A collaboration between myself and internationally renowned poet Sourav Sarkar of India. The book presents us both as “2 Poets of the Common Era Literature Period” (a term Sarkar claims to have coined himself on Oct. 24, 2021 and is celebrated worldwide on its founding date yearly) and allows the reader an opportunity to “sample” our poetic styles and substance. It is at times a supple staccato or eroticism, at times mesmerizingly musical of humanism, at times visceral to its soul core but eventually reaches a crescendo to volcanic eruption of literary passion, hope and inspiration for our seemingly crumbling humanity. Here is a sample of one of MY poems from the book. Hope you check it out on Amazon. Merci beaucoup!
This month’s issue focuses on what’s going on inside of all of us, and how that shapes who we are. We’re going Beneath the Surface.
Image c/o Stella Kwon
Stella Kwon’s paintings explore dreams, childhood, fantasy, and the interiority needed for a creative life. Jacques Fleury’s sample poem from his new book Immortal Lines of Poetry looks into dreams and internal inspiration. Debabrata Maji’s poem traces his heart’s inner journey. Damon Hubbs tracks the odds and ends running through his mind while watching competitive tennis. Annabel Kim’s artwork explores and celebrates human and natural creativity. Ma Yongbo evokes the change of seasons, nature, and mortality.
Mark Young renders maps and nature into works of art in his ‘geographies.’ J.K. Durick speaks to intellectual experiences – the news, books, museums – and how we communicate ourselves to ourselves. Jasmina Saidova honors an inspirational teacher as Abdirashidova Ozoda explores possibilities for digital technology in early childhood education. Eshmamatova Shabbona traces the history and evolution of Uzbek literature and Munira Xolmirzayeva traces the history of Russian writing.
Eva Petropoulou Lianou praises the delicate elegance of Lily Swarn’s new poetry collection A Drop of Cosmos. Uralova Gulmira highlights themes of personal experience and motherhood in the patriotic writings of Uzbek poet Saida Zunnunova. Sayani Mukherjee reflects on being driven towards poetry in a full and changing world. Dr. Rasmiyya Sabir writes of romantic love, poetic inspiration, and the irrepressible drive to be heard.
Jakhongir Nomozov interviews poet Rustam Bekhrudi, who intends to capture and convey the resilient Turkish spirit in his writing. Mesfakus Salahin speaks to human psychology and the drive to live amid the allure of death. Mahbub Alam describes a night of discomfort due to mosquitoes, which he endures by thinking of people who have it much worse. Abdisattorova Hurshida’s short story highlights the dignity and self-determination and patience of the hardworking rural poor in Uzbekistan, even when facing death.
Hanen Marouani probes our internal emotional life with tenderness. Bill Tope uncovers the veil of a past sixth grade classroom where the students and teacher are full of inner and outer turmoil. Alan Catlin continues his surreal examination of the physical manifestations of work anxiety as Elbekova Nilufar warns of the danger to our eyes and psyches posed by Internet addiction. Emeniano Somoza Jr. reflects on what we lose by lessening the ups and downs of our emotional nature. Donia Sahab’s poetry probes the psychological torment and confusion Dr. Alaa Basheer alludes to in his painting. J.J. Campbell navigates loneliness with his trademark wit and cynicism.
Joana L.J. Milovanovic’s words bear witness to the psychological and physical damage domestic abusers inflict. Mykyta Ryzhykh’s characters find themselves subsumed by the crushing violence of a metaphorical “leviathan.” Alex S. Johnson reflects on his friendship with Runaways band member and visionary Kari Lee Krome and how the music industry elevates and chews people up.
Jakhongir Nomozov’s speaker reasserts himself after intense seasons of emotional pain and rejection. Soumen Roy highlights the importance of respect and patience in true love. Munisa Rustamova expresses gratitude for her mother’s constant love in a harsh world full of fake people. Alex S. Johnson and Kandy Fontaine assert their confidence in their way of living and loving and show how power is expressed through service and care, not abuse. Liderqiz demonstrates this ethic of service through a profile of Uzbek Information Service leader Dilbar Ashilbayeva.
Andela Bunos speaks of the universal human grief of lost love. Kristy Raines’ poetry expresses commitment to a romantic relationship despite being separated. Lola Ijbrater outlines the rise and fall of a romance through a series of flowers. Ken Gosse describes heartbreak through clever poems with increasing numbers of lines. Eva Petropoulou’s lines address intimate love and the beauty of forgiveness. Annamurodov Umarbek reflects on coming of age after losing his father.
Taylor Dibbert reflects on the impression Americans make while traveling abroad. Doug Hawley and Bill Tope present a humorous tale of unintended interplanetary cooperation. Duane Vorhees’ poetry deals with our humanity, the roles we play in life and who we choose to become to each other.
Abdel Iatif Moubarak’s words express solitude and the hopes and dreams of individuals and communities in an uncertain world. Abigail George reviews Nadine AuCoin’s horror novel Tucked Inn, a tale of survival and good overcoming evil. Justin Faisal, a Rohingya refugee from Myanmar and advocate for his fellow refugees, writes of his inner journey of perseverance and finding beauty in life. Sharifova Saidaxon reflects on similar sentiments, finding forgiveness and acceptance through her faith.
We hope this issue inspires you to dig into your inner psyche and uncover strength and reach for your hopes and dreams.
The 25 newly-minted 6th grade students waited, a little on edge, for their new teacher to appear in the classroom. The 30 desks were arrayed in 5 rows of 6, and all were occupied save for the foremost desk in each row. Nobody, it appeared, wanted to be under the close scrutiny of their new instructor. Into the room strode a short, portly man in his late twenties, with a burr haircut, thick eyeglasses and a cheap suit. “My name,” began the man, reaching the front of the classroom, “is Mr. Shipley,” and he turned facing the blackboard and sketched his name in large block letters. “Now, who are you?” he asked a pretty blonde girl sitting near the front. “My name,” replied the girl, straightfaced, “is Miss Johnson.”
Several in the class laughed, but then wilted under the glare of Shipley. “Do you have a first name, Miss Johnson?” inquired the teacher, who already knew full well who she was. “It’s Jane,” she said. “Do you have a first name, Mr. Shipley?” asked Jane in the same sardonic tone.
“Indeed I do,” answered Shipley. “My full name is Marvin Allen Shipley,” he said. Jane burst out laughing. “You mean, like ‘Ma’ Shipley?” she asked, rocking back and forth like an old woman. She laughed and was again joined in her merriment by other students. A withering glance from their 6th grade instructor soon brought them to heel. “Enough!” rumbled Shipley in a deep baritone, and everyone, at his invitation, in turn introduced herself. Casual, getting-to-know-you chit-chat prevailed for the first couple of hours. The late August heat permeated the tall windows in the classroom. A spinning ceiling fan kept the temperature bearable. There was no air conditioning in public elementary schools in the American Midwest in 1965. Shipley asked about the interests and backgrounds of his pupils and he, in turn, opened himself up to questions from the students.
“Were you ever in the Army, Mr. Shipley?” asked Ruth, a pretty brown haired girl whose own brother had recently been drafted into the Army for service in the rapidly escalating Vietnam war. “No,” said Shipley, “I was contacted by the government and when I explained that I had a wife and a little boy, I was told that I needn’t bother.” He smiled benignly. “My older brother has a wife and kid too,” Ruth said pointedly, “but that didn’t get him out of going to ‘Nam.” Shipley just smiled weakly and shrugged. Turning to a large, thick-shouldered young man by the name of Butch, he asked, “And what do you like to do in your time off from school?” Butch blinked in surprise and then said in a hoarse voice, “I like to kiss the girls and make them cry!”
The other students groaned and Shipley rolled his eyes, prompting Butch to laugh like a braying donkey. Shipley shook his head. Turning next to a student whom he knew had been held back in school for a year, he asked, “Robert, what are your interests, son?” “My name’s Rob, and I’m not your son!” said the boy in a dull voice. “Duly noted,” murmured Shipley, turning to the next student, who turned out to be a small, red haired boy named Willy. “Willy, what do you want to be when you grow up?” “A baseball player,” he replied at once. The teacher shook his head, thinking that the small frail boy had as much chance of being a professional athlete as Shipley did of becoming CEO of Ford Motor Co., a local employer of prominence.
“Do you have a second choice?” asked Shipley. “A cartoonist,” said Willy. Before him on his desk was an open notebook in which he had crudely sketched myriad animal figures. Shipley craned his neck to observe the artwork, then said, “Keep playing baseball is my advice.” Several students laughed and Willy shot daggers at his new nemesis. – – – At recess two weeks later, Jane was chastised by a special education teacher for chasing and making fun of a student enrolled in the special ed. program. “Get out of here, you dirty Mongoloid,” shouted Jane, tossing stones after the child. Jane laughed shrilly. The teacher, monitoring the playground, reported the incident to Mr. Shipley. “Jane means well,” said Shipley, running into the special ed. teacher in the teachers’ lounge. “Well, I don’t know, Mr. Shipley,” said Mrs. Baxter. “Besides,” said Shipley. “Special ed. isn’t really a part of Burbank School, now is it? You only use our spaces twice a week and then go onto other district facilities the rest of the week, am I right?” He smiled cunningly. The other teacher twisted her lips wryly. Shipley was right: special ed., still experimental in this school district, couldn’t afford to be too demanding with respect to their hosts’ behavior. “I’d like to speak to Jane for a moment if I may,” she said.
Shipley acquiesced and later that afternoon, during recess, Jane and her teacher trooped into the cafeteria, which was used by the special ed. classes when lunch was not in session. Shipley introduced the two. “I just wanted to speak with you for a moment, Jane,” said Mrs. Baxter. She went on to briefly explain the mission of special ed. and to enlist Jane’s support for her efforts. Drawing her narrative to a conclusion, Baxter said, “You understand, don’t you, Jane? I want us all to just get along.” Baxter leaned forward in earnest. She had to tread cautiously here. Roger Johnson, Jane’s father, was a member of the Board of Education. Jane, who had been fighting back against laughing in the teacher’s face, finally gave up the struggle and said, “Alright, just so long as I don’t have to touch one of those Mongoloids!” Baxter sighed and came back to her full height. She’d tried. She looked over at Shipley, but all he did was shrug. Throughout her school years, Jane seemed to harbor a particular resentment for such children until, almost 10 years later, she gave birth to the first of her own two children with Down’s Syndrome. – – – “How old is this new teacher of yours?” asked Cynthia, Ruth’s mom, one evening at supper. “27,” Ruth replied. “So he’s already been in the Army?” asked Cynthia. Ruth shook her head. “No,” she said. “He said he doesn’t have to go. He has a wife and a little boy.” “Humph!” said her mom. “That won’t keep you out of the Service nowadays. He probably knows someone on the local Draft Board! The fix is in,” said Cynthia, who was a big proponent of conspiracy theories.
Ruth shrugged. “I saw old man Shipley’s photo in last year’s yearbook,” said Melanie, Ruth’s sister, older by 4 years. “He got out of the draft because he’s so fat. He must weigh nearly 300 pounds!” She hooted. “What are you going to be studying this year?” asked Cynthia next. Ruth pulled a sheet of paper from her bookbag. “All this,” she said. Cynthia accepted the document and read, nodding her head. “Math, spelling, social studies, science, art…” “Mr. Shipley has a degree in Chemistry,” remarked Ruth. “He says he wants to get a job at the high school teaching that.” “What sort of a man is he?” asked Cynthia. Ruth shrugged again. “I don’t know. He seems to like to tease people, make fun of them.” “Well, you just do what you’re told,” advised her mother. “Next year you’ll be in junior high; won’t that be fun?” Ruth and her sister both rolled their eyes. – – – A few weeks later Butch made an enemy of another student. That student, an 8th grader named Boxey, repeatedly called Butch “stupid” and “retardo” and stole his lunch. Finally Butch caved to his tormentor’s badgering and agreed to fight him after school one day. Boxey, who was tall and meaty and decidedly mean, was still not as large as Butch. He came armed with a retinue of supporters, who urged him to do unspeakable things to the underclassman. Then the fight proceeded. Boxey peppered Butch’s face with short, sharp jabs, emulating his hero, Cassius Clay. He even chanted, “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.” But he did little damage. Butch threw just one punch, to Boxey’s ribs, likely facturing one. Boxey, impaired by the damaged rib, tried to strike Butch in the crotch, but Butch easily deflected the blow. Boxey cried out in pain, grabbed at his injured wrist. He sank to one knee. “Go ahead, Butch,” called out Rob, his sole booster, “finish him off. Beat the hell out of him. He’d do it to you!” Butch shook his head and dropped his fists to his side. “He’s hurt,” he murmured, picking his jacket off the ground. “It wouldn’t be right. Let’s go,” he said, and led his one friend away. – – – “Pamela and I are getting a divorce, Rob,” said his father Aaron Braden bluntly. “She moved out this morning.” Rob frowned. Things had been so shaky in the Braden household recently, indeed, for as long as Rob could recall, that he had long suspected that it would end like this. “When?” he asked. “As soon as she can get the lawyer she’s sleeping with to file the motion,” replied Aaron harshly. He went on to levy bitter criticism against his wife of 14 years. Rob was the couple’s only child. “What happens to me?” asked Rob, cutting to the chase. “Well, Pamela doesn’t want you,” said Aaron coldly. “You’d just cramp her style. I guess I’m stuck with you.”
Rob swallowed, nodded and turned away. He’d found out all he needed to know. Rob never saw his mother again.
Winter
Three children, selected by lot the day before, accompanied their teacher on a trip downtown during the school’s extended holiday lunch period. Though they would forgo ice cream and roasted turkey served in the cafeteria, they would be given treats by their teacher nonetheless; plus, they got an off-campus excursion. Their mission: to purchase for their class a Christmas tree. After they’d all piled into Shipley’s “groovy” new Mustang, they debated over where to obtain the tree. “I think Lentzburger’s has a tree lot again this year,” noted Ruth. Levi Lentzburger was her mother’s brother. “And what,” asked Jane scornfully, “get us a Jew Christmas tree? That’s an oxy-moron.” Ruth, a member of a non-observant Jewish family, stared at her blankly. “What do you mean?” she asked, although she recognized Jane’s remark as part of the same subtle prejudice she’d felt almost since she’d become self-aware.
“Never mind,” said Shipley gruffly, slipping the car into gear. “We’ll just go by Kroger’s.” “Gimme a hatchet,” offered Jane, “and I’ll cut one down in the city park.” She grinned woflishly. Minutes later, the children and their teacher were in the parking lot at the grocery, inspecting the meager selection of trees. The children gravitated to the prettier, more expensive trees: magnificent specimens of Douglas fir, priced at $3, $4 and one exquisite specimen at an other-worldy $7. “I like this one, Mr. Shipley,” purred Jane with cunning, holding up the $7 tree. “Put it back,” said Shipley, grasping a sparse, practically denuded specimen of balsam from the $1 pile. He shook the tree and needles rained down copiously onto the paved lot. The children stared at the beleaguered specimen with sad eyes. “It’s missing a few branches,” remarked Ruth, running her fingers through the blank spaces. “It’ll be fine,” Shipley assured them. “Besides, we’re on a tight budget. C’mon, let’s check out.”
The little group drifted toward the outdoor cashier, paid for their purchase and were soon on their way, the small, thin tree stuffed unceremoniously into the Mustang’s trunk. “I’m getting hungry,” complained Jane, running her hand over her tummy by way of demonstration. “When do we eat? You promised us food, Mr. Shipley,” she whined melodramatically. “Oh, here, Mr. Shipley,” said Ruth, handing over a $5 bill. “I told my mom that you were taking us out today to get a tree and lunch, and she said it wasn’t right that you spend your own money.” Shipley accepted the bill gratefully. “Tell your mother thanks, Ruth,” he said. Second-year grade school teachers didn’t earn a great deal of money.
Arriving at a small diner, the four found spots in a booth with a formica top and faux-leather seats. An ageless waitress arrived promptly and took their order. The next thing that Shipley did, under the watchful gaze of his students, was to turn up a pack of cigarettes, shake one out and light up. This was extraordinary. Smoking was something that parents did, or a renegade older brother or toughs on TV, not an elementary school teacher. They watched, morbidly fascinated, as their teacher greedily sucked smoke from the coffin nail and then expelled the fetid fumes in their immediate vicinity. Shipley had budgeted $3 for lunch, thinking 4 hamburgers and 4 Pepsis and then stiffing the waitress on the tip. The tree had been paid for by conscripting a nickel from each student who could afford it, and not everyone could. But now, with the 5-spot in his pocket, the cash-strapped teacher could afford to live a little. The payments on the new car were murder. As they sat at the table, watching Shipley smoke, the students took stock of their surroundings. “What’s that?” asked Ruth, indicating an elaborate, multi-colored metal and glass device sitting on the edge of the table next to the wall. Shipley recognized it as a rather bizarre looking napkin dispenser, but before he could answer, Rob spoke up. “It’s a slot machine,” he quipped.
The other children laughed. Shipley rolled his eyes, but chuckled in spite of himself. This was the first time he’d heard Rob speak in days and Shipley was glad that he was opening up again, at least a little. The teacher had heard rumors that the Bradens were contemplating a divorce and this couldn’t be good for their son. In all the school, just a handful of students had parents who were divorced. 20 minutes and 5 cigarettes later, Shipley gathered his charges and they set out. Pausing at the cash register, he purchased 2 packs of Marboros with fifty cents from the $5 he’d gotten from Ruth’s mom. Then they piled back into the Mustang and returned to the school. – – – Rob had been acting out. Fits of unexplained temper and irascibility accompanied by mild aggression became common. Mr. Shipley had told him on several occasions to check his temper but, unknown to Shipley, the dissolution of the Braden marriage had been extra hard on 12-year-old Rob. Already wincing from being held back a year for indifference to his studies, he was seething with frustration at rejection by both his parents.
Jocelyn Shipley, Marvin’s sharp-tongued, aggressive wife, worked for the company that administered aptitude and intelligence tests at schools throughout the county. She reported to her husband that, of the 25 students in his class, there were but 3 that stood out as exceptional. The first was Butch, whose IQ was some 15% below average. “He really should be in a special program,” she said. “But, I know that Burbank doesn’t have a special education teacher on faculty for students his age just now. 5 years from now, you probably will have, and Butch would be enrolled. As for now, he’ll continue to slip through the cracks.”
“Is anyone exceptional for the right reasons?” asked Marvin with a frown. “Yes,” said Jocelyn. “2 students. Ruth Lanier and Robert Braden.” “Rob is a miserable student,” opined Marvin. “And his attitude stinks.” “Yet, he’s very intelligent,” said Jocelyn. “He has an IQ of 131.” Shipley’s bushy eyebrows arced skyward. “That’s not bad,” he conceded. “Your IQ,” his wife told him slyly, “by way of comparison, is just 118.” She flashed a mean little smile. “And what about Ruth?” he asked. “Ruth,” Jocelyn informed him, “is off the charts smart.” “How smart?” he asked. “Try 150+,” she told him. Marvin whistled soundlessly. No wonder he hadn’t been able to get a handle on that one. She always seemed to be onto him, to see through him. – – – “I need that library book back, Rob,” Sheila, the class librarian, told her classmate. “I’m not done with it yet,” he responded. “I’ll finish it over lunch and then bring it back.” “I need it now!” she snapped truculently. This went on for several exchanges until which point that Rob angrily flung the paperback book at the girl. It slipped through her hands and landed loudly on the floor. At that very moment, Shipley looked up, became instantly enraged.
“Enough!” he shouted, and rose to his feet, violently flinging his desk chair into the wall. Everyone froze in place. Reaching into a desk drawer, Shipley pulled out a heavy wooden paddle, walked around the desk and seized Rob by the arm. “You’ll learn,” snapped Shipley, dragging the child in his wake. They swept out the door and up the corridor to the other 6th grade classroom, where Shipley knocked peremptorily on the closed door. Within seconds, the other teacher appeared. “Need you to witness corporal, Duane,” said Shipley with barely contained fury. The three proceeded to a small store room down the hall, unlocked the door and stepped inside.
“You’ve been warned before,” thundered Shipley, grabbing Rob round the waist and bending him over. He then delivered 2 tremendous swats to Rob’s backside. “Now,” snapped Shipley, still breathing heavily, “don’t lose your temper again–or else!” Shipley marshalled Rob back to class and shoved him through the door, lingering in the hallway and conversing with the other teacher for a moment. Rob could hear some pleasantries exchanged; what sounded like laughter. Red-faced, he took his seat and avoided the others’ stares. 60 minutes later, when Shipley had calmed down and next addressed his classroom, he said that he hoped the students had learned something from the incident which had taken place an hour before.
“I learned something,” remarked Jane with an evil grin. “If you’re big enough, you can bully anyone.” Shipley frowned darkly. “She’s right,” said Ruth. “And if you’re in charge, you can get away with it.” “Ruth,” intoned Shipley ominously. With Jane, he had to put up with this nonsense, but Ruth was another case entirely. Jane’s father was a bigshot, but Ruth’s father wasn’t even in the home.
“Am I wrong?” Ruth went on. “What did you teach anyone here? Not that anger and violence aren’t appropriate. Only that some people can get away with it, where others can’t. You got angrier than Rob ever has. And then you got violent, which he never has.” Shipley silently stewed. – – – Tragedy was visited on Shipley’s 6th grade class in February of 1966. The first instance, unknown to the teacher and to the school-at-large, was when Rob’s mother perished, alongside her new husband, in an automobile accident near Las Vegas. “Pamela’s dead,” Rob’s father told his son without preamble one afternoon after school. Rob halted in his tracks. Was this another play on words, of which his father was so fond, as in, “She’s ‘dead’ to me.’? “Wh…what?” asked Rob.
“In Nevada,” said Mr. Braden. “Hit a truck on the interstate, probably drunk, or else that sonofabitch she was with was. Don’t know yet who was driving.” “When?” asked a stunned Rob. “Um? When did she buy it? Hell, I don’t know exactly, probably last night or early this morning.” Rob could smell the heavy stench of alcohol coming off his father. “Don’t ever fall in love, son,” counseled Mr. Braden. “Or else make sure they croak before they take you to the cleaners…” That was the last thing he said before Rob belted him in the mouth. The next day, Rob arrived for class sporting 2 black eyes and, if truth be known, a body festooned with deep, ugly bruises. The abuse continued. A week later, following the funeral, Rob was shaken by Aaron’s bitter weeping over his wife’s passing. Aaron’s behavior became increasingly bewildering and unsettling to the young man until, finally, he ran away from home. He didn’t see his father again for more than 20 years.
The second tragedy came out only a week later, when Mrs. Dinwiddie, the school principal, arrived at the door of the classroom and beckoned Mr. Shipley. After a whispered conversation, Shipley summoned Ruth, who intuited that something was not right. Ruth didn’t return to class for a week, following the funeral of her older brother. Shipley told the class that Eli Lanier had been KIA–killed in action–in the war in Vietnam. Ruth, he told them, would be absent to attend the funeral and to grieve. “Is that the same war that you got out of, Mr. Shipley?” asked Jane in a needling voice. Shipley heaved a great sigh. He hadn’t the heart to fence with her this time.
Spring
On the last day of school, the students turned in their textbooks and received their final report cards, each tucked away in a half-size manila envelope. As the children were comparing marks, Shipley said, “I was pleasantly surprised to discover that everyone passed this year, although with some of you it was close.” He smirked at Butch, whose face and neck turned crimson. Some of the children laughed, but not Ruth. “Why’d you have to go and say that?” she said. Shipley stared up at her in surprise.
“Butch does the best he can,” she went on. “You can’t say that about everyone, you know.” Shipley’s own face grew a little red. “It’s not too late to change the grades,” he said threateningly. “Go ahead and flunk me then,” she dared him. “My scores on tests and on my other report cards won’t back you up.” Shipley knew she was correct, and he decided to cut his losses. “Butch tries,” he conceded. “Good luck in junior high, Butch, and to all of you.”
The students preened. In just three months they would be 7th graders, and whole new social vistas would open up. They were both thrilled and terrified. “I’ve some other news for you,” said Shipley. “This is my final year here at Burbank. Next fall I’ll be teaching 7th grade general science classes at the junior/senior high school. So, I’ll be seeing all of you again next year.”
Some of the students spontaneously applauded, while others sat on their hands. “Shit,” muttered Butch and another student in unison. “Is there something you’d like to say?” asked Shipley sharply. Neither boy responded. As the hands on the clock face wound to 3pm, Shipley said, “I want to say that I have really, truly enjoyed teaching–most of you–this year. Of course,” he went on, “there’s always that one bad apple in any bag…”
As he continued, almost every student wondered if he or she was the one being focused on as a troublemaker. Ruth observed the scene before her. She would go on to earn advanced degrees in Psychology in college and then more fully understand Shipley for who and what he was. Even now she recognized the young teacher for his efforts to marginalize and misuse others. She blew out a breath and shook her head. They’d had each other’s number from the first day, she thought. From his desk, Shipley stared at her. When the final bell on the final day rang, Shipley watched the students depart. At the last second he called out, “Ruth, would you stay a moment longer, please?” Ruth turned and walked up to Shipley’s desk. They regarded one another warily for a moment. Then he spoke.
“Ruth,” he said in his deep voice, “I got the feeling just now, and not for the first time, that you don’t really like me very much. Is that an accurate observation?” he asked. “No, Mr. Shipley,” she said, “it’s not. As a matter of fact, I don’t like you at all.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “May I ask why?” “Of course,” replied Ruth. “I just don’t trust you.” “Explain,” he requested.
“My father, as you might know, doesn’t live with us.” Ruth stared into Shipley’s face but could discern nothing. “My mom divorced him when he sexually and emotionally abused my older sister and brother.” Shipley’s eyes grew a little larger. He knew the father was not a part of the Lanier household, but this was news to him. When my mom reported him to the police, he was arrested and a judge decided that if dad would divorce mom and pay child support, then he wouldn’t be sent to prison. I see in your eyes the same thing I saw in my dad’s. It’s the same thing I see in a feral animal. When you would pull Michelle onto your lap and act like you were going to spank her, I knew then you were the same kind of monster that my dad is. I talked to Michelle and when she was sprawled face down on your lap, she could feel it too.” Shipley was deathly quiet.
“You’re lucky you never pulled me onto your lap,” she went on. “Because I would’ve told my mom and she would have got you fired.” Shipley was sweating now. “So you really hate me that much, Ruth?” he asked bleakly. Ruth shook her head. “I don’t hate you at all, Mr. Shipley. Like I don’t hate my dad. You’ve both got a problem and I can’t hate you for that. It’d be like hating someone for having measles. I don’t think you’re to blame for it. But, like with someone with measles, I don’t want to spend any time with you or get too close, you know?”
She turned on her heel and as she made her way to the door, the teacher called after her, “good luck in junior high, Ruth.” “Same to you, Mr. Shipley,” she said without turning around, and passed for the final time through the door.
The story takes place in Nova Scotia, Canada. All is not what it seems at first glance. First things first. This is a story about succession. This is not a story to send to your Sunday school teacher. Intrepid Lucy is a Banisher, and she has visions. She comes from a family of Banishers. Lucy gets into trouble as she happens upon Tucked Inn. She thinks she’ll get help here after her car breaks down on a deserted road, but unbeknownst to her she stumbles very quickly upon hellish terrain in a nutshell.
You get to grips almost immediately with the daring writing of the innovative Nadine AuCoin. Her characters find themselves in drama and conflict. Lucy is by far in over her head right from the beginning. She wants to escape the underworld realm and sinister atmosphere she finds herself in, and searches for ways to find an exit out. Her parents are loving towards each other, and she has wonderful memories of a grandfather. The characters are quirky but you fall in love with Lucy’s unique heart, mind and spirit.
The writing style moves the novella along at a rhythmic pace. It’s sensational writing at its core. It is never frivolous. Drama and suspense builds tension, and the element of anxiety and violence is used to create an atmosphere of fear and horror, keeping the reader glued to the edge of their seat. The story also has the element of the macabre. What makes this book an example of good horror writing is the aspects of the suspense, the overly dramatic, the combination of the mundane and ordinary tapping into the grotesque.
The story, I would say, goes so far as to use fear and anxiety to make an emotional connection with the audience. It plays tricks on the reader as well as being a thrilling psychological mind game. The book will also evoke a sense of disgust and shock in the reader. Horror can be difficult to write, and to read; but if you have an insatiable appetite for it, this book is for you. Horror is more than just a scary story; it’s about fear.
With suspense. There is both the expectation and anticipation of fear. Nadine AuCoin certainly has a flair for this kind of writing. I might just read the next installment. I am toying with that idea. There are creepy, crawly things, a spooky house with locked doors, long hallways and hidden walls, the dark and the familiar made strange.
It most certainly taps into the reader’s darkest fears. Lucy seems extraordinary at times with the reality of her situation quickly dawning on her. She is brave, bold in her forward-thinking, thinks fast and on her feet, letting nothing get her down. On the surface of things, Allister seems to be her match, but he does not have her powers. He can read her mind, and as the attraction grows between forthright and independent Lucy and Allister, the reader can sense their growing chemistry.
Keep up. The spooky story begins on a foggy dirt road that seems to lead to nowhere. Of course that road is found next to a forest. It paves the way to Lucy’s nightmare world filled with crazies, sex-crazed savages, the devil, a hell made of underworld realms of hidden caves, exorcisms and back. The only horror stories I used to read were Stephen King’s in high school. Now mind you, this novella certainly has aspects of horror in it as well as lusty passion, and the supernatural. I promise you it won’t be a waste of your time if that’s what you’re looking for.
The story has a sound beginning, middle and end. It flows, it has racy in parts if you demand that from your storytelling, and will keep you guessing at what will happen next. There are chapters where what goes bump in the night threatens to overwhelm you at every turn of the page. The writer keeps you captivated at every turn and twist of the story.
Horror leaps at you from off the page as well as Lucy’s ingenuity and her enthralling romance with the handsome and well-dressed gentlemanly mama’s boy Allister. Drake and Darko are the stuff nightmares are made of and are the complete opposite of their older brother. This is a book to sink your teeth into on a sultry autumn day with a mug of tea at hand under a duvet. Once you get into it, though, you want the story to end with Lucy and Allister falling in love and getting the fairy tale ending.
One can only hope that good triumphs in the end. I kept guessing until the very end at what would happen to everyone in the book, even the bad guy. What a delightful page turner of a book this was, although it did make me cringe in certain parts. You can read this novella easily in one sitting as I did on a sunny Saturday afternoon with warm sunlight streaming into a cozy bedroom in a coastal town in South Africa.
Although there is a great deal of adversity to overcome before the end, Lucy takes it in her stride and finally accepts her role in the world as a force for good. Lucy is a survivor. She comes from a centuries-old family of survivors. Evil threatens to overwhelm but peace eventually reigns in the end.
This book review was published on the website Modern Diplomacy on the 21st October 2023.
I was operating under a pseudonym at the time, blogging about Kaiser Permanente and the physicians whose decisions had left scars—some literal, some systemic. I was part of a loose network of Facebook groups pushing back against corporate medicine, calling out malpractice, and amplifying patient voices. One day, a notification popped up: Kari Lee Krome has sent you a friend request.
I blinked. The Kari Krome? The original visionary behind The Runaways? The teenage firebrand who helped shape the band’s early identity before being pushed out of the spotlight?
She messaged me almost immediately. “You’re my hero,” she said.
I told her who I really was. I told her I was the world’s biggest Runaways fan. And just like that, we were off—an unlikely pair bound by trauma, rebellion, and a shared disdain for sanitized narratives.
Kari had suffered a brain injury in a car accident, and later, she told me, was harmed by a medication prescribed by a Kaiser physician. She was raw, brilliant, and unfiltered. She’d pop into my DMs calling me “Mister,” and referred to herself as my “little sister on a skateboard.” It was a nickname that stuck, and one that still makes me smile.
She gave me an insider’s view of the world behind the Runaways mythology—the depravity of Rodney Bingenheimer, the sickness of Kim Fowley. “I’ll need therapy for life,” she told me once, and I believed her. She spoke of being “incredibly naive” at 14, living with Fowley, and of being “undiagnosed autistic.” Her stories weren’t just confessions—they were dispatches from the edge of a cultural moment that chewed up girls and spat out legends.
When I asked her about David Bowie, she said, “He was a vampire.” No context. No elaboration. I assumed she meant his proximity to the same predatory circles—Rodney on the ROQ, the Sunset Strip’s darker corners.
We collaborated. We co-wrote six songs together. She showed me her songwriting structure—tight, poetic, emotionally surgical. She sent me a story called Mootsie Tootsie, a scabrous, hilarious, and terrifying piece about shooting heroin in a Taco Bell restroom. I published it in my William S. Burroughs tribute anthology. Her poem North of No North appeared in White On White: A Literary Tribute to Bauhaus, alongside contributions from Poppy Z. Brite, Caitlín R. Kiernan, and David J. Haskins.
She was only mentioned once in the Bad Reputation documentary about Joan Jett. It didn’t surprise me. Kari had little regard for the rest of the Runaways. She was the spark behind the band’s original concept, but her role was minimized, her voice nearly erased.
And then, about six months ago, she disappeared. No message. No goodbye. Just silence.
I don’t know what happened. I don’t know if she’s okay. But I know this: I will never forget our friendship. I still have mad love and respect for the woman who called me “Mister,” who gave me a glimpse into the machinery behind the myth, and who reminded me that the most powerful voices are often the ones the industry tries hardest to silence.
Kari Lee Krome is a survivor. A poet. A punk. A sister. And wherever she is, I hope she’s writing, skating, and slowly conquering her demons.
The wheat stalks breathe you in, Braid your letters for the evenings. And stir your songs the day they met Upon his face, the silence… the flock of stillness. Depart to where we began our journey, Indeed, the streams hold but fragments. To a time squandered, Forgive my death when I choose you, To the mercy of the devout, in protest, To the dwelling of the wound, The distance of desolation. And your endurance was to borrow From the star, the day of collapse’s rituals. Within you, the debasement of poems eludes, Towards the sunrise. And you quiet above some plains The languages of apprehension, In your sailing times. You soothe the blaze of solitude… cities, And pour into the eye the tears of reunion, Branches from the beginning we were, For the land of severance. We carry to it the beseeching letters, To write in love, The beloved’s spinning song. And you still swear by the earthquake, So as to prepare a new homeland, Which the questions lost in their lament, And the impossible bolted its gates With bursts of time that began to depart. You never left the harvests of remembrance, That we were quenching. With your silence, visions will not overflow The boundaries of emptiness. And we… Are in vain.
***
May God Strengthen You
When love confused you one day, And you melted into it, and you had no choice. That separation was coming for you, my heart, Anyway, may God strengthen you. Why did you obey him and walk with him? He got lost with you from the first step. You lived life after him, And the pain of his separation keeps you awake. When love called to you, You saw paradise with your own eyes, And you returned again with what’s inside you, In every glance, he makes you remember. Were his days a dream, or Was it a time that came and went? In it, my joy is absent from his presence, And my sorrow and worry destroy you. Believe me, a page has been turned, Like the hearts that were burned. From him, love and hearts intended To return to him again and command you. Anyway, may God strengthen you.
***
The Roofs of Houses
It peeks from the window of our hearts, And steps onto the paths that have drunk From its spring, the tales. Upon a thousand civilians who implore, And thousands of throats whose echo Is the roofs of houses. Their lament still embraces them, And gathers them, A million prayers, Except what it couldn’t contain. And you, who are ascetic within your prison, waiting For a glimpse of light, Just to caress your forehead. Your umbilical cord between you And the homeland, Knows you overcome your tears And split your chest for the cities, So that life may enter them, Free from the gloomy darkness clinging To every wall that the specter of silence Has demolished. These are thousands of throats whose echo Is the roofs of houses.
***
The Scars of Salvation
Let the halos of my heart fall from my brow, A light I thought I’d find while resting on the shoulder of the word, The one that hums a tune through the folds of this poem. Illuminate for others my journey, this bitter taste of a homeland’s pain, The anguish that fills it, stirring with every dawn That rises on a morning full of nonsense. The word was powerless then, Unable to forge a new space for confession, Or pluck a bejeweled pearl from its sky To gift to the poor, the orphans, the forgotten, Those on the brink of death. I know I am the zero from which all poets begin, The seed whose sprout only grew in the shadow of my ancestors’ verses. From them, I drew the strength to survive, Dreaming of their blissful, generous seas. I lean on them all with a pride that lifts me Into realms bright with the light of their wisdom, O Lady Poem. All I ever wanted from you was salvation, To end on your shores. I began you (or you began me) among the transients In a city whose streets had all gone dark, Forgotten by long wars, then awakened just once By the triumph of survivors, and drops of hope That thirst couldn’t defeat. Between tables of gunpowder and napalm, Scattered limbs and blood-stained walls, Jackets lie vomiting on the sides of ruins, With the words “I was here” scrawled upon them. A hemorrhage of questions. How I’ve longed for my poems to take them on, A path to grief and to release. I craft my shoot for the fated crowd, And belong to the march coming from those forgotten lands Hidden in the folds of shackles and prison cells, The torment of hungry stomachs, The gasping of tongues behind cries for departure, The absence of hope for a coming brilliance That carries on its face the radiance of the impossible. Lady Poem, I know glory in your proof. I know the secret in your river. This is how we meet, and with us, we meet A life that has no shrine, A life that only survived through an impossible bargain Between a bundle of thorns that grew just once From the pain of salvation. I am destined to live and to see the city Be the first to bless the burning heat of a step toward freedom, Swearing by the fading glory in its children’s eyes, The honeyed treasures flowing over a new homeland.
