Autumn 2014 Archive in Progress



Epigraph:
Sometimes I believed in as many as six impossible things before breakfast
Lewis Carroll







Poetry: Volfing

Letters to my Grandmother by Annette Volfing

Roses by Annette Volfing

Again by Annette Volfing

José Marti The first duty of a man is to think for himself

Editorials: Joslin and Fitzpatrick

Especially for his 'October Wind' and 'the loud hills of Wales'

Editor's Note

The strongest democracies flourish from frequent and lively debate,

but they endure when people of every background and belief find a way to set aside smaller differences in service of a greater purpose.

BARACK OBAMA, press conference, Feb. 9, 2009


Poetry: McCarthy, Brackett

Smerwick by Bernadette McCarthy

Lamb's Ear by Bernadette McCarthy

On Any Given Day by Judy Brackett




Poetry: Charman, Mack, Hammick

... on killing a playwright by Barry Charman

Elderflower Moon by Sheree Mack

Porcelain Prisioner by Marlyn Hammick



The death of democracy is not likely to be an assassination from ambush

It will be a slow extinction from apathy, indifference, and undernourishment.

ROBERT HUTCHINS


Art and Words by Marion Clarke


Modern democracies will face difficult new challenges--fighting terrorism, adjusting to globalization,

adapting to an aging society--and they will have to make their system work much better than it currently does. That means making democratic decision-making effective, reintegrating constitutional liberalism into the practice of democracy, rebuilding broken political institutions and civic associations. Perhaps most difficult of all, it requires that those with immense power in our societies embrace their responsibilities, lead, and set standards that are not only legal, but moral. Without this inner stuffing, democracy will become an empty shell, not simply inadequate but potentially dangerous, bringing with it the erosion of liberty, the manipulation of freedom, and the decay of a common life.


FAREED ZAKARIA, The Future of Freedom






Short Stories: O'Callaghan

For Old Times' Sake
Christ, the past is always there, waiting. In a heartbeat I am a boy again, thirteen years old, doing what boys do. The light on, the curtains split just wide enough to see. And me, tucked away behind my window, with pennies for eyes, watching. Looking back, she must have known I was there, but if she did then she never let on. Maybe she even got something out of it. We all have needs as well as wants.

Goodbye My Coney Island Baby
The late afternoon is cold and threatening snow, and the streets of Coney Island are deserted except for an elderly black man walking a ridiculously small dog out along the boardwalk and a few drunks in a doorway arguing in mute slurs over a bottle. Peter passes by without making eye contact. The wind gusts around him, tugging at the hem of his overcoat ...

Sixteen
They leave the hotel ballroom soon after midnight, last out into the night except for the band. Two couples in their best clothes, elderly, exhausted but content, drunk with laughter; the men, James and Charlie, wearing tuxedos that have traipsed a few too many good turns but which remain, more by luck than judgement, still the fair side of presentable; and the women, April and Isabelle, in dresses fresh off a peg, ...

Art Archive and Micro Story

Classic Art Use in Our Autumn 2014 Issue

An Hour Early by Daniel Clausen/I always leave at least an hour or so earlier than the others. They’ll go on drinking long after I’ve left. Drunk, I start to walk home.



Poetry: Jeppessen, Long and McCotter

Certain Stimmuli by Jeff Jeppessen

Apphehension by Stan Long

The Basket Weaver by Clare McCotter

Democracy is when the indigent, and not the men of property, are the rulers.



ARISTOTLE


Poetry: Ian C. Smith

Black Overcoat by Ian C Smith

Literary Vagabond by Ian c Smith

Rue has a bitter scent by Ian C Smith

I am a firm believer in the people. If given the truth, they can be depended upon to meet any national crisis. The great point is to bring them the real facts, and beer.
Abraham Lincoln

Participatory Democracy, and More Fine Stories

An Introduction to Participatory Democracy by Ken Smollen

'Raised Voices' by Bruce Harris, Reviewed by Marie Fitzpatrick

Reflecting by Ian Butterworth


Story: Let's Go!

On with the Motley by Oonah Joslin

The Whole Circus by Oonah Joslin

The Show Must Go On by Oonah Joslin

Art and Words by Marion Clarke


Stories: West, Burroughs and Joslin

Every Stick by Bill West
A scarecrow in a stovepipe hat fiddled and danced a jig. Discordant notes sharp as star frost. He thumped the earth with twiggy feet and croaked his garbled song. The wind whipped the dirge away through empty skies. No owls blinked time from the skeletal trees, no gulls mewed the chorus whilst skimming barren waves. His bow was smooth, his fiddle unstrung.

Knotted Fables, Novella Excerpt, by John P. Bourgeois
Based on how frequently she saw the stork and heard the bird's clacking beak, the hare knew she was kilometres ahead of the tortoise. Comforted by this, she stopped to graze at a particularly emerald patch of nettles and dandelions. The run had famished her, but the hare did not want to eat her fill at the banquet. Not in front of the other animals.

The Whole Circus by Oonah Joslin
Pyro the dragon flew around the big top trying to create a breeze, make the banners flap, make the canvas sides billow out -- anything to get seen. He watched the audience applaud as Julianne somersaulted on Tiny’s back. Tiny’s huge feet plodded round the ring kicking up swirls of sawdust. He trumpeted with his long nose, knelt and stood and swished his little tail. They even went 'Oooooooo’ when he did a huge poo -- right there -- on the circus floor.

Archie Reaches Too High and Makes Enemies by Bill Frank Robinson

Cassiopeia's Hair by Nicholas Ridley

Sixteen by Billy OCallaghan

Democracy works when people claim it as their own.

BILL MOYERS, The Nation, Jan. 22, 2009


Classic Braum and Quixote

Adventures of a Dead Body by Don Quixote
They saw, advancing towards them, on the same road, a great number of lights, resembling so many moving stars. Sancho stood aghast at the sight of them, nor was Don Quixote unmoved. The one checked his ass and the other his horse, and both stood looking before them with eager attention. They perceived that the lights were advancing towards them, and that as they approached nearer they appeared larger.

The Deadly Poppy Field by L Frank Braum
Our little party of travelers awakened the next morning refreshed and full of hope, and Dorothy breakfasted like a princess off peaches and plums from the trees beside the river. Behind them was the dark forest they had passed safely through, although they had suffered many discouragements; but before them was a lovely, sunny country that seemed to beckon them on to the Emerald City.

Editors for this Issue

Managing Editor
Marie Fitzpatrick

Senior Editor
Bill West

Editors for Review
English
Bill West
Yvette Flis
Marie Fitzpatrick

Poetry
Oonah Joslin

Spanish
Marie Fitzpatrick

Contributing Editor
Martin Heavisides

Consulting on Photography
Maia Cavelli

Consulting on Copy
Digby Beaumont

Web and Database Management
Peter Gilkes





Published by The Linnet's Wings Press, 2014

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