingby Shari Landeg

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5The doctors and tibetan monk gath-er at the end of my bed, their ur-gent words, whispered, not to wor-ry. Above them, a cloud like substance floats just below the ceiling like a dark, depressive halo, edges lower and lower. i study it, wonder what it is and the answer comes immedi-ately. grief. it is their grief. And it hangs unhappily over their heads, waits to descend. i know now. i know that i am dying.

The monk comes to take my hand, his smooth palms puffed like new baby softness. Maroon robes waft spiced spiritual scents, smells that hold me, keep me present. He fumbles in his shirt front, offers me a handkerchief. i shake my head no, as i should have done three days ago.

We were part of a group retracing siddhartha got-amas footsteps to Bodh-gaya in Bihar. one of the poorest states in india, one of the most sacred, the Prince spent seven weeks seated beneath a Bodhi tree absorbed in contem-plative meditation, rising from his reverie a fully en-lightened Buddha.

We traveled choked in dust, bandanas wrapped around our mouths and noses, our coach caught in a convoy of trucks that broke down, one after the other, after the other, traf-fic trailing in a long patient line behind us. Exhausted, we stopped for food.

The monk offered his plate of raw white radish, fresh cut tomato. Religious eti-quette has taught me to accept what is offered by ordained sangha. unthinking him and i in that instant, when the uncooked fruit burst through my mouth, bitter sweet.

Later, when i looked over the balcony to where kitchen boys worked the restaurants roadside trade, i acknowledged our thoughtlessness. A teenage boy squatted barefoot beside a bucket of black water. clothes sizes too big hung from his slight frame. He saturated a filthy rag, stood, wiped over a counter where food was being prepared.

i kept knowledge of our error, the boys dirty act, quiet not to burden, a silence that festered known and

unknown, deep in my gut.

in Bodhgaya that evening, nothing but the present mattered. sunset descended in tones. A huge hand emptied a paint pal-ette across the hori-zon, played about. Pastel finger streaks of mauve-pink and vio-let-blue, splayed across the sky. A tranquil calm draped over the village in heaven-time folds, peace palpable as the earth exhaled.

We spent time in the shadows of Maha-bodhi temple, seated as the Buddha had, the green sheltered grounds awash in ma-roon and yellow, as tibetan monks and lay practitioners, prostrat-ed in their hundreds. under the Bodhi tree, dappled in scented shadow, air flowed thick and heavy. Prayers and chants and muted laughter mingled to the soft, re-petitive click of stone beads, floral and fruit

and herbal scents, pungent and warm sweet. i was the only Buddhist in our group, apart from

the monk. There was a moment in the temple inte-rior, crowded with sweat and reverence, when our eyes

We spent time in the shadows of Mahabodhi Temple,

seated as the Buddha had, the green sheltered grounds awash in maroon and yellow,

as Tibetan monks and lay practitioners,

prostrated in their hundreds. Under the Bodhi tree,

dappled in scented shadow, air flowed thick and heavy.

Prayers and chants and muted laughter mingled to the soft,

repetitive click of stone beads, floral and fruit and herbal scents,

pungent and warm sweet.

6met, the extent of our spiritual privilege, mirrored in the other.

now, in this humble hospital cell, i grieve silently for what the monk may eventually realizethe deadli-ness of his gentle offering, extended with such quiet and generous humility. For the burden of a truth that will bow him low before his masters, those that teach the transitory nature of existence, impermanent, ever-changing. truths that hover, present and real, unspoken in this room. .

Life ebbs in subtle seconds. i can no longer feel my arms, the needles sharp metal tip repeating at my veins. A doctor bends close, blinks. The tips of her lashes brush her eyebrows. A long plait falls over her shoul-der, lies curled along the white sheet like a shiny black snake. tension pulls at her face, casts deep dark shad-ows beneath her beautiful eyes.

someones breath soft and warm in my ear, Do you want us to call your family? speech remains as thought only, unformed in my mouth as my consciousness, per-meable, fluid, readies itself for flight. i turn away - theres no point worrying them yet, theres nothing they can do. to know would only cause them undue suffering.

i see them nowmy husband and children, know the difficulty they will have accepting my death. The raw shock of it, their devastation. The pain and grief they will go through, not being here with me at this most crucial of moments.

But i know also that once their grief is unfettered from the emotion, and clarity has instilled itself in their minds once more, they will realize as i realize, that i could not have died in a more significant, more spiritu-ally appropriate place. i am in sacred sarnath, just along the road from the Deer Park where the Buddha first turned the wheel of the Dharma. For a Buddhist there is no better place to die. This realization, the knowledge that comes with it, brings a great, comforting, inner peace.

i visualize green tara, mentally construct the de-itys form, breathe her protective mantra deep into my lungs, hold on to the sacred syllables for a long, slow while, expel them gently through my nose.

our teachers continually remind us that the en-lightened qualities these beings possess are not removed from us. They are inherent within. Visualizing Buddhas such as tara allows us to stimulate and activate specific qualities attributed to them, tap into this inner source when the need arises. now, the potency of doing so is

immediately apparent. i feel the deitys presence start to fill me with a strength i thought long past.

i close my eyes, sink into her mantra and when i open them sometime later, the monk is the only one left in the room. He sits on a warped wooden chair in deep meditation, face free of all concern. Behind his head, tired paint peels in thin grey shards. still he sits beatified.

He senses im awake, opens his eyes, moves quickly from his chair, anxiety etched hard on his face now, no need for worry, everything is being done to help you, ev-erything possible, so dont worry.

i need to ease his fear, but its still so hard to talk. i breathe deep and air comes, clean and temple tinged, flows and fills my lungs, forms and floats my words, im fine, believe me. im at peace. This placei am blessed to be here. You know this. You understand.

He nods his head slightly. But he still looks worried and confused now, lost to me somehow. caught by the magnitude of the moment. And it fixes me. it fixes me more firmly to my physical self.

Energy comes now from somewhere beyond, rushes back into my body, a sparking pulsing charge so that i grab his arm, pull him close, breathe in his ear. should i not survive this, please do phowa.

Phowa practices are conducted by tibetan Bud-dhist teachers who have been specifically trained to help people at the time of death. Different rituals, ceremonies and prayers are conducted over a 49 day period. Prior to, during and after death the consciousness is continu-ally informed, advised and guided. Everything that can be done, will be done to make this transition as smooth, peaceful as possible.

For Buddhists, every moment is an opportunity for practice. Death is no exception, is seen as yet another chance for deepening ones spiritual practice and growth, is treated and treasured as such.

ones mental state at this time, is paramount, for it is only the physical body that dies, the consciousness con-tinues on, journeying through various stages or bardos until its next incarnation. if the mind is unsettled or agi-tated, grasping to life, clinging to memories, transition can be fraught with difficulty. But if the mind is calm and at peace, able on passing to recognise its luminous clear light nature when that crucial moment becomes evident, then even at death there is opportunity for enlighten-ment, for great spiritual advancement.

should i not survive this, it is important to me that phowa practice is done. Knowing there will be a teach-er close to assist my consciousness as it begins the next stage of its evolution, is a great comfort.

7sharon Landeg received a B.A in English Literature and a B.A. Hons in Asian Studies from the University of Tasmania in Australia. She lives in Queensland, is currently enrolled as a corresponding student with The New Seminary in NYC and will be ordained in Interfaith ministry in 2014. Sharon has had poetry featured in Australia in the Famous Reporter Literary Journal. This is the first time her prose has been published.

i know the monk will honor my request. But i dont cling or grasp at that want now. if my karma is favorable, my request will be fulfilled. if not, then it is out of my hands.

i am happy and blessed to die in the shadow of sarnath stupa, where the Buddha taught all those centuries ago. Ancient wisdoms which have informed, shaped my life. now my death. The merit i have already incurred, that has led me to this sacred place, what will incur from this point on, is more than enough.

My request for the phowa ushers forth the monks understanding again. i see it in his eyes. A subtle shift, a re-memberingour spiritual place, his and mine, here and now and other. He nods, smiles, his voice calm, of course, of course but please, have no concern. Just rest. Rest.

i look into him, know his goodness, and it fills me with a surging strength of love i cant definenot of this world almost. A powerful joy infuses my being. An elation that springs, fills me with a feeling of boundless energy, ripens over my face.

i tell him then, tell him why im not concernednot at all. i tell him i have no fear. That this is what i have worked towards, what our teachings prepare us for. if i cannot put my practice into action now, then what has it all been for? What good fortune i have, to be here in this holy place, at this most tenuous, most sacred of times.

That i am blessed too, by his presence, here with me now.

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9Versions of Kabir XLIItranslated by J.K. McDowell

Those holy pools are only water.Water, fresh and cool on a hot day.Those great commissions of paint, sculpture and block,They long for the Divine as much as we do.Pray for them, not to them.The holy books can only be words plus there is much missed by the scribe.Are you too busy writing and not looking?Kabir is seeing, feeling, and living the truth.That is what is really real.Artist, Poet & Mystic, can you say the same?

Versions of Kabir IIItranslated by J.K. McDowell

Friend listen!Yearn for the Beloved in your living.comprehend the Beloved in your living.Embrace the Beloved in your living.Living in the Beloved is the Path to salvation.cut the ropes now, there are no blades in death, only bondage.it is true the soul leaves the Body in death, but that is not freedom.if you living in the Beloved now, there is even more Love later.if you are elsewhere now, then every breath is just another payment on that mortgage for your condo in the city of Death.Living is the truest union, noW and HEREAFtER.so embody the truth, seek a proper teacher, listen for the Divine song

Kabir says:A full card, keeps you on the dance floor of Eternity.i am a slave to this Music, this Love, this Dance.

Versions of Kabir XLIIItranslated by J.K. McDowell

i laugh at the joke: the swimming fish is thirsty.This home, your home, is a place of soul.Yet you wander from forest to desert and back.What? Every other week?Listen friend. circle the globe, every direction.if you do not find your soul first,Then these travels differ little from just walking in place.

J. K. McDowell is the author of the poetry collection night, Mystery & Light. An Ohioan expat living in Cajun country, McDow-ell lives twenty miles north of the Gulf Coast with his soul mate who also happens to be his wife and their two beautiful companion parrots. McDowell recently contributed the Foreword to the revised expanded edition of L. M. Brownings Ruminations at twilight published by Homebound Publications.

c.B. Anderson was the longtime garden-er for the PBS television series, The Vic-tory garden. Hundreds of his poems have appeared in scores of print and electronic journals out of North America, Great Britain, Ireland, Australia and India. His first book of poetry, Mortal soup and the Blue Yonder, will be published by White Violet Press in the late spring or summer of 2013.

Creationc.B. Anderson

Must do without that helping hand from Heaven. clive James

While gazing upward through transparent parsecs of interstellar space,For unbelievers suddenly to feelAs though inside a vast cathedrals narthex,suffused with wonder, is a commonplace Experience, no more

Arcane and no less realThan when the faithful breach an inner door

to gain the nave where other disappointed communicants have goneto bend a knee and say their scripted prayers,Aware theyll not be joining the anointed.The game-rules limiting a bishops pawn Are not devised to leaven

The solemnized affairsBetween compliant congregants and Heaven,

As if there were no better strategy Than gambits learned by roteFrom some authoritative hidebound text.Reductive outlooks license tragedy,But higher truth is like an asymptote impossible to touch,

Though easy to get nextto. god remains unknowable as such,

Religion being solace for the damned, Yet trying to explainThe random misery afflicting EarthWith branching lineages diagrammedin books extolling Darwin is a vain shortsighted exercise,

Which isnt even worthA second look from elevated eyes

That rake the sky on any given night. The fittest may surviveor they may not; selection operatesunnaturally, by conscious choice: the rightof those who make it through the day alive. As one designer sleeps,

His heritor createsnew rules, evolving games shell play for keeps.

Feature Poet: C.B. Anderson

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The Illusion of Controlc.B. Anderson

When at last the hour of the furtive dog has comeAnd theres no end in sight to crime or shame or slander,ideals, though steeped in confidence, are meaningless.The child submits to guiding hands, but in the slumof them all resolutions falter and meander,A shabby state no plan or statute can redress.

When vernal floods recede, that rich Aegyptian siltThe bread of Africa on which the likes of MosesWere weaned and raisedlies landlocked in a millers pond,And there a changeling prince may grind his hoard of guiltAmong the bulrushes and rank paludal roses,With fantasied forgiveness in the just beyond.

The water strider nimbly skates upon a crustof surface tension, air and waters interface;Between the warm and cool it glides, and strikes a balancein shifting angles of the daylight, since it must:it bends to forces that have always been in place,Pretending to rely on will and native talents.

The Wordc.B. Anderson

In the beginning genesis 1:1 & John 1:1

A signature, complete with curlicue,Legitimizes any written pledge,But crabbed encyclicals, upon review,Will only lead a reader to the edge

of boredom or despair. Whats true of wordsis also true of modern lofty thoughts,Just as what once was the domain of birdsis now the habitat of astronauts.

A self-appointed arbiter of truthAnd probity is plagued with relativesTheyre neer-do-wells, untutored and uncouth.The shabby hovel where his Jesus lives

Lies somewhere near the bottom of his heart,A heart evincing no more self-relianceThan nature does when imitating ArtAs though mimesis were a noble science.

opinions vary, which is why ones ownshould be examined with at least as muchDistrust as those of others, lest the boneof fierce contention be the very crutch

That is the causenowise a remedy!of self-induced unnecessary lamenessin halfway open minds. The penaltyself-righteousness exacts is stifling sameness

At every turn, yet nursing wanton thirstFor mere variety begets no wordWorth waiting for, unless one lives immersedin scripts from theaters of the absurd.

The Zen GardenAndrea Janelle Dickens

shuttered face, eyes plunged downward, eyes that prise the remnant coals piled

in the firepit. The forward pitch

of her shoulders. she moves as loudas the snow on the mountains in the distance,

placing pine needles, maple leaves

in a front pocket of her orange apron. Betweenbreakfasts bitter green tea gone cold

and congealed rice balls, i watch

her work. Her rake excavates a hush:grains balance along new furrows. i linger

too long. My body wont budge

by force, its motion two beats too slow.shes the absence of a narrative; just still frames,

no tracks of stories in between. Five

minutes later, shes moved ten feet.i close my eyes, unable to find that still place,

and when i open them again, shes moved,

and yet, each time i look, shes rooted, raking.

How It Will EndAndrea Janelle Dickens

Driving all day among the monotony of fields, she says to you theres always a solitary tree in the middle of each field. shes right. springs of green freckled with the brown calyxes that used to coddle cascades of purple blossoms: a lapwing launches in a fugue of wing beats. she turns againto you and asks why? Furrows of tractor tread, two-by-two, shrug against such order. You both begin to list the reasons. shade for the cows.And farmers. it grew tall enough before anyonenoticed, so they decided to leave it there. Light hunches over seas of green, limbs grow as if to point the tides of wind. tides of lightthe wind-whipped standing water after lastnights wind. A way to find your orientationamong the fields that fold the same. That oak sits next to the outcrop of rock, another willow in the low marshy bit. You realize that all thesereasons still lead to the same landscape. The fields covered in a flannel of dust, the trees still hanging on to summer in their leaves. You tell her,my tree would be a lightning rod. she says,that would mean it would die. And you admit,staring past a hickory, better that tree than I.

Andrea Janelle Dickens is a medievalist, artist and translator who splits her time between Oxfordshire, England and the US where she will begin teaching this fall at Arizona State University. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in the Found Poetry Review, Thin Air, streetlight, and new south among other journals. | Photo Below: Kevin James (Flickr CC)

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Article by L.M. Browning

i first had the pleasure of meeting nora caron this past January at the Parker House Hotel in Boston, my home away from home when i am working in the city.

Homebound Publications had just signed nora for a two book deal with more on the horizon and we de-cided to meet.

After a cup of coffee and a quick tour of the city, we managed to find a little hidden restaurant aptly named gEM for dinner and drinks. it was more suited to a loft in Paris than a restaurant in the Financial District. Killer food, strong drinks and in-depth conversation made for a fan-tastic night.

By the end of the weekend we knew beyond any doubt that our

collaboration will last longer than a two-book contract. As an author as well as an Editor, i know all too well how vital the writer/publisher rela-tionship is. Kindred minds are hard to come by.

The fruits of the months since that first meeting are on the verge of fruition in the form of the upcom-ing releases of noras novels Journey to the Heart and New Dimensions of Being.

Leslie: in July youll celebrate the re-lease of your spiritual novel, Journey to the Heart. The story chronicles the story of Lucina, a twenty five year-old Montreal computer programmer who travels to Mexico in order to heal herself after becoming terribly burned-out by yet another bad rela-tionship. By chance, she encounters

a deeply insightful Mexican woman named senora Labotta who slowly helps her come into contact with her inner self. Where did the inspiration for this book come from?

nora: Lucinas story is very much filled with my own stories of growth with regards to relationships. When i was 23 years old, i decided to sit down and write about the common mistakes we make when searching for love and how we often get lost in the process. it took over 5 years be-fore Journey to the Heart was com-pleted but when it was done, i felt like it was a real therapeutic novel that could help others on different levels, not just on a mental one. it is

A Conversation Between Editor L.M. Browning and Actress/Novelist Nora Caron

Crossing Paths

Above: Faneuil Hall Marketplace during BLinK. L.M. Browning

my hope that once someone is done reading this novel, that they will go out in the world and have a new vi-sion on relationships and their past loves.

i believe this book is for all ages because everyone is trying to find love, even when they are hiding from it.

Leslie: in Journey to the Heart, Luci-na faces many of the common prob-lems we all face at the beginning of our spiritual journey, namely letting go of our jaded perspectives and opening ourselves to the magic in the world. How do you keep your own sense of possibility and magic alive?

nora: Every day, i like to remain connected to my sense of wonder and joy. i have lived through some very difficult trials in my life, and some of the teachings i have taken from these experiences are that life flashes by and every moment is an opportunity for us to be the best we possibly can. When you lose someone you love, as i did several times, this awakens in you the real-ity that life is so precious and every day is our chance to make a positive change around us, in small gestures or big ones. i keep the magic alive

by constantly living in the moment and being grateful for everything that surrounds me. i like to think of myself as a Woman-child, al-ways playing with the elements that i come into contact with and keep-ing a smile no matter what happens. We are responsible for magic com-ing to us, and when we realize this, so much changes.

Leslie: New Dimensions of Being, the long-awaited sequel to Jour-ney to the Heart, is coming out this november. in this next chapter, we pick up Lucina in a dark place and the content is a bit heavier. Lucina is haunted by terrible recurring night-mares. unsure of what they repre-sent, teleo and her seek answers but the quest opens up many new areas of life Lucina is not certain she can cope with. Discovering that she is pregnant, Lucina faces a huge decision: is she ready to become a mother or not? As Lucina stumbles around to find the right path for her, she realizes that keeping love alive is much more complicated than she originally thought. Lucina is a strong female character. Despite the times, we just do not see as many strong women characters in books or film. What do you hope women will take away from this book?

nora: i hope that women who read this second novel will face some of their own fears and demons that come from religions, parents, lov-ers, or jobs. Even though we live in this new world where women have the right to vote or study or run a business, there are still invisible constraints that surround women. i address some of these issues in this book in hope that others will have the courage to follow their inner voices and free themselves from the last remaining chains of inequality between the sexes, whether these chains are visible or invisible. This second novel is also about owning our mistakes and being impeccable warriors. its easy to point fingers at others but we first have to acknowl-edge our own weaknesses and work on them. This is what Lucina does in New Dimensions of Being: she takes charge of her life as a woman and as a strong individual. she can no longer act as a victim and blame the outside world for the events she lives.

Leslie: Your writing gives voice to a generation of twenty/thirty-somethings currently searching for themselves and their connection to the greater workings. i find every

nora caron speaks fluent French, English, spanish and german. she is one of the three founders of oceandoll Productions, a Los An-geles-based film pro-duction company. she is currently writing her third novel in a spiritual book series.

L.M.Browning grew up in a small fishing village in connecticut. she is the author of numerous award-winning titles. she is the Founder of Home-bound Publications and The Wayfarer literary journal. she is also co-Lead Editor at Hiraeth Press.

15

author has a central message they are looking to get across. What is yours?

nora: i have several messages that recur in my writings but if i had to choose a central one it would be to stop fear-ing how others perceive you and start living your life the way you truly want to live it. As nietzche says, Blessed are the sleepy ones for they shall soon drop off , and i would like to consider myself a person who wakes up the sleepy ones so that they dont drop off and forget their reason for being alive. Life is short, dont spend it sleeping or follow-ing the herd. Dare to be differ-ent and follow your inner-voice, always respecting those around you and being grateful.

Leslie: You have a lot of irons in the fire, you are an actress, writ-er, filmmaker, teacher and the list goes on, which role is your favorite?

nora: My friends often call and ask me, so which person are you today? and we laugh be-cause i switch hats so often i lose track some days! i love all my roles truly because they are all me. sometimes i am the soli-tary writer who has no social life and who doesnt go out because words keep me glued to my chair, and other times i am run-ning around a set memorizing lines and trying to stop laughing because our camera man is mak-ing jokes with us. For me, life is a playground and we should al-ways be having fun. in the mov-ie world people say, Always be shooting and i say, Always be having fun. A day without joy is a day wasted in my eyes.

Leslie: in filmmaking someone who is a writer, actress and director is known as a triple-threat. Do you plan on add-ing director to your list of titles?

nora: i certainly do, maybe not right now, but certainly in the future. i grew up studying movies with my father, and it became a habit of mine early on. Even in my busiest mo-

ments i always find time to sit down and watch a good movie. But before becoming a director, i believe you have to know every other aspect of movie-making and be a specialist in these aspects, whether that be the edit-ing process or the acting process or the writing process. i consider directors super talented individuals.

Leslie: i know you recently penned a script for a West-ern, Wyoming sky. i know the film is in the works. can you share any details with us or is everything wrapped up tight?

nora: i wish i could but our movie presently is top secret. suffice to say that we have good wind in our sails, and we have an amazing crew on board which is dedicated, reliable, talented, and hard-working. My team members at oceandoll Productions are the best partners anyone could have in the movie industry because we all work together with great respect and love for one another. Making movies for us is about doing what we love more than anything else.

Leslie: You are currently writ-ing the next chapter for Lu-cina the third book in the seriescan you give us any hints as to where Lucinas path goes next?

nora: in the third book, Lu-cina packs her bags and goes on a new adventure in the wild. This book contains a more masculine energy, and

will talk about the importance of going off into the un-known in order to shed the skins we no longer need. There are many teachings related to the natural and the animal world, and the main teacher in this novel is an older man named Alejandro. i wont reveal more at this time but i am confident many will enjoy it. _________________________________________Journey to the Heart will be released July 18, 2013 and New Dimensions of Being will be released november 15, 2013. [Homebound Publica-tions].

I have several messages

that recur in my writings

but if I had to choose

a central one it would be

to stop fearing how others

perceive you and start living

your life the way you

truly want to live it.

The Atlantic Soothes MeLynn creager

My toes sink into the white, warm sand.i look toward the turquois sea, seagulls sail through the air. sunrise holds me as i cryFor the beauty. The soft sea breeze sings to me.The breeze kisses my forehead, and a tender quiet Befalls me. My independent nature wiggles free.My feet are in the sand. i look to the sea, and i seeHow my life hangs precariously. sea foam gently caresses my toes.i follow the energy of the waves that wash my feet.Looking down i pick up a pure white shell, an ark clam.The stark whiteness contradicts everything i am. Floral and paisley prints, hand sown gypsy dresses, Worn when i was a young girl free with time to play.A gentle wave tickles my feet, and a giggle escapes me.The next wave drenches me in a messy state of joyWarm and cold, wet and salty, the girl i will always be.i crisscross mid-beach finding handfuls of shells,two sea beans, a sponge, broken pieces of coral.treasures washed in from a month old storm.tired to the bottom of my soul, i gaze outward.i hold the white shell in the palm of my hand.content the Atlantic soothes me.

Block CaptainHolly Day

i got a call from god today.He told me He was coming soonand told me how to get thingsready.

The people next door were easyto catch and convert. i had neverexchanged more than a passing hello with any of thembefore this afternoon, but they seemed to think mefriendly enoughto accept my invitation to dinner.

i dug the furrows and trenches, overturned a half-acre of Kentucky blueexactly how the Lord told me, turned my entire back yardinto a beautifully-plowed farm. into each rowi seeded the families next door, the paperboythe mailman too polite to turn down an offer of cookiesthe old lady across the street. soon

we will all be together. The pieces of mefall and mix with the pieces of them. Rivulets of bloodfill the fresh-tilled earth. The sunset turns it allred. godwill be most pleased when Hedrops by tonight.

Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes for the Minne-apolis school district and writing classes at The Loft Literary Center. Her poetry has recently appeared in The Worcester Review, Broken Pencil, and Slipstream, and she is the recipient of the 2011 Sam Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her most recent published books are Walking twin cities and notenlesen fr Dummies Das Pocketbuch.

Lynn creager lives in Jefferson City, Missouri. She also lives part of the year in West Melbourne, Florida with her family. Lynn published several poems in an Anthology entitled All The Lonely People Where do they all come from? by Plum Tree Books. She also is published in a compilation by Permanent Travelers, vol. 1 and vol. 2. Lynn is an aspiring poet with several projects in the make. Her poem The Atlantic soothes Me is her first publication in a Literary Journal.

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Block CaptainHolly Day

i got a call from god today.He told me He was coming soonand told me how to get thingsready.

The people next door were easyto catch and convert. i had neverexchanged more than a passing hello with any of thembefore this afternoon, but they seemed to think mefriendly enoughto accept my invitation to dinner.

i dug the furrows and trenches, overturned a half-acre of Kentucky blueexactly how the Lord told me, turned my entire back yardinto a beautifully-plowed farm. into each rowi seeded the families next door, the paperboythe mailman too polite to turn down an offer of cookiesthe old lady across the street. soon

we will all be together. The pieces of mefall and mix with the pieces of them. Rivulets of bloodfill the fresh-tilled earth. The sunset turns it allred. godwill be most pleased when Hedrops by tonight.

Beach HouseDiana Durham

For Angelynne, Ed and Caroline

Perched on the bluffat the furthest endof a long thin nger of Mainea dirt road going nowhereand the overgrown pinesthat crowd out the once wide view

sequestered by its porchthe rooms are gingerbreaddark. ribbed ceilings, wainscot,from an old mahogany side-boarddusty mirror squares ash pittedsilver through the perpetual dusk

and a blue lamp on the tableby the window shines all dayover the still waveof a pink-lipped conch.

When night comes outside,the sky opens its high darkas if we are aoat in depthas if nally the deep poolof silence that has waitedall through the minor errandsof the day has lled upinto one transparency,and the gold stars that hang downin vast owerings over the sea,

Diana Durham is author of two poetry books sea of glass and to the End of the night and the non-fiction The Return of King Arthur: Finishing the Quest for Wholeness. Her poems have appeared in nu-merous journals and anthologies both in the UK and the USA, includ-ing Mankato Review, and Parabola. Diana worked with the Angels of Fire performance group, appearing in The Voice Box at the Royal Festi-val Hall. In New Hampshire she founded 3 Voices three women writ-ers, partly funded the NH State Council on the Arts, who performed state-wide. More recently, Diana wrote performed and produced an audio-play entitled Perceval & the grail. Visit www.dianadurham.net

over my white coverlet, are codedlike the space they dene in proportionfor my eyes to see, as if conrmingon another scale the depthsof blue, the frequencies of Earth.

in the pre-dawn dark the diesel chugof lobster boats and gull cries echoinground the bay wake us as togetherthey move out into the silver day

on the wide, screened eastern porchi sip coffee in the beginning lightsun warms our backs, our faces,breakfast will unfold in stagestoast, jam, newspapers, eggsand the calling clatter of the kids.

Far out in the triangle of vieweach tiny boat on the shining blueis clouded by the static of gulls.

Friendship, Maine

L

.M. B

row

ning

Time in AfricaAmber Koneval

in other parts of the worldtime is as sandsmooth, you can grasp at itcage itit has a sense of being tamed

in Africatime is as waterwild, it cannot be heldit flows as it will, with no warningas subtle or as shocking as it pleasesit has a sense of non-being

and unlike sand, which leaves tracesthe time heredisappears as soon as it passes

The ForestAmber Koneval

if planting one treeties one to this communitythen i am now tied by seven hundred and fiftyrootsanchored by a forest of newborn treesheld as fastas if i have been bred, borne and raisedby your calloused, beautiful hands

now, more than anythingi am Kenyan

Amber Koneval is a twenty-something college student double majoring in English and Religious Studies. She has been published in over twenty journals to date, and has released a collection of poetry, Drunk Dialing the Divine, through eLectio publishing. She enjoy writing free-verse poetry on a large variety of subjects, though her most prominent themes include God, mental disability, and her personal experiences.

If I Were Young AgainMichael Lee Johnson

Piecemeal summer dies:long winter spreads its blanket again.

For ten years I have lived in exile,locked in this rickety cabin, shouldersjostled up against open Alberta sky.

if i were young again, id sing of coolness of highmountain snow flowers, sprinkle of night glow-blue meadows;i would dream and stretch slim fingers into distant nowhere,yawn slowly over endless prairie miles.

The grassland is where in summer silence grows;in evening eagles spread their wingsdripping feathers like warm honey.

if i were young again, id eat pine cones, food of birds,share meals with wild wolves;id have as much dessert as i wanted,reach out into blue sky, lick the clouds off my fingertips.

But im not young anymore and my thoughts tormentedare raw, overworked, sharpened with miseryfrom torture of war and childhood.For ten years now ive lived locked in this unstable cabin,

inside rush of summer winds,outside air beaten dim with snow.

Michael Lee Johnson lived 10 years in Canada during the Vietnam Era, now Itasca, IL, runs seven poetry sites, has 56 videos on YouTube, published 4 books/chapbooks, and has been published in 25 countries as of this date: www.poetryman.mysite.com.

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by Mike Higbee

As he walked into the desert solitude, J.J. stumbled upon a gate which read Property of the tribal nation of native Americans. The indians had a reputation for want-ing to keep intruders, especially white men, off their land. suicide by indian he thought. That would be a new twist. He walked through the gate, not knowing just how dif-ferent it would look after his jour-ney within. He felt as though, spiri-tually, he was already dead, but he didnt know why. He was hoping the desert could revive him and give him answers.

As he hiked about two miles into the reservation along the dirt road, a pickup approached him. The driver was an indian, about seventy

years old. His wrinkled face and sun-damaged skin said less about the years of sun exposure and more about his wisdom.

Are you lost? the indian asked.Yes, but i dont want to be

found, J.J. replied, suddenly feel-ing out of place and vulnerable. He wanted to sort things out himself.

The indian gave him a long, deep look as if he were looking through him. son, you look lost in more ways than one.

Youve just met me. How do you know this?

The eyes speak about what the voice cannot. The energy sur-rounding a lost soul can be felt from a distance.

You seem to know more about me than i know about myself.

i know about fear. When the monsoon comes and the desert

threatens to fill with water, i fear for my life. You fear other things.

What does fear have to do with anything?

After prolonged silence the indi-an spoke. its at the core of every-thing you do, everything you own, everything you have spent your life building and everything you lost. Hop in. i have some friends who are full of wisdom and knowledge. i want you to meet them.

sure you do! Are you sure youre not taking me to the tribal police? im trespassing on your land after all. Besides im not one to just hop in the car with a stranger.

son, youre half my age. i should be more afraid of what youll do to me.

J.J. had visions of being some

Awakening in the Desert

image: Frank Kovalchek (Flickr cc)

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sick sacrifice for the horrors that his ancestors inflicted on the indians. Hesitantly he obliged and they were off, deeper into the reservation, cut off from the only civi-lization he understood. They drove through the vast-ness of the desert with the cacti and large red monoliths looking on. A monsoon was looming in the distance. Eventually they arrived at the indians home. it was a metal shack of about four hundred square feet. A hut made of branches sat a few yards away.

come on in. Dont be afraid. Youre safer here than the jungle you inhabit in the big city everyday. Have a seat.

J.J. sat on the earthen floor. A small glimmer of sun-light shone through the doorway. He put his backpack aside and sat in front of a small statue in the center of the room. A bowl containing a flammable powder sat on the head of the statue. The indian lit the powder and started to brew a tea made from the peyote cac-tus. When it was finished he handed J.J. the tea and he sipped it down.

i can see from looking at you that happiness has es-caped. You, at one time, thought you had it, forever in your grasp. All the external circumstances in your life fell into place; new experiences came your way daily, material possessions became abundant and you became the person you had imagined. now you walk through this desert hunched over like a man defeated. You cant figure out why these possessions have not given you any internal peace.

im the owner of a business that i built myself. i thought that this in itself would bring me happiness, J.J. replied.

Built yourself? is that so? Without my guidance my business would only be

an idea. nobody who works for me would have a job.true, but without them would you not be lost? You

couldnt do all of their jobs yourself, could you? Yes, you may be the visionary, but they ensure that your ideas become reality.

i guess you could say we need each other.This inter-connectedness is what makes us human.

Without it your spirit will suffer. This medicine that you now drink is the key that

will unlock the cage that is your mind. You will see my friends shortly. They have much wisdom to offer. Their names are Fear and greed. Where one is found, the other will follow. Lets go out to the hut and wait for them. He grabbed the fire-lit statue and they walked over through the bright red sand at their feet.

As they sat down in the hut, J.J. began to feel the ef-fects of the medicine. The redness of the sand became more intense. The indian traced a half circle on the ground with a walking stick and began singing in his native language. Just as J.J. began to see shadows danc-ing around the walls of the hut, a snake slithered in.

Hello J.J. My name is Fear, she said as her rattle shook. Youve been taught to be afraid of me your whole life but im not the enemy im made out to be.

i doubt that. When i feel fear, i have an antidote. its called valium. it erases my fear and calms my nerves. i feel better without fear.

As Fear, i am one of the great teachers. When you face me, i have great lessons to offer. if you run from me, im afraid i dont have much to give.

What do i have to learn by facing you?What is your greatest fear? the snake asked.After several minutes of silence J.J. responded. im

afraid of poverty. He was immediately transported back twenty five years ago. He was ten years old stand-ing with his mother at the bus stop. They were heading to the social services building to pick up food stamps. There were all the rich kids playing baseball in the street, their parents Mercedes in the driveway. Why cant i be like them.

Your compulsion to hide behind your possessions is a symptom of your fear. We, out here in the desert, have all that is necessary. We just need to survive and exist. We are, without question, happier than your civi-lization. You came here wondering why, with all your success, you still feel apathy. You thought a life of abun-dance would cure your fear of poverty and now that you know this fear will never become a reality, what else worries you?

i still feel like im missing something, though i cant put my finger on it, J.J. replied.

Do you fear failure? the snake asked. i dont.so your fear of poverty has motivated you to be-

come wealthy. You dont fear failure, but you learn from it. so i, Fear, have taught you something but, im afraid i was only a catalyst to what really ails you. Your un-happiness comes from my cousin, greed. He has more for you to learn.

Just as she started to slither out J.J. heard the rumble of thunder. The monsoon was coming closer. Are you worried about poverty now? or will you be happy to survive the coming storm and continue to simply ex-ist? Your things couldnt protect you from it or provide

21

any comfort. she left the safety of the dwelling and went into the impending chaos, blending in with the desert.

What would it be like to burn everything i own? How different would i feel without it? That would be one way to face this fear.

i would like you to meet another friend of mine. His name is greed, the indian said. in came a moun-tain lion.

With yellow eyes he spoke to J.J. im greed, Fears cousin. ive been given my name by your people. You see me as greedy because i hunt my prey and devour every last bit of it. if there happen to be any remains, i bury them and will soon be back to finish. What you dont see is that its essential to my survival. its a product of my patient stalking and persistence. i fail many times before i succeed. i only hunt whats necessary, nothing more. You call me greed, but the truth is im not greedy.

But greed can be good. Without greed there would be no motivation to create. Without creation humanity would stand still. i created a business to sell a product that makes peoples lives better. in the process, i created jobs. My desire for money is what motivated me.

Fear, not desire, has motivated you. Fear has in-troduced us, though subtly. greed is a delicate bal-ance. in moderation, it motivates us to move for-ward, just like fear. in excess, it destroys everything in its path. Balance is a law of nature. This vast des-ert is an example. if she gets rain in small doses she, in her wisdom, knows what to do with it. Her cacti know how to store it, her mountains know where to carry it. in excess, she drowns in it. Her personality is dry and she doesnt wish to become the Amazon. shes happy as she is. Your materials are causing you to drown. greed has you by the neck with its teeth sunk deeply into your flesh. The lion hissed as he finished speaking.

Whats wrong with enjoying the fruits of my la-bor? J.J. began to feel like he was being sucked into the ground. The medicine was causing him to feel that the words he spoke were not his.

At what cost has this come? the lion asked.He was afraid to answer. truth can be the knife

that gets driven straight through the soul. My ummy family. i lost them. i justi lost them.

Mike Higbee practices medicine as a physician assistant in Phoenix, Arizona. Most of his ideas and inspiration come from hiking in the solitude of the desert. He would love the opportunity to hear your thoughts so feel free to email him at ny2phx@hotmail.com.

He felt sick and began vomiting as if trying to purge these thoughts through some physical medium. He was so conditioned to accept that things equaled happiness. His fear which turned to greed had caused him to lose the most important thing of all. He missed his wife and son. He hadnt seen them much in the last few years though they still lived under one roof. so what do i do? sell all my belongings and become a purist? Live off the land? he asked.

Thats for you to figure out. My desire is to make you aware. Awareness is only the first step. Just remember greed is about balance, greed replied. He turned and walked out into the wild. Just as he did the rain turned to hail, the wind began to blow fiercely and the sky turned to black.

The indian began to speak. no matter how much power, prestige or money you have, it can all be taken away from you in an instant. The thunder crashed above. You have no control over all this. Happiness is a state of mind. We, out here, have happiness though we lack abundance. You, on the other hand, have little happiness though you have much abundance. now leave this hut and go out into the chaos that awaits you. This storm will teach you to be happy to exist, for when youre in its midst youll realize that none of your possessions can en-sure your survival. only then will you understand the wisdom that you were taught today. take this with you back to your world.

But if i go out there, i will fear death. J.J. replied.Thats the only way to learn to live. You will instinc-

tively, in this moment, realize whats important in life. now go out and face your mortality. The storms name is Death. Listen to what he has to teach you.

J.J. slipped out of the hut hesitantly into the storm. His old way of thinking would not go away over night, but it would fade, eventually. My mind is my most valuable possession, he thought to himself. He was only in his mid-thirties and had the rest of his life to act on this rev-elation. He was reminded of how happy he was to simply exist every time the lightning lit the sky and the thun-der crashed above him. With the hail pounding him he felt fearful, yet alive. He thought about running back for shelter but Fear had taught him not to. Face your fear and learn from it. greed had taught him about moderation. He arrived at the gate that he walked through just hours earlier. He was about to return to the world he under-stood, though with new eyes.

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Tipperarychristian Reifsteck

There are some things you forgetthat you dont want to forget,so we take a picture of the tipperary homesteadat the foot of the gaelty Mountainsand two trees in the pasture.

it is something between fantastic and horrificthe abandoned buildings,heaps of distorted metal, piles of rusted scrap, all of theused and useless and unformed things.

in a building that was once a marketnow empty and reeking of rotting fish,we try to lift to move in order to use the old fridgethat budges not a centimeter.it is fierce heavy and will stay where it is.

Behind the house,past the worn cobbled paths,rooms and rooms of antique farming implementsline the sagging floors of dusty barns where this old farmer is trying to preserve the old ways,says he wants to pass on the past to the futurewhile the present is just a used and useless and unformed thing.

Invernesschristian Reifsteck

it lies up on the southwest side of cape Bretonacross the causeway and leftas the lonely ride hugs the forest,crisscrossing streams and glens.nothing is open in May,and the leafless trees drip heavy with fog.

in town, the morning beach is gray and empty,save for the fishing trawlersdisembarking the bay.The rusted boats look pensive in the mist,as though they contemplate the way wind and wavescan corrode a hull.

Walking down to the shore,the scent of rotten fish heavy in the air,i double over in dry-heaving,catch my breath, laugh at my absurdity,and heave again,hoping the fishermen havent seenand thankful i havent yet eatenas the fantasy of myself as fishermanfades away with the fog.

After breakfast, i leave the small, brown-paneled dinerand find a beat up old robin egg blue Ford truckstalled out in the intersection.one man steering,i jump behind to help the man pushing.none of us knows either of the others,but together,we all maneuver this old truckleft and down towards the oceanlike a big boat.

christian Reifstecks poems have appeared in numerous journals, including The Passionate transitory, Life As An [insert label here], and The Bijou Poetry Review, and his photographs have appeared online and in print. He currently teaches in central Penn-sylvania and Europe. View more of his work at www.illuminatedmanuscript.wordpress.com. Left Photo: christian Reifsteck

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Krischan D. Rudolph was born in 1971 in Freiburg im Breisgau, germany and has been a photographer since his youth.

After several years as a scientific photographer with images published in numerous journals including na-tional geographic and gEo he began to explore landscape and architectural themes within his own work.

The introduction of digital photography reawakened his curiosity and his desire for experimentation. today he focuses on combining analog and digital techniques to create images that masterfully blend subjects and lighting to create unforgettable landscapes.

More of Rudolphs work can be seen at www.fotocommunity.de/fotograf/krischan-d-rudolph/fotos/1431062

contact: krudolph@gmx.net

Feature Photographer

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The Shrouded VeilDawnell Harrison

The shrouded veil of cloudsLingers like ghosts

in a graveyard as the vexingMoon shines her shattered

Light to the groundA kaleidoscope of golds

Filter down from the yellowMoon in waves.

Dawnell Harrison has been published in over 100 magazines and journals including The Endicott Review, Fowl Feathered Review, The Bitchin Kitsch, Vox Poetica, Queens Quarterly, The Vein, Word Riot, iconoclast, Puckerbrush Review, nerve cowboy, Mobius, Absinthe: A Journal of Poetry, and many others.

Ice WinteredDawnell Harrison

Love is ice wintered whileWhispering voices witness

Hearts drummed awayThrough the wind and shell

to a soul-torn beach whileit is slashed to vowels and

consonants the raven criesHer bitter woundsLay open like a cut peach.

North Room BedtimeJohn Davis Jr.

Pulling up covers without good-nights, my brother and istayed alert for figures in the dark ceiling panels:block soldiers made of six squareshead, shoulder-arms, waist,leg stubs, split. They never went anywhere; stuck, reliablein those high white-gone-black places every night.

We stared them down closer to us, keeping our gazesso long there the room shook around those chosenpanels and framestremors of sight and shadow.strained and sorrowless tears forced our eyes to sleep.

Lacklight made us wonder: what shape men would we be?Who would look for us when the current was off?Would they embrace assuring geometryformsfixed, unshiftingor something three dimensional?

John Davis Jr. is a Florida poet whose work has been published throughout the southeast and around the world. Recent pieces of his have been included in Deep south magazine, saw Palm, touch: The Journal of Healing, and other fine journals. He is cur-rently a student in the University of Tampas low-residency MFA program. Follow him on Twitter @poetjohndavisjr.

Robins Come EarlyJohn Davis Jr.

As you gathered your things, headedfor your mothers, i counted elevenon our dead lawn. February wind,stiff as a construction paper heart,held everything in pausekeepingsunrise breasts still, glowingwarm opposition to past-fall browncrowns, backs, eyes. Finally wingsburst boughward as unmuffledangry traffic ruined every lastchance of this winter ending.

JasmineAsnia Asim

why are you so scared of waves?we are but friends from Persia, they saywith boats in their bosom they come to sink your red-lip sorrowsthe wise old man you always dreamt ofdoes not existno long hugsfor youthey whisper before you wake up drowning

lay in the hammock andswingto the ballad of agetill the curry in your childhood blood simmersthe little girl in you rolls out of your chestsits and looks back at your wrinklesshe cannot tell which country you are fromyou are not sure who her mother isthe sun swollen beyond boredom is tickledby your daily confusion

in the streets there is murder and there are strangersat the vertex of each night you hearmotors whiz by some incalculable distancedizzy passengers unpaid busboysrotate in the arms of your ceiling fanand you feel so glad to be in your bedwrapped in a hug that sometimes forgets to happenbut when it does happenit makes you feel like a little white jasmine foundby your father on his morning strollrefrigerated away from timein his handsto be cooedand savedfrom itself Asnia Asim likes to explore the relationship between art and exile

through her poems. Poetry helps her appreciate the cultural and spiri-tual tumult born out of being a young Pakistani woman settling in the United States. Financial Analyst by day and aesthete at night, Asims work has appeared in several print and online journals including Man-dala Journal, timer creek Review, Desi Writers Lounge, and The Maya tree. She was winner of the first prize among 1,300 contestants from 108 countries in the 2005 World Bank international essay compe-tition, Building a secure Futureseeking Practical solutions.

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aboUt tHe book

TraveLing tHroUgH tHe HoLY Land, eigh-teen strangers are forced to take refuge in Jerusalem during a militant attack. Kept in close quarters in an abandoned build-ing, over the course of four days this group of strangers begin a dialogue, discussing love and evil, religion and god; finding amongst their number a mysterious name-less man who poses a revolutionary perspective on these age-old questions.

Journeying on his own pilgrimage as he attempts to come to terms with the violence, betrayal and condem-nation of his past, this nameless man reluctantly steps forward to share the realizations he has gathered over the course of his borderless life, leaving those who lis-tened forever changed by the radical transition of per-spective his revelations bring about.

Following in the tradition of other contemplative writers such as Hermann Hesse, James Redfield and Paul Coelho, the authors present us with a reflective tale chronicling one mans spiritual journey across time and beyond the boundaries of our preconceived notions. The Nameless Man will speak to spiritual explorers of all faiths. The story within is a guide for all those making the transition from rigid doctrine and into the intimacy of spirituality. This adventure will challenge all tradi-tional definitions, widen your mind and ignite your will to take up your own inner-pilgrimage in search of first-hand truth.

Book Spotlight

tHe naMeLeSS Man will be released worldwide July 25, 2013. Look for it wherever books are sold. Kindle, Nook and Kobo editions available. The audio edition as read by L.M. Browning will be available for download on iTunes, Amazon and Audible.com. [Published by Homebound Publications. www.homeboundpublications.c0m]

A mysterious man travels to the world's holiest city to reveal a timeless wisdomthis thought-provoking novel takes us on a journey through life, death, and the meaning of existence.

Th e authors weave a contemplative story, rich in detail, that invites readers to open their minds to the universal themes underlying religion that have been obscured by doctrine....

Jeffrey Small, author of e Breath of God

Nameless ManThe

Chapter I the Man

He never intended to go back. No, not all his memories of this place were painful. Overwhelm-ing joy and deep contentment were had while they resided here. Yet, when he looked back on it, the happiness he had in this country was overshadowed by a dominant sorrow; for he could not think of the joy felt without recalling how that time of innocence was violently brought to an end.

For a long time, the man struggled over whether or not to return, but the time finally came when he found himself moving toward the very place he had fled years ago, in that past life. There was no going forward without going backhe knew this. This resounding fact defined the last decades of his familys life; as such, some part of him should have known that this day would inevitably come, when he would need to return.

He came back with a desire to roam the countryside of his former home, hoping to experience a renewed connec-tion to the man he had been before the scars maimed him. For a week, he and the younger of his two sons, Yoseph, had traveled the landscape. They walked from the northern port where their boat had made berth, down along the coastline and into the countryside he once knew so well.

In the past, when he came home after a journey, the bleating lambs and swaying tops of the fig trees always called him home. Yet the trees had long since been beheaded and their fibrous bodies yielded to decay in the arid dirt. Over the long years since his family made their home in this region, the landscape had been drastically altered, leaving the disfigured face of the motherland barely recognizable, even to the mans native eyes.

* * *

He had wanted to make this pilgrimage alone. He knew that, if ever he were to brave a return, the stipulation would be that he do so on his own. He simply wasnt willing to risk the safety of the family by allowing them to return with him to this volatile place. Yet, despite his wishes, Yoseph refused to be left behind. The young man had acted as his companion on the long journey and he had no intention of allowing his father to take this pivotal trip alone.

Yoseph had been raised on a foreign land of green shores, far removed from the parched hills now rolling underfoot. Stranger to his birthland, the young man took in the land-scape for the first time, while his father looked for remnants of old landmarks still recognizable after the ages of upheaval. Walking upon the land of his familys past, Yoseph was at last

able to tie the stories he had heard all his life to a place, like putting a face to the name of someone you had heard about since you were a babe.

Yoseph had been born the third child of four. He had the pronounced look of his father. By appearance, one would say he was in his mid-twenties, though he held himself as if he were much older. A healthy young man of average build, he was slightly shorter than his father. He dressed in plain clothesbrown pants and a loosely fitting midnight-blue shirt, accompanied by a neutral-tan shawl wrapped about his shoulders and neck. It had been given to him by his father, who insisted that its protection would be needed in the lands to which they were headed. Yosephs hair was mid-brown in color and was slightly overgrown; it bushed out around his ears and was strewn thickly along the slope of his brow. He had not shaved since their arrival, leaving a faint beard shadowing the tanned cheeks of his thin face.

Over the course of their walk south, Yoseph carried two bagsone rucksack on his back and one handcrafted canvas bag slung at his side. Each sagged heavily with sup-plies, though they did not seem to burden the young mans strong back.

* * *

Walking side by side, the father held himself different than the son. While it was apparent in their faces that both had seen a hard life, the man was clearly more appre-hensive than the boy. The mans trauma was manifested in subtle ways, the most obvious being that of his shawl in contrast to his sons. While Yoseph walked with his shawl wrapped around his neck, drawn up slightlyjust barely covering the crown of his head, the man had his shawl drawn up completely over his head, creating a deep hood of anonymity into which he could withdraw, preventing any passersby from being able to discern his appearance.

In the logical part of his mind, the man knew that any who could potentially recognize him had long since moved on in their journey, yet he still felt the need to con-ceal himself, as though something in him feared that even those he had never met before, could still potentially put a name to the face. From the moment their ship made port, he had felt vulnerable. It felt as if no time had elapsed since the night of his exodus, and no matter the precau-tions taken, he would easily be recognized and persecuted.

Wanting nothing more than to blend into the back-drop, the man wore an indistinct set of clothesdark gray pants, a white shirt and a neutral tan-colored shawl, the

same color as the one he wrapped around his son as they disembarked the boat. Lightweight, brown, leather shoes, which had been creased with age and wear, covered the well-worn soles of his feet.

He had gentle features, a strong jaw and intense brown eyes that had the ability to look past skin and into the char-acter of another. In his late forties, the mans dark brown hair and short unkempt beard now held flecks of gray. The mans hair was far longer than that of his sonsreaching the base of his neck, falling just a few inches above his shoulders.

Slung across his chest rested the strap of the solitary can-vas bag he carried. The bag was weighted by its bulky con-tents but the man could manage it without too much trou-ble. He was fit, so much so that one would think he did not physically need the aid of the wooden staff he walked with; nonetheless, there was internal wear bearing down on his heart, causing him to lean on the staff more than he should have needed to.

* * *

At an easy pace, it had been a five day journey from the Bay of Haifa, where the ship had made port, to his former homelands in the south. They had taken their time, walking through his past life at a casual pace. But sadly, no matter the efforts taken to ease into this return, the man felt increas-ingly tense with each passing mile. Staying more than one night when stopping in the villages along their path was out of the question. As irrational as it may have seemed to an outsider, the man simply could not shake the feeling of be-ing chasedhounds at his heels driving him onward.

It was only when he reached the old homelands that he consented to linger. He had returned with the intention of treading the paths of his youth in search of some remnant of his lost fervor to help reconnect him with the person he had once been, before the pain over took him and the fatigue robbed him of his reason.

The man circled the site of the old homestead, desper-ately trying to recall what the land had looked like in the

past, in a desire to paint a mental picture for his son. The man had envisioned a rush of renewed memories bursting into his mind when once again he set foot on the old lands. Yet, this restoration of the faded and frayed memories had not taken place. Like an Alzheimer patient, he shuffled along the dusty plot trying to recall where the old house had once stood and where the gardens had once bloomed.

It had been a calm day; there had been a few other pil-grims wandering in the distancetravelers who had come compelled by their religion, longing for an epiphany that would pull together a cohesive answer concerning the great-er truths. But then it happenedsomething was stirring. Straining for clarity, his contemplation was disturbed when a shift came to the general atmosphere. The serene country-side suddenly awoke with activity. The farmers came out of their houses, the villages in the distance woke from a sleepy day, and the very air itself seemed to hum with the whisper of frightening news.

A crowd composed of pilgrims, farmers, and towns-

people had gathered. The man and his son walked towards them to learn what was happening. Panic broke outword of bombings and fighting to the north. The war that raged years ago, when their family worked this land, raged still. The opposing sides now went by different names, but it was the same hatredthe same struggle to see who would stand on the pedestal, dominant over all others.

The accounts of killings and raids had reached the southern villages, as did the fear that the fighting would sweep down. Men and women were choosing to pack their vital belongings and make for the city rather than stay and face the ravaging militants that would surely descend.

The pilgrims who had come from stable lands were distraught when hearing the newsproximity to war was something the western world was often spared, while in contrast, the natives who lived daily with such threats took the news in stride. They had become accustom to the pre-dictable insanity of living in a region of unrest.

For the man, the news came like the jab of a knife, re-

Gripping his staff as if it were the hand of his mother and he were but a frightened child, every fiber of his being pleaded with the unseen forces not to make him endure a return to that place. Yet, in the taut silence, no answers came; no reprieve was given, and he bitterly stepped forward on an unsteady footing, setting out on the path that would return him to that same place where his life had once come to an end.

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opening a wound that had festered within him for some years. Upon hearing the news, a flash of a memory vividly ripped through his mind. He could see himself hatefully cast down onto the rocky ground, the skin of his nearly-bare body scraped away by the abrasive gravel and grit. Drown-ing in the past, a hysteria of helplessness threatened to over-take him. His bearded face contracted; he recoiled, shutting his eyes tight, trying not to look at the scenes playing out within his mind.

He had returned to his homeland to awaken the memo-ries of what had been before the attack, not to once more relive the wounds suffered during it. And yet, as he stood faced with the prospect of returning to that place he feared the mostthat place where the violent memories had been madehe felt certain that this pilgrimage of intended re-connection would do nothing more than tear wider his already-bleeding wounds.

* * *

He had entered his adult life with a belief in a natural jus-tice, wherein those who are loving are protected from those who are spiteful. Experiencing the direct opposite of this during his chaotic life, the man was left pondering why the wicked are routinely permitted to come and, in the course of a single night, undo years of growth and work. The good-hearted build, and the ill-hearted destroy. History had prov-en thus; nonetheless, be it common, it was still wrong. Love is the greater force, yet also the eternal victim, he thought to himself. Such paradoxes ran his strained mind in circles.

It was this cycle of senseless loss that caused the ques-tions of how and why to fester within him, putting him at odds with the idealistic man he once was and the educated, albeit more pessimistic man, he had come to be. He had en-dured the soldiers with swords who came with the authority of the state and the mentality of the mob, lashing out at any and allthe broken in doors, fleeing in fear, found through betrayal, then left helpless in the custody of the immoral.

He was born with a desire to ease the internal ails of those around him, yet the compassion he extended had been repaid with betrayal. He had endured becoming the object of the mobs derision and the resource from where the greedy extracted their spoils. Jaded and hurt, he had since withdrawn from society and had no desire to reenter what he viewed to be the center of the madness.

No, he thought to himself. No. He turned away from the speculating crowd, pulling his son gently by the arm as he made to leave.

Wait! a balding gray-haired man bellowed from be-

hind him. The stranger had a thick well-kempt beard, so long the eye could follow it down like a trail to his round-ed belly. Deep lines creased his face; he was obviously a native to the local lands, aged by the searing sun.

Turning to face the stranger, the man observed a con-tradiction. The old mans hands were thickly callousedthe trait of a workmen, which starkly contradicted the middle-income clothes of a businessman the old man donned.

You mustnt go off on your own, the old gray-haired man argued. You do not know how things are in this country. You must come with us to the city.

I will not go into that city! The man replied without room for negotiation. And you are mistaken to think I do not know how these lands are, he added in a dismissal. His voice was uncharacteristically sharp.

You must come with us. It is for your own safety, a farmer within the crowd firmly insisted.

That city has never been safe, the man rebutted. It was not safe when my family lived here, and we all know that it is not safe now, the man finished. His answers were seemingly spoken from a place of reason but were actually rooted in his fear and not any logical conclusion.

An even-toned voice sounded amongst the group, If you lived here before, then you know these lands are not safe. We should all go to the city until the threat is passed then resume our journeys. This voice of calm reason belonged to a man of average build and height who ap-peared to be in his mid-thirties; he stood with a woman who seemed to be his wife. The couple looked faintly fa-miliar to the man.

Both the husband and wife had a trustworthy loyalty about thema gentleness that emanated from the com-passionate quality of their voice. The two were obviously of humble means. This was apparent by the clothes the husband wore. His pants revealed mending stitches here and there around the knees and cuffs, while the long, mid-blue, cotton, shirt he wore had a simple hand-made qual-ity to it. Finally, covering his head there was a white linen shawl, which had the wide-weave trait of homespun cloth. The mans shortly cut light brown hair could be seen high on his forehead where the shawl ended. He had a close cut beard growing across his round face that, despite the panic, was smiling at both the man and his son.

Seemingly good-natured, the stranger had a distinct look of wear about his face, as if aged by prolonged physi-cal and emotional labors. He and his wife shared this look of fatigue; nonetheless, the years of hardship did not seem

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to leave either of them embittered; rather, they had a man-ner that spoke of a longing for mercy in what had been a difficult existence. I will not force you sir, the husband continued. But you seem reasonable enough. You must re-alize that two lone men are vulnerable in these lands. We shall find safety together in the city. ...please, he added mo-ments later in a desperate whisper.

Taking a strained breath, the man visibly shook with emotion. His eyes filled; the tears sat trembling on the edge of his lower eyelids as he wrestled with the inexpressible ag-ony overtaking him. The strangers words had reached past his fear, appealing to his reason, but it still took every ounce of courage for the man to consider returning to that city. He knew deep downunderneath his terrorhe should listen to the strangers words, yet despite the good argument the stranger had made, the man did not feel empowered. Be it the prudent thing to do, nausea still rose in his churning stomach at the thought of passing through those gates again.

Please, you must come with us, the woman said, echo-ing her husbands words. She wanted to shake the man from the dark place his fears were taking him.

Lost in his thoughts, the man finally placed where he had seen the couple. Every time the man and his son had come into a village while on the course of their journey south, they had come upon this same couple, as if the two pairs were walking parallel paths. The woman had a genu-ineness about her. Her long wavy hair fell to her waist; most of it was pulled backenveloped safely within the cloth cone her cotton veil made as it draped. She was wrapped in a long brown skirt, had plain shoes and a rose-colored blouse, which had been delicately embellished with em-broidered patterns of scrolling leaves all about the neck and sleeve ends. Her oval face was full, and a warm gaze shone through, despite the signs of wear.

Neither the man nor Yoseph had ever spoken with the couple. The man rarely spoke to anyone outside his imme-diate family. When approached by those he did not know, his response usually consisted of a half-polite half-melan-choly nod before he continued on his way. Nevertheless, despite the lack of a formal introduction, due to the fre-quency of their run-ins on the road south, the man did feel that he and the couple already had some sort of undeclared acquaintance, enough so that it was not strange for the cou-ple to speak to him as if they already knew him.

I cannot go back, the man confessed in a strangulated whisper only his son could hear. He felt pressured on all sides pressured by the approaching forces, by the impatient crowd, and by his own fears.

Just leave the fool be! the older gray-hair man bel-lowed in exasperation. If we are going to leave we must do so now. At his order, most of the crowd began to disperse, heading off to make preparations for the retreat into the city. Apparently, the word of this man carried weight with the locals.

Leaving his wifes side for a moment, the husband walked up to the man and his sonclose enough so that only they could hear, I do not know what happened to create such a fear of the city in youI can only imagine. But let me say this: If you dont go, both you and your son will fall into the hands of the fighters. You must believe me when I say: this is not something you want.

Looking up from his own terror, the man met his sons eyes, and in that instant, the situation shifted. The mans fear could make him risk his own life, but not even the strongest fear could compel him to risk his sons safety.

The city was unsafe; it always had been and most likely would always be. But falling into the hands of moral-less men blinded by fanaticism was far more dangerous. A strug-gle raged within the man. Every organ within him trembled; vomit swelled from his stomach and rose up his throat, bringing the taste of bile to his mouth.

Gripping his staff as if it were the hand of his mother and he were but a frightened child, every fiber of his being pleaded with the unseen forces not to make him endure a re-turn to that place. Yet, in the taut silence, no answers came; no reprieve was given, and he bitterly stepped forward on an unsteady footing, setting out on the path that would return him to that same place where his life had once come to an end.

What is your name? the husband asked, extending an introduction that went un-reciprocated by the preoccupied man.

Trying to make up for his fathers understandable lack of manners, the young man spoke up. My name is Yoseph.

The husband met Yosephs hand. Good to meet you, albeit under regrettable circumstances. I am Samuel. This is my wife Maria, he said, drawing his wife over with a loving touch to stand closer to him. And your name, Sir? Samuel patiently asked the man again.

What? the man replied distraughtly in a half whisper. His face was red and sweaty as he struggled to fight back the terror within him. Tears glazed the sides of his face.

Your name? Samuel repeated calmly.He was at a loss. Id rather not say, the man replied in

a tormented voice, not speaking meanly, but rather, sadlyprotectively.

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