Essay from Brooke McCarley

Thru Hiking the Appalachian Trail

Brooke D. McCarley

The beginning of the Appalachian Trail is about a 4-hour drive from Birmingham to North Georgia. It then uncurls for 2181 miles through woods, mountains and mental-breaking points until it reaches Maine. Hiking the A.T. or parts of it was one of my vague goals until my friend suggested we do a section hike for our yearly vacation. Then the idea of being stranded in the woods with only my backpack became a sharp reality.

A few years before, we went to Vieques, a tropical beach near Puerto Rico. The last time we traveled together we spent some nights in New Orleans with a borrowed tent that smelled like buffalo dung surrounded by retired people in RV’s. We downgraded. Therefore hiking the A.T. seemed like a natural progression for us. Our luxurious hotel would be a two-person tent that we would roll up and stuff in our backpacks every morning. Our bathroom regimen also included a burial service for our waste, while our dogs bowed their heads in silence.

Our boyfriends didn’t think we could do it, and my parents begged me not to try it. If omens and maybe God exist then they, too, were telling us to go back home due to the thunderstorms that floated above us on our drive to the North Georgia mountains.

We were going to hike roughly 35 miles in five days and park one of our cars at our beginning spot and the other car at our final destination, Hogs Pen Gap. The first night we parked our cars at Hogs Pen and decided to sleep in her Yaris since it was already past midnight. It was too dark and lonely on the top of the mountain to set up a brand new tent. We were four hours behind schedule due to the storms and also needing one last good meal of tacos and beers before we lived on trail mix for days. However, sleeping the first night in her car left me optimistic for the rest of the trip. If my 6-foot-1-inch frame could curl up in a Yaris and sleep with a belly full of tacos and beers then I could do this hike.

We can do this hike as long as we can find the trail.

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Artwork from W. Jack Savage

W. Jack Savage is a retired broadcaster and artist. He is the author of six books (wjacksavage.com) To date, thirty-two of Jack’s stories have been published by various online and print magazines, and eighteen of his pictures have been published as well. Jack and his wife Kathy live in Monrovia, California.

Poetry from Al Preciado

Jacaranda Blossoms

Warm morning slides over fatigue

Your fresh face saturates studio

I drink your passing eyes

Hazel tea flavored with kindness

Laugh, toast buttered in joy

I awake stone sober compelled like a television addict

Seeing your image floating like pesky fireflies, butterflies

Against my studio ceiling, rerun creatures

Circling my petrified heart like old movies, ancient loves

Evaporating in this torrid drought

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Play/Write by Ryan Hodge

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-Ryan J. Hodge

For someone who enjoys a great story, is there anything better than a narrative that engages you from the very start? Imagine a world so rich you can almost smell the scents in the air, a delivery so clever it forces you to think in a way you never thought you would. I’m Ryan J. Hodge, author, and I’d like to talk to you about…Video Games.

Yes, Video Games. Those series of ‘bloops’ and blinking lights that – at least a while ago – society had seemed to convince itself had no redeeming qualities whatsoever. In this article series, I’m going to discuss how Donkey Kong, Grand Theft Auto, Call of Duty and even Candy Crush can change the way we tell stories forever.

What the Strategy Genre teaches us about logical story telling.

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Poetry from Holly Sisson

Courage bleeds deep from the heart
Into a village green blue golden
Lighting the fires of deep time unfolding
A linear grid of our choosing
Inlaid with spirits musings
Attention guides intention
A clockwork of present moments
Synchronic mysteriums of worlds
Overlapping into the black
Chaos on the wings of time
Butterfly flapping through strong
Heart rhythms of the divine
-Holly Alexis Sisson, Shamanic Practitioner
Trees pause mid-twirl
Beckoning with outstretched arms
Whispering, we hold the secretA world in balance
No chance of vertigo
No need to “fix” everyone’s broken vision

One by one
They will come.

-Holly Sisson

Short story from Alan Swyer

 

 

 HAVANA MOON

On the way home from their second trip together to Havana, Conforti finally asked the question Levinson had been dreading. “I’ve been thinking about trying to bring Rosa home,” he said about twenty minutes after the plane was airborne. “Am I crazy?”

“You’ve been crazy as long as I’ve known you.”

“But about Rosa –”

“What do I know?”

“You’re ducking.”

“Me?” asked Levinson with a guilty smile.

“Think it can work?”

“Getting her out of Cuba?”

“Living together.”

“I can probably give you fifty reasons why not.”

“So you think I should drop it?”

“And have regrets forever?” Levinson exclaimed, despite his many reservations. “Hell no!”

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Poetry from Carol Smallwood

 

Tipton Poetry Journal, Summer 2011

Mystical Muse Magazine, February 2013

Ephemera

 

Mayflies bear a Greek name meaning living a day,

An allusion to their dance before they die

After maturing in the month of May.

Mayflies bear a Greek name meaning living a day

And start as water nymphs that grow to fly

Only to die after mating–a last hooray.

Mayflies bear a Greek name meaning living a day,

An allusion to their dance before they die.

Bliss, MUSE Press Anthology 2013

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