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  • Robert L. Giron

Issue 173

Updated: Feb 13, 2023

This issue features


Oyster Pearls

© Chernetskaya | Dreamstime

Bryce Johle

Spirit Gifts

Meema came to me in meditation,

Wrinkled, smiling face—the one

Before the stroke, her invitation

To pack her things—pure glee, palm

Down, reaching to me, bestowing

Unripe mayapple from her wheelchair,

Whispering, here you go.

I took it, frozen cherry knuckles

Like lightly oiled oyster pearls

Bowling over my skin,

And stuffed it in my pocket,

A keepsake for contemplation

To lodge this visitation in memory.

I didn’t know until the woods

What hung beneath umbrellaed leaves,

Or that it tasted like pink Starburst

When ripe, a treat for box turtles

Who disperse seeds like inspired

Wildlife, how she would give me

A couple of fives for my report card,

Or wisdom over Diet Pepsi

After mowing her lawn.

Her house clean linen and leather purse,

Aromas as apparitions, balled-up tissues

Saturated in Estee Lauder,

I feel her grandmother massage,

As I tell her I want to walk the length of the U.S.,

(But don’t tell my mom),

And she describes the night her father

Woke her up when pizza first came to town.

Copyright © 2023 by Bryce Johle.

The song sparrow child

Chirps, fidgets wings endlessly in its mother’s line,

who pecks at lunch crumbs under our table,

and it swallows whatever drops

from mother’s beak to child’s crying throat.

They flutter off, then land,

one of the other in psychic link.

My human body produces lift

in air sideways, alone

like mixed equilibrium, doggy paddling

with a dream of floating, and

each morning comprehending more

songspeech and feather swivels,

though I’m not becoming one myself…

I was born human for a reason.

To find birds contain more sensible math

than my own feet, and with my adult lips shut,

my eyes meant to wonder, I remain a man who loves,

admires their three forward toes perching and springing.

Copyright © 2023 by Bryce Johle.

About the Author

Bryce Johle is from Williamsport, PA and earned a B.A. in Professional Writing from Kutztown University. His work has, or will soon, appear in The Writing Disorder, Shoofly, Essence Art and Literary Magazine, draft Literary Magazine, Nebo: A Literary Journal, and Litbreak Magazine, among others. He currently lives in Pittsburgh, PA with his wife and stepdaughter.

Amit Rane


© Amit Rane | Dreamstime

Padma Prasad

The Silver Medal

Maniamma looked around her kitchen with as much excitement as sadness. She was not sure she liked the smell of kerosene. She preferred her wood or charcoal cooking. Her grandson had talked too much about this new kerosene stove, how easy it was to use, how fast and reliable it was. Normally, Maniamma would have been curious about the mechanics of it. But nowadays, she could not participate in anything. Every part of her was worried, every part of her burned and she went without looking at anyone in the face.

She watched her grand daughter-in-law push in the wicks and raise them with the lever. Then she lit them. The kitchen smelled of new metal and burning cotton. Who could eat anything with that smell in their food; she would keep to her wood stove if she had to cook anything, she decided.

It was time for her husband’s evening cup of tea. Her granddaughter-in-law was boiling the milk. When the tea was ready, she gave it to Maniamma. Maniamma took a sip to see if it was tolerable.

She would have liked to avoid seeing Big One, her husband. It was more than she could bear, to be with him and not let him know the dreadful thing she had done. One of these days, one of these days, before the end, she would tell him; she would not let him go without his forgiveness. If he did not forgive her, which was quite possible, she would be put forever in narakam (hell), which is what she deserved any way.

The whole situation started a month earlier, when Big One lay down on his back after lunch, his body filling the wooden cot, his hands above his head, the palms facing up. Plop, a lizard fell from the ceiling and onto his palm. It was the palm on which, if a lizard falls, it means the end. Big One sat up, like an illumination had scratched at his soul. His eyes were full of philosophy, his eyelids heavy and profound.

He called Maniamma, they were married sixty seven years ago, and said to her, “My end is coming. We have to prepare for the end.”

He pulled open the drawer beside his cot and took out his gold Pilot fountain pen. From that day, he started the listing—listing the paper money and the coin money in his safe, the silk and cotton shirts in his cupboard, his Rolex watch and his two-sovereign gold bracelet, his very rare black ruby ring and the tiny gold screws with which they pierced his ears when he was eleven months old.

Every day, he started after breakfast. First, he took a good pinch of snuff from his silver snuff box and breathed it up his two nostrils till his nose turned into an inflamed percussion instrument. Then, all the things that could be brought to him were brought to him. He wrote their beginning, their middle, and their end. Then he moved from room to room, listing the furniture, the pictures, the antlers, the tiger skin, the ceiling fans, the lights.

The whole household got involved in this inventory. Sometimes, the children brought their toys to him and said, “What about this one, Big Thaatha? And this, and this?” Big One would laugh; to please them he would make a pencil note of their items in the ledger, and erase them after they were gone to bed.

Big One had eight children who had split into twenty four grandchildren and eleven great grandchildren. He had swords from his ancestors, shields, daggers, ceremonial gold dishes, and the ornamented silver spittoon of his great grandfather. From his own life, to mention a few things, he had his books, hunting trophies and medals for something or other, property deeds, and the metal letters from the German printing press he had once owned. Big One’s lists went on and on, filling many ledgers.

At the end of each day, Maniamma sat with Big One. She trimmed and prepared the betel leaves for him, which she rolled with limestone paste, sugar, pumpkin seeds, grated coconut and broken areca nuts. As he chewed and allowed the red juice to burn down through his throat into his chest, he summarized his lists with her and she listened with fear, her mouth twisted, her chest hurting with her burden. His memory fascinated her, the details of his life remembered with tenderness and honesty. If only she had not contributed to his downfall and worst of all, had never even let him know about it. Now she sat like a doomed person, which prompted him to comfort her: Knowing one’s end was a special gift and they should be happy that he was so fortunate, he said. Every time, she opened her mouth to let out some of the words that stifled her throat, she found a way to push them back.

Like this, twenty eight days went by, twenty eight days since the lizard fell on Big One’s palm. At last, Big One had only one shelf remaining in one cupboard. He pulled out a rectangular cloth packet from this shelf. The moment he saw this packet, his face increased in darkness and he flung it back into the cupboard where it made a muffled metallic sound.

In the evening, he sat back in his easy chair and said to Maniamma, “If that shelf’s all that’s left, it can wait. Sometimes, there are objects in a man’s life, unworthy to be listed.”

Maniamma was fragrant with jasmine in her hair, her face powdered with sandalwood talc. She gave Big One a generous glimpse of her marvelous bosom, hoping it would motivate him to forget all about the lizard and prepare him for what she was about to confess.

She would finally tell him the dreadful secret, no, it was a transgression, that she had kept inside her, all these years. Big One was not in a listening mood. His cheeks shone with a healthy glow and his eyes were lustrous and soft. Who could die if they looked like that, it can wait, after so many years, it can wait, and Maniamma swallowed her confession.

Big One died in his sleep that night, just after dreaming that he was sleeping in a coconut grove, in a hammock strung between Maniamma’s dusky biceps.

After he was washed, cleaned and laid out in silk, with flowers and incense, Maniamma went to the cupboard and took out the packet. It was made of fine yellow muslin wrapped several times over. She unfolded the layers and took out a tarnished silver medal. As she held it in her palm, she felt a massive howl rising from deep within her belly. She suppressed it with a powerful gasp, and looked at the little newspaper clipping in the packet. She read, her lips moving silently: Fall of a Champion: Dec. 14, 1943. The Madras Presidency. At the Annual Presidency Wrestling Championship, held December 13, Ramaswamy Naicker, defending champion of the Governor’s Rolling Trophy, broke his six year winning streak. Noted for his elegant style and powerful quarter Nelsons, the champion wrestler was brought down by an enfant terrible, Muthuvel Devar, from the village of Vellikuppam. The Rt. Honorable Geoffrey Engels gave away the prizes.

Maniamma folded the medal into the end of her sari, knotted it and tucked the knot into her waist. Then she wiped her face and went into the kitchen.

A week went by. Maniamma attended to all her funeral guests, but it was clear to them, her mind was entangled in something. A cousin from her mother’s side said, “It’s understandable. They were married for sixty-seven years. What else of the world did she know but Big One.”

On the eighth day, it was a Tuesday, in the afternoon, when everyone was sleeping, Maniamma stepped carefully to the front of the house and signaled to Ragu, her eldest great grandchild. Ragu was a slim, tall young man, eighteen years old with a wide and responsible forehead, framed by a picturesque set of curls.

“Go, get your bicycle and come to the side door,” Maniamma whispered to him.

One look at her face and Ragu walked quickly to the bicycle shed. Half an hour later, they were on the road, Maniamma perched on the cycle bar in front of her great grandson.

After about an hour’s pedaling, they arrived at Thiruvanmiyur on the outskirts of the city. Everything looked different to Maniamma; she had last been there sixty, or no, maybe even sixty one years ago. She got down from the bicycle and stood under a neem tree, shading her eyes and looking in all directions. In the distance, she could see the gopuram of the Marundeeswarar temple. She felt reassured when she saw the familiar landmark. Maybe after she got what she had come for, it would be good to go to the temple.

A few yards away to her right, there was a tiny little shop, with bananas, a few vegetables and other knickknacks. The shopkeeper was a little old man with a very kind look in his faded watery eyes, and a long beard that reached to his waist.

There’s no one else to ask, what else to do, Maniamma thought, and straight away, she talked to the shopkeeper.

After listening to Maniamma, he burst out, “The Bit Toe Siddhar, you say, that mystic, that one! He disappeared many, many years ago. They get easily angry, those fellows, he just took off when they allowed the main tar road to be built and the temple was going to be moved for that. Of course, how can anyone be moving a temple like that. In the end, they thought of another way, but no one has seen him since then. What business have you with him, tell me that.”

Maniamma sat heavily down on a rock. Her tears began to spill out of her now with very little control. The shopkeeper looked alarmed. “No, no, look here, you old woman. Not here, you know that. Not here in front of my shop. Bad, bad for my business. Go down that road or that other road and put your tears there. But not here,” and he hopped around her shooing her with a little towel. “Don’t just stand there, boy,” he said to Ragu. “Take her down that road, away from here.”

“At least I tried,” Maniamma said, as she sat back on the cycle and Ragu began to pedal homewards. “This place has changed so much. The last time I came with my brother, it was just a wild forest and now everywhere there are fields.”

Her tears refused to stop. Ragu did not know how to console her. He was afraid to ask her any questions, why did they come here, who was this Bit Toe, what kind of a name was that anyway, and why had he, Ragu, agreed to come with her. His thoughts were cut short by her sudden exclamation, “Ragu, Ragu, are you sure this is the way we came. I don’t remember seeing so many trees, do you now?”

She was right of course. They got off the bicycle and began to walk about. Maniamma said, “There’s nothing to worry. The main road can’t be all that far away. This is very strange. Anyway, don’t worry, my dear. We’ll be safe home before they know we were not even there. We can walk this way for a few minutes and see where that gets us. Also, surely by that time, we’ll find somebody.”

Ten minutes later, they were no wiser. But the time passed pleasantly enough as Maniamma had stopped crying and began to talk of Big One and what a great wrestler he had been. Ragu had never heard this; he listened avidly.

“Champion of the Madras Presidency, not once, not twice. Six times, Ragu,” she said.

“Six times! Are you making all this up, Paati? How is it there are no pictures, no trophies, no one knows anything about this? You never said anything about it before? No one told me anything about this before?” Ragu asked.

This brought on a fresh bout of tears. Maniamma blew her nose violently at the edge of the path. “All because of me, sinner,” she beat her chest several times, “Sinner, sinner, it’s all because of this sinner. And now, he’s gone, I’ll never get forgiveness. And we can’t find Bit Toe Siddhar. What is there for me to do?”

Paati, stop crying for everything. What is this Bit Toe Siddhar all about? Why are you looking for him now? You are making my head get crazy with questions,” Ragu said. Briefly, he thought of what his mother would say when or if they returned home. He walked a little faster.

“Hey, don’t go off like that, boy,” Maniamma said, rearranging her sari around her shoulders. “You are right. It’s only fair that you have these questions and it’s only fair I tell you what I know.” She passed her tongue over her two remaining molars and made clicking noises with her mouth. Then she said, “Now, do you remember when Big Thaatha knew he was dying, he started going through all his things?”

“And making all the lists, yes, yes.”

“Were you there when he said, ‘Sometimes, there are objects in a man’s life, unworthy to be listed?’ No, you were finishing your last exam or something that day.” She pulled out her sari folded in at her waist and took out the silver medal and showed it to Ragu. The tarnished silver lay glinting on his palm. “You have such good hands, just like your Big Thaatha. But what’s the use of all that now?”

Ragu held up the medal and read the inscription out loud, “Annual Madras Presidency Wrestling Championship, Second Prize. December 13, 1943. Awarded to Ramaswamy Naicker.”

He tossed it up and caught it. “So that’s something, isn’t it? He got the second prize, Paati, that’s great, no? I’d be very proud if I even got that much. But knowing Big One, that wasn’t good, was it?”

“Give it here, you silly child. Playing with it, like that, if it falls and gets lost, you have no respect for anything, do you!”

Maniamma snatched the medal from him and safely tucked it back at her waist. “For you, it might be enough, to be defeated like that, to just get the second prize. But as you say, not Big One. Not the Big One, who won continuously for six years. Six continuous years. How everyone was afraid of him. How the crowds came, even the English lords and ladies, not for anyone, only for Big One, to see the power of his fists, the strength of his limbs. Only I can know what pain it was. After every fight, to see his broken pieces, the damaged skin and bones, not a small anguish I can tell you. Six years, six years, was it enough? No, always never, never enough, more, more, once more, and then another once more. Every time, Ragu, he will promise, like a drunkard, ‘this is the last year’, I am retiring after this. And every time, the promise will not be kept.”

Suddenly through the trees, she saw a little figure. “Look, look Ragu, someone is going there. Call, ask him how to get out of here,” she whispered.

“He looks like the shopkeeper,” Ragu whispered back.

When he came closer, they saw that it was he indeed. He clapped his hands together and shook his head as if he was clearing it all the time. “What can I do?” he said to them. “You are crying. Your tears call me, so I had to come.”

Maniamma cupped her face with wonder. “Bit Toe Siddhar?” she said softly.

The mystic cleared his throat, “That’s alright now, tell me why you are searching for me, quick. There’s no one in my shop and things will not remain the same.”

“But you have changed so much. I would never, never have recognized you. You have become so small, so different.”

“So, is that what you came to tell me? Look at you, look at you now. You are not the same same. The same woman in the same blouse who came to see me before. I feel like being small, I am small. If I feel like being big and full of flesh too, I will be like that. How does that bother you?”

Maniamma trembled and stuttered, then pulling herself together, she said, “Big One died last week.”

The mystic growled, “So, so he died. The body is born only to die. You are searching to tell me this?”

By now Maniamma had recovered. “Now, if you will let me say my bit, before you start growling at me, we can get something said and something listened,” she said forcefully.

Bit Toe Siddhar put up his hands as if shielding from her. Seeing that she had got his attention, Maniamma continued, “Big One never, never knew why he lost. He died without knowing I came to you before his last match. And I can’t bear it now. All the prizes he got, he didn’t even want to see them or own them. No one could even mention the fights or even the word wrestling. This great grandson of mine, he did not know even one little information about what a great wrestler Big One was, how sad is that. All these years, that defeat locked in his soul, I cannot live now when I think of that cruelty.”

For answer, the little man started a loud guffaw. He hopped in little circles, his tiny hands waving about rhythmically. He spoke to Ragu. “So, what shall we do now? Shall we go and search for your Big One and tell him he lost because his wife wanted him to lose and this Bit Toe made a wish. Tell me young man, is that a good idea?”

Ragu shifted awkwardly, unable to think of a good reply to this. Suddenly the mystic stood very still, his hands stretched out mournfully, his head down, his chin in his chest, he ground his teeth, nnnannnnannna. “Not even in death, you will let him be peaceful,” he said, gently.

“You can say what you like. I am the one who lives with this pain in my heart. Make me also die or forget all these years, this past of thinking that I did the right thing, to come to you and make him lose his fight,” Maniamma said and then went on her knees. She clasped her hands together. “Master, but for your kindness, he would not have been alive this long time. Or even if he had been, who knows how maimed, missing what body or brain part, who knows that.”

Bit Toe Siddhar pursed his lips and looked at Maniamma as if she had said something very pleasant. “She’s thinking very cleverly, this old grandmother of yours. Her mind has a good logic.” He began to sing:

“Life or defeat, you choose.

Which is win, which is lose

Defeat or wife?

Gold or life?

Choose, choose, choose”!

Ragu was in a complete state of uncertainty. He was not sure he wanted to participate in this conversation. Still, he was mesmerized by Bit Toe Siddhar. Most of all, he wanted to ask how he got that name. Was it that his toe was bitten, or was it that his toe was really small, if so which toe were they referring to.

Bit Toe Siddhar smoothed his beard and said in a sharp, angry voice, “Enough, enough. It’s getting late as it is. It could have been later than all these years.” Then his gaze softened, and he looked at Maniamma quite tenderly. He put out his hand to her and she placed the silver medal in his calloused, wrinkled palm. He turned it this way and that. He said as if in a trance, “The hour before you came to see me, Maniamma, do you know who came to my door. But the question is, do I even have a door? I have to be honest now, let’s rephrase that: not to my door, who came to my footstep? Who, who do you think: Muthuvel Devar came with his father. He wanted my blessings to win against Big One. I gave him a magic amulet. Ask anyone who saw the fight, he was wearing that amulet. I wonder what he did with it afterwards. Anyway, never mind about that, its purpose is finished. You are a foolish woman, Maniamma: Big One was going to lose anyway, that’s why you came. Muthuvel Devar was going to win, that’s why he came. In the end the universe has only one goal. Only, each one thinks it is their goal.” With that, the mystic threw the silver medal at Maniamma. It grazed her cheek and rolled down. She picked it up and stared at it, her eyes darting wildly. Ragu felt his head shrink with fear at how she would react to this explanation.

The mystic began to sway. He moved around Maniamma, making soothing sounds. Maniamma continued to kneel, her head down. The thoughts from all those years tumbled by all around her; they stopped with the thought of the goodness of herself as a wife. Her shoulders straightened and she finally stood up. The siddhar said, “The way out is over there.” They looked and sure enough, now they could see the main road through the trees.

“Here is a fruit from my shop, eat it now and go,” the siddhar said, and handed them each a mango; he then left and was soon a speck between the trees.

The fruit appeared to have ripened before it’s time. Ragu took one bite and his face screwed up. He was about to spit it out, when Maniamma held his arm warningly. “Don’t spit it out here,” she whispered. “If he sees you doing that, we don’t know what new trouble will happen. You never know with these.”

Ragu was about to argue, but Maniamma’s expression made a strong impact on him. They quietly made their way to the road. The sky was turning magnificent with orange, pink, mauve, purple streaks, and dabs in all directions.

They passed by a pristine pond. “Stop, Ragu, stop for a minute, dear child,” Maniamma said. She got off and went to the edge of the pond and stood there with her eyes closed. Then she threw the silver medal: it caught the golden light in the sky before it vanished in a splash into the pond.

Copyright © 2023 by Padma Prasad.

About the Author

Padma Prasad, born in Chennai, India, is a poet, writer, and painter. Her Indian roots provide the material for her imagination. Several of her short stories have been published in various literary magazines in the US and in India, most recently in Bloodroot Literary Magazine. She is currently working on a collection of short stories. She has a postgraduate degree in English literature and was an English lecturer at Stella Maris College, Chennai, before she migrated to the US. She attended the Kenyon College writers’ workshop in 2014. Her poem received Honorable Mention in the Palm Beach Ekphrastic Poetry competition, 2016. She is based in Fairfax, Virginia. She volunteers at the Fairfax Art League as president.


Fried Chicken

© Chokomos | Dreamstime

Nicole Pyles

I’m Not Home Yet

The car shuddered to a stop as Lauren pulled into the poorly lit gas station. Darkness from the black night enveloped the car, drowning out the dim lights from her glowing dashboard. The GPS module attached to the dashboard was stuck on mile marker 15. She didn’t need it anymore. She should have been afraid, but that emotion felt numb by now. Soon she’ll have to change cars, but not yet. Not in the blackness of night.

Lauren grabbed her small cheap cell phone, wondering if it was safe to call a tow truck. She had purchased the device from a gas station earlier that day. Walking in with a blonde wig and a large baseball cap, Lauren had eyeballed all the throwaway phones for drug dealers and people like her not wanting to be found. She could have selected a smartphone, but she didn’t trust them. Instead, she purchased a cheap device that made phone calls and clunky text messages. The cashier hadn’t blinked an eye at her appearance or purchase choices.


Lauren gasped, the loud knock on the window sending shock waves through her like she had been electrocuted. Terrified, she wondered for a moment if he had found her. Instead as she peered out the window, she saw a frail attendant, who could have been mistaken for 20 or 80, at her window.

“Ma’am, the gas station is closed!”

Her heart continued racing, reminding her she was still alive, as she struggled to find the nerve to speak. “My car!” she finally yelled through the closed window. “It died on me!”

The lights of the gas station cast ghastly shadows on the man’s face. “You’ll have to come back in the morning!” he yelled back, exposing a few missing teeth. As if noticing her mind racing to figure out if she would be safe sleeping in her car overnight, he continued, “There’s a diner up the way! Cheap hotel too. I’ll take you to it!”

Lauren hesitated but figured her odds of being murdered were greater if she slept here. “Okay.” She grabbed her keys out of the ignition and took her purse. The attendant stepped away from the car and held it for her as she pushed it open and stepped out of the car.

“Name’s Joe,” he said. He held out his oil-stained hand to shake her hand. Lauren’s ex-husband Dan worked in a garage for a while, she remembered. No matter how often he washed his hands, they were always filthy.

Lauren shook the man’s hand, noticing the tinge of grime staying on her hand when the social nicety ended. “Mine’s Melanie.” The lie felt right. As if it’s been her name the whole time.

“Well, let’s go, Melanie. You’re probably freezing out here. Drops pretty fast at night.”

She reached in her car and grabbed her only piece of luggage. Hesitating, she looked around the gas station, noticing this was the only car around.

“Your car will be fine,” he reassured.

As she closed the door, she realized if someone stole the vehicle it would only help her situation. One less loose end for her to handle. She would just rent a new car in the morning. Under a new name. Maybe under the name Melanie.

Lauren followed Joe to a beaten-up red Honda, and he opened the passenger side door for her.

“Thanks,” she said, surprised. Dan never did that.

Joe raced around and got in on the driver’s side. He started up the car and it roared to life, like it had a new engine. The heater turned on it with it, warming up Lauren. She didn’t even realize how cold she was before.

“Where you headed?” he asked, pulling onto the dark highway.

“I have some property up the coast of –” She stumbled over the truth, almost telling him the exact place she was going. “Rhode Island,” she settled for instead. “I’m going there for a while.”

He mumbled a tone of interest. “Swanky area. Must be nice.”

Truth was, she couldn’t tell him about how she came to rent the home up in Maine. Years of planning, a thousand secrets, multiple identities, and secret bank accounts overwhelmed her, keeping her awake at night as she searched for the loophole in her plan. That and her fear of him. When he would come home. What he would do if he found out what she was going to do. What he would do if he heard her breathe wrong.

“I guess so,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t ask any more questions.

Soon they pulled in front of a diner with a neon open 24-hours sign. It was part of a cheap strip mall with a tax office, laundromat, and a video store. The motel crammed in at the end, almost like an afterthought. A place frozen in time. There was a faded sign on the diner advertising their specials. Lamb chops! Beef steak! Fried chicken! $5!

“I’d recommend staying away from their specials.”

Lauren smiled. Her first genuine one in three years. “Good tip.” She opened the car door, grabbed her bags, and stepped out of the car. “Thank you, Joe.”

“Hope you find what you’re looking for, Melanie.”

Already, Lauren had forgotten about her fake name. The way he said it made her wonder if he believed it was hers at all.

“Thanks,” she said again, closing the door.

Headed towards the diner, she hoped to eat without looking over her shoulder or jumping at every sound. Maybe she could fall asleep without worrying Dan’s hand would be around her throat. Imagining the road ahead, she hoped one day she’d find a place to settle down. A place that would feel like safe. As she pushed open the door of the diner, and the jingle announced her arrival, she knew she hadn’t arrived there yet. She had ways to go before she would find home.

Copyright © 2023 by Nicole Pyles.

About the Author

Nicole Pyles is a writer living in Portland, Oregon. When she's not hunting down the right word, she's talking to God, reviewing books on her writing blog, watching movies, hanging out with family, and daydreaming. Her work has been featured in Ripley's Believe it or Not, WOW! Women on Writing, The Voices Project, and Sky Island Journal. Read her musings at

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