editoradmin
Table of Contents
First Lines – April Dawn Gosling… 1
Remember – Abigail Koelewyn… 4
George – Kat Hale… 5
Cow Sonnet – Lili Cukier… 7
RainWalker’s Daughter – Rowan McMullin… 8
Under, Over and Through – Abigail Koelewyn… 14
Untitled – Kat Hale… 15
To Those Who Cry in Phone Booths – April Dawn Gosling… 16
We Remember – Abigail Koelewyn… 17
End Game – Lili Cukier… 18
AfterWord – Arie Koelewyn… 23
Font Illustrations – Ruth Koelewyn & Arie Koelewyn
Copyright 1999, by the authors. All rights reserved
First Lines
by April Dawn Gosling
If someone were ever to make a book of first lines, I would be the premiere author. Not that I’m really all that well known, but that’s all I can write, first lines. I mean I can write a whole story, but everything after the first line is meaningless garble. Is that even a real word? Garble? It doesn’t matter.
George, that’s my boyfriend, thinks I should just give up writing all together. “Y’know I love you, Louise, but you can’t write,” he tells me. George is a published writer; he’s already got a couple of books out and he even won a couple of awards. I’m awful proud of him and I love him too, but that doesn’t mean that I have to listen to everything he says.
When I was little, my father told me I could be anything I wanted if I set my mind to it. I think I was about seven when he told me that and I wanted to be a writer. My father was a factory worker all his life. I wonder if that was what he wanted to do. He died last year from some sort of cancer, so I never got to ask him.
Enough of that, back to the typewriter. I don’t have the money for a computer, but I really don’t need one. I can spell and my grammar isn’t that bad. George has a computer, but he’s got so many passwords and codes on it that I can’t use it. Plus, he told me when he first got it that I couldn’t even look at it. Don’t get me wrong, he really is a good guy; he’s just overprotective of the few nice things he has.
Right now, I’m working on this story about this woman who is beaten nightly by her boyfriend. The first line is one of my best. “She loved to wear purple and sometimes he helped her wear it.”
George thinks that the story is stereotypical and boring. “Louise, get some original ideas,” is what he tells me. I think the first sentence is pretty original and that’s what I do best.
I don’t think George knows it, but whenever he gets an “original idea,” it’s normally a rewrite of one of my first lines. I would never dream of telling George that. He would get mad at me and probably kick me out or something. If he did that, I’d have no one left and no where to go.
George told me that he’s going to marry me as soon as we get the money. He said that about six months ago. We’ve been together for two years; we met in college. I’ve never loved anyone before and to tell the truth, I don’t know how love feels. George says it’s like the whole world falls away except one person and that’s all you see and you would do anything for that person, anything. He always repeats “anything.”
He likes to think that he describes love like Hemingway would. I don’t know how Hemingway would describe love because as far as I know he never fell in love. I saw that movie about him and that nurse in the war; I know.
I can’t wait for George to get home from work. He’s a writer at the local newspaper. Nothing really big and important about it, but one day things are going to change. George is always talking about the day that he’s going to have enough money to buy the whole town. I’m happy with things just the way they are. Oh well. At least he knows what he wants. I wish I did, but until then, I’ll be writing first lines.
Remember
by Abigail Koelewyn
I dim the lights and think of you,
I sit in the midst of the circle of candles.
I remember you, my friend,
The first candle; earth, your being,
The second candle; air, our song,
The third candle; fire, our friendship, rekindled,
The fourth candle; water, your hair, black and flowing,
The fifth candle; spirit, your soul,
They are ever entwined.
They make you and you make them.
I close my eyes and see your face,
You are here, I can feel your presence,
And I know you remember….
George
by Kat Hale
Do you remember the way
the sun would shine over
the trees and strike the
field then the light grew
soft as it caressed the grass
and crept towards us like a
rising tide the song birds
would begin dripping notes
the music of the gods I
remember the sun light
caught in your hair and it
would dance as it tried to
regain freedom and your
eyes would burn with cold
blue fire I could feel our
hearts beat the same
rhythm quickened with
anticipation we would
spend countless hours
rediscovering our utopia
and lost in each other
creating pictures that
would make the world stop
at a glance the earth mist
breath of dawn would rise
as if our words were
commanding it like a great
cloud it surrendered us
masking our limitations as
we left reality further
behind in soft billows our
sanctuary would lift and
we were left with peace
The Cow Sonnet
by Lili Cukier
Consider then, a polka-dotted cow,
With five legs, green hooves, udders, and a tail.
Who never could determine clearly how
To fly beyond the oceans without fail.
Our heifer always sought the highest height
Which any Holstein eve could attain
Yet with her awkwardness, and lacking might,
Aerodynamics she could never gain.
So then the cow began to stretch her wit,
And build a catapult of steel and wood.
Determined that this cow should never quit,
She worked until both range and speed were good.
So never let your hopes be dashed too soon,
And cows will always fly above the moon.
Rainwalker’s Daughter
by Rowan McMullin
She meets him one rainy morning before school, splashing in puddles and getting his backpack muddy. Don’t worry, she said to him, even though I know who you are, I won’t tell anyone. His deep-surface eyes look back at her in liquid confusion and disappointment, but she knows.
Her grandmother tells her stories of Rainwalker, of his many talents. Rainwalker, Grandmother informs her, is powerful. Sometimes he is a small child, and sometimes he dances with the spirit of an elder. But always, Rainwalker is looking for the daughter he lost, back when he was almost mortal.
That is the story she asks for most often, the one in which the young, incomplete son of the gods visits the beautiful mortal woman Inta. She gave him six children. A son with bright eyes to be his vision, a strong son to be his hands, a clever son to be his tongue, a sly son to be his ears, and a wise son to be his nose. The sixth child was to be very special. The sixth one was a daughter who was to be his Power.
When Inta died birthing his daugther, he became very angry and cursed the gods. The gods, upon hearing the names that he called them, were displeased with him. They took his daughter from him and hid her away among mortals. Then her grandmother stops.
Tell me, Grandmother. Tell me about his daughter.
Grandmother smiles. The gods hid her among mortals, but they placed him on the Other Side. When it rains, you can look into a puddle, and what you see is not a simple reflection. It is the Other Side. For Rainwalker, it is possible to travel to and from the Other Side, but only through those Doorways. He can only come to this world when it rains, to search for his daughter. It could be anyone, Grandmother says sharply, anyone at all.
Looking into her grandmother’s eyes, she sees the family pride, and for a long time, she hoped that she could be Rainwalker’s daughter. But after she started her moon cycles, she had to admit that she could be no such thing. No god’s daughter would allow herself such a reminder of mortality.
He is waiting for her when she gets out of school. He looks like a father, now, and she wonders where her father is. Grandmother says he left long ago, but not why. She watches this father scrutinizing faces and turning away again, puzzled and unhappy.
He meets her eyes, and she sees there a loneliness possessed only by the rain: many, but alone. His black hair is water-plastered to his temples, and suddenly he looks very much like he is giving up. She remembers what her grandmother says about Rainwalker, about how he has wandered for so long, searching and searching. She remembers that Grandmother says, Years, my young one, are a long time to wait for something you have lost of yourself.
Grandmother sighs as if she knows. Yes, the years play on our hearts like shadows of iron, binding us so that we can do nothing for ourselves. Rainwalker is no exception. Sometimes, I suspect that he is as mortal as the rest of us, only it is not old age that is killing him.
What is?
Grandmother simply shakes her head.
Now she knows what is killing him. He has lost his faith. She wonders what a world would be without Rainwalker, without his reminder of many and one. Their eyes hold for a long time, and for a moment, she allows herself to hope. Me? But he turns away and starts to walk slowly toward a puddle in the playground.
She cannot let him give up. Her grandmother’s words come back to her. It could be anyone, anyone at all.
She takes a step toward the man scuffling to the Doorway. And another. He does not look up at the sound of her footsteps, but stares at the way to the Other Side. He lifts his foot to put it into the puddle, slowly, deliberately, and suddenly she is running. She hurls her backpack at the water.
It lands in the middle of the puddle, erasing the view of the Other Side, and spattering him with droplets.
Rainwalker! Rainwalker! she cries, running to him. He turns at her voice and blindly shoves his arms out. She throws herself at him, saying, I’m here! I’ll be your daughter! Don’t give up, don’t give up, don’t give up! and suddenly she is gone.
She feels a becoming, and sees, as through another’s deep-surface eyes, light streaming toward her from the rain. She straightens up, only she is no longer herself, but Rainwalker. She sends a small whisper shivering through him, and they walk through the unseeing children, out onto the street. They stride up to a small, yellow house and open the door. Grandmother is sitting in her rocking chair, smiling to herself a little.
Grandmother, says Rainwalker’s Daughter.
Thank you, Elder, says Rainwalker, She won’t be back. What can I return to you?
But Grandmother is asleep in her chair and only blinks at their raindrop voice.
Rainwalker’s Daughter tickles another whisper in her father’s mind, and he nods, reaching out to touch the old woman on the forehead. She sighs and settles down into her chair, and the granddaughter knows she is dreaming of drifting through the rain-washed streets, through the puddles, and on, to the Other Side. There, she will meet a young man she has been waiting for a very, very long time.
Rainwalker’s Daughter watches the iron shadows loosen their hold on Grandmother’s heart and smiles.
They walk out onto the glistening pavement, and breathe the clean air that comes after a storm. If anyone is watching closely, they will see that there are seven people walking down the street, not one. There is an old, old man being carried by his five fine sons; one with the brightest eyes anyone has ever seen, one with the most powerful arms and hands, one with the cleverest face, one with the slyest, and one who looks so wise that he cannot be younger than his father. Anyone watching closely can see that, striding among these fine sons, is a girl with bright eyes and strong hands, a sly and clever face, and wisdom far beyond her years. But there is no one watching closely, and so no one sees the girl turn once to look back at a small, yellow house. And no one will notice when all seven of them slowly fade out, like a rainbow will if you have gotten too close to it.
Under, Over, and Through
by Abigail Koelewyn
I sit at my table and think of you
Your favorite colors, or so you say,
Are blue, purple, and green.
I take the strings and tie them together,
Like the bonds of our friendship.
I repeat the motions,
Under, over, and through,
Under, over, and through,
I sit and weave a symbol of our fellowship.
I weave it to be strong and full of love,
Just like you.
Untitled
by Kat Hale
Dear —–,
Baby steps walk to mommy
Scoop me up so safe and warm
Brass shoes and teething rings
At night mommy sings
But not you
First day of school a little scared
Scraped my knee on the jungle gym
Got an A trying to write my
name mommy’s proud
But not you
By high school time
I love the leaves
Romance time
Waiting for that boy to call
Mommy worries
So young to fall in love
But not you
Ring on my finger
Love him so
The stage calls me and the pens flow
I dream of soaring and mommy
holds the wind for me
But not you
To Those Who Cry in Phone Booths
by April Dawn Gosling
In the phone booth,
a girl cradles her head in her arms.
Tears from her blue eyes
streak her pale face.
Her hand enveloped in her sleeve
wipes the tears away.
She could be talking to her lover
who after years of devotion has just left her.
She could be talking to her mother
and her father has just passed away.
Slowly she hangs up and leaves.
The receiver is damp. I cradle it in my hand.
We Remember
by Abigail Koelewyn
The fear and pain
The screams and cries of those lost
The false accusations
The faces may be forgotten
Yet we remember…
We had no warning it came and stayed
We had nowhere to turn
We had nowhere to go
The names may be forgotten
Yet we remember…
We remember all of this
The way we were killed, slaughtered, but what for
They had no reason, no purpose
The names, faces, and numbers may be forgotten
Yet the souls remember, and do not forgive
End Game
by Lili Cukier
“It’s your move, slowpoke.”
A most deliberate pause, then, “I know that, thank you.”
“Blair, you’ve been staring at the board for almost twenty minutes. You’ve got to make your move sometime. Blair… Blair…”
Blair sat slightly hunched over the cheaply made table. He looked exceedingly pale, most likely because of the dim lighting in the coffeehouse. He idly twirled a captured black bishop between his thumb and first two fingers, feeling the smoothness of the polished stone. He looked up suddenly.
“It’s a beautiful game, isn’t it? Look how sharply the black and white contrast each other – they’re complete opposite. Yet when you mix them together with such straight, perfect lines and squares, they become a medley of color and no color, day and night. Kind of like us. Blair and Raven: white and black.”
“I take it I’m black,” she said, interested to see where Blair’s train of thought would lead.
He shrugged. “Sometimes. Other times it’s me with my heart in the darkness, and your white light that pulls me out. The roles can change, but the idea is the same.”
Raven carefully studied Blair, trying to figure out what emotions were warring within him, ‘God, the man’s face is stonier than this marble chessboard,’ she thought. ‘who knows what he might be thinking.’
Blair sighed, and advanced a pawn.
Raven studied the board again. She was two moves away from checkmate, and was pretty sure that Blair didn’t see it. For all his cryptic talk, he wasn’t very good at concealing his strategy. Then again, maybe he didn’t have a strategy at all. He was just playing, following the rules but not really paying attention to the game. She found his innocence somewhat charming.
“Blair, do you really know where you’re going?” she said, moving her rook two spaces to the right.
He laughed. “Sure I do. I’ve got all sorts of traps laid for you here – I can’t wait to see which one eventually brings you down.”
“Not the game, Blair. Have you ever wondered what you’re going to do tomorrow, how you’re going to live your life? Do you even know why you’re here?”
His face didn’t change at all, but that in itself was revealing. For a split second she saw the pain in his eyes, and knew she’d hit the mark. She didn’t want to hurt him, but sometimes it seemed like that was the only way to get him to wake up and realize that life was going on all around him. She was going to have to use her dark side again: trick him into admitting himself so that that she could start helping him. Before she could work out any more, Blair spoke.
“I guess I’m here because I have nowhere else to go. Sometimes I get a sense of direction when I’m with… when I’m playing chess,” he finished quickly.
All Raven could do was raise an eyebrow and wait. She knew that he had almost said ‘when I’m with you.’ Could she make him admit it?
As Blair moved his knight onto a black square, he sealed his fate. “Raven, what piece would you be?”
“Pardon?” said Raven. She looked at him quizzically over her coffee cup, her mind whirling.
“If you were going to be a chessman, which one would you be? Not like a chessboard piece, but a real, live person living back in Renaissance England.”
“Did someone spike your cappuccino?” she chided, then ran through the moves in her head. It just might work. “I don’t know. Which one would you be?”
Blair looked serious for a moment. “Well, for starters, I could never be a King.”
Raven looked up at him with interest.
“Too much responsibility. Too much time in the spotlight. Besides, there’s no freedom. Same deal with being a Queen, plus with that one I don’t think I could stand the twenty pound dresses.”
The corners of Raven’s mouth turned up slightly. Ah, Blair.
“I could never be a bishop, either. I don’t have that kind of faith, and the clergy back then was way too corrupt. I couldn’t be a rook because I don’t know what one is, even if they really did exist.”
At the last remark, Raven couldn’t help but giggle. Blair continued steadfastly onward.
“Even though I’d have the most freedom being a squire, I couldn’t stand being a mere pawn in someone else’s great game. No, I would have to be a knight. A true gentleman, bound to duty and honor and chivalry.”
Raven broke into a big grin. “Bravo!” she said. “what a beautiful train of deductive logic. But,” here her eyes took on a strange gleam, “could you really be that honorable all the time?”
Blair was not to be one-upped. “My Lady Raven, it would be my greatest pleasure to do thy bidding.”
“My knight in shining armor,” she laughed. “All right, I bid you answer my next question as truthfully as you can.”
Blair was still at it. “My Lady, upon mine honor, I pledge to you that I will speak as honestly as any true gentleman would.”
‘Here goes,’ she thought. Her hand nearly shook as she slid her queen over one space. She knew that her nervousness must be obvious, but now that she’d started she had no choice but to plunge ahead.
“Would you like to marry me?”
Blair straightened up in shock. His eyes first widened with fear, then slowly changed into amazement and finally softened into tenderness. His mouth opened slightly, but it was clear that he was incapable of speaking. Eventually, all he could do was close his mouth, and nod at her slowly with huge, wondering eyes. She had won.
Her own voice broke as she heard herself whisper one last word: “Checkmate.”
AfterWord
by Arie Koelewyn
It’s not like I woke up one morning and discovered that I had raised a brood of writers and artists. Nor should it have surprised me that many of their friends also wrote. I was aware most of the time that my children wrote poetry and sketched.
My house is coated with their drawings and my refrigerator with bits of their magnetic poetry. Some of the better drawings were framed and prominently hung. Those of you NAPA members that attended the 1998 Convention picnic may have seen these.
Still, it came as a surprise that they were talented beyond a parent’s pride. Part of the surprise was that this next generation can do something better than I can. So, what does one do after the well deserved kick in the seat of the pants? The answer is, I hope, self evident.
The primary impetus for this publication was an offer I made just after the rush of enthusiasm from the successful completion of the Lansing NAPA convention. This was an offer to son Andy’s friends to print something they had written. Andy escorted Kat Hale to the opening reception and Lili Cukier to the banquet. Since then, Andy has gotten engaged to Kat, who is interested in theatre. Lili, in addition to writing poems and stories, is the first chair cellist of the East Lansing High orchestra.
Last September, daughter Ruth began going to school at the Interlochen Arts Academy near Traverse City, MI. She is a Visual Arts major, preparing for a career in architecture. Many of her friends up there are Creative Writing majors, including April and Rowan. During her Spring Break from Interlochen, Ruth and I collaborated on the creation of the font illustrations that fill the gaps between the texts.
Daughter Abigail wrote the poems printed here for a school assignment on friendship. Their existence convinced me to get off my duff and carry through on my promise. In addition to her three poems, Abigail did a lot of the behind the scenes work for this publication: urging others to submit their manuscripts, typing them into the computer when an electronic version didn’t exit, proofreading and comments.
Everything you read herein has been very lightly edited and is presented without any textual alterations. I hope that you enjoy the writing and if you feel moved to comment, the authors would love to hear from you. Please forward comments to me at East Lansing, MI 48823-1340.
Colophon
Text: 12 pt. Garnet
Titles: 16 pt. Garnet Bold
Bylines: 12 pt. Garnet Italic
Cover:
66 pt. Elagantia-BoldItalic
44 pt. Garnet
18 pt. Garnet Bold
Font Illustrations:
Garnet Bold
Bad Agid
Antique Olive
Wide Latin
Bordeaux Black
Big Stretch
Bookshelf Symbol 3
Cinema
All typefaces used are MS Windows True-Type. The software used to produce this publication is MS Word 95. The original document was printed using an HP Laserjet 4 at 600 dpi and duplicated by Kinko’s. 350 copies for the authors and members of the National Amateur Press Association.