When you knelt, their fingers gripped your shoulders and their unified voices mingled with your whispered prayer for his return and they left, gratified with their godliness and you, watching their black coats recede, tied a noose around your neck and left your baby crying.

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Visitation by Jennifer Walmsley

I always wanted to call writing my vocation. Like many people, I had a lifelong dream of being a writer. I returned to school as an adult, when my youngest child was in first grade, to pursue that dream. I’d read and taken to heart the words of another professional writer, John Gardner, that anyone serious about becoming a writer should first get a liberal arts education. After earning my Bachelor’s degree, I went on for my MFA in fiction writing. Creative writing programs are ideal in granting students the time to write amid an atmosphere of creativity. You “fill the well” with ideas and learn the craft by reading and discussing each others’ stories, as well as classic and contemporary works of literary value. And if that doesn’t keep you writing, there’s the additional pressure of having to produce a book-length work for your final thesis in order to graduate. I walked away with my degree along with a few awards and visions of writing grandeur.

But after seven years in school, supported emotionally and financially by an encouraging husband, I felt a need to justify all that time spent earning my undergrad and graduate degrees. So I began to teach. I never viewed teaching as my vocation. First and foremost, I was a writer. The teaching was just something I did—a class or two a semester—on the side.

Only “on the side” took up a huge portion of what I’d anticipated would be my writing time. I am conscientious and hard working by nature, and approach everything I take on with gusto. Teaching was no different. I was dedicated to helping my students discover and develop their individual voices. I wanted them to love writing the way I loved it, to recognize the strength and power of the English language. I spent hours at home reading, thinking about, and marking up their assignments, not only grammatically, but in an attempt to push them to dig deeper into their individual stories. I gave their work the same time and attention and respect that I would any fellow writer’s.

I found teaching rewarding. To clarify, I found being in the classroom rewarding, but the politics of academia not worth the budgeted dollars they were paying me. One semester I ended up teaching 11 credits, one credit shy of a full-time load, miserable that I had no time to work on my own stories. I decided to take a break the following spring to put into practice the subject I’d been teaching and pursue my vocation. I was going to write.

What happened that spring is as unsurprising as a predictable plotline. With time stretched out endlessly before me, I filled it just as endlessly with writing-related activities, all of which provided a pretext of writing but produced little new work. I surfed the Internet in pursuit of suitable publications. I wrote cover letters and submitted to those publications, garnering my market share of rejection slips. I joined an online critique group and spent more time reading other people’s stories than writing my own. I signed up for a number of online writing discussion lists and used up hours responding to the posts which poured into my e-mail. My fingers were striking the keyboard, but I wasn’t writing.

I wasn’t the complete slug, or as my students would label it, slacker, that I’m making myself out to be. I did write a few essays, a form I became interested in while teaching, and placed them, along with some older stories, in decent publications. I became involved in fighting an attempt at censorship in the public schools in my county. This led to a bit of national exposure for my work; I was invited to write a guest column for The Washington Post. Although I was writing passionately about something I cared deeply about, I’d lost my creative focus and along with it, the ability to enter my imagination to produce fiction, the literary art I’d studied for years.

I am an impulsive person and impulsively one day, five months into my vocation as a full-time writer, I picked up the newspaper, studied the want ads and started to send out my resume. I quickly progressed from applying for part-time to applying for full-time positions, reasoning in my non-writing angst that as long as I was going to compromise on my dream and work for someone else, I might as well be well paid for my efforts.

When I began my new position as a contract administrator for a real estate broker, I didn’t know what to expect. I’d had various jobs since birthing my first child, but I hadn’t worked full-time in twenty-two years. I took the job more out of self-disgust and frustration than a desire for self-growth and fulfillment.

So what did I discover? After years of teaching freshman English Composition, a class the majority of students don’t want to take, mothering children who once they are teenagers don’t want to be mothered, and writing stories so many editors don’t want to publish, it was a refreshing change to work hard and have not only my boss, but all his clients tell me what a great job I was doing. I grew to love the real estate business. My communication skills, both oral and written, and the requirements of the job were a perfect match. I’d found my vocation.

Maybe the ending is to be expected, a plot twist in what continues to be a predictable storyline. I still write. Now that writing has become my avocation, I have become more prolific despite, or maybe because of, having to squeeze my writing into narrow periods of time.

Peggy Duffy’s short stories and essays have appeared in numerous publications, including The Washington Post, Newsweek, Notre Dame Magazine, Smokelong Quarterly, Octavo, Three Candles, So To Speak, Literary Mama, Main Street Rag, and Brevity, as well as various Cup of Comfort anthologies. Her fiction has been recognized by the Virginia Commission for the Arts as a finalist in the Individual Artist Fellowship program for literary artists and her short stories have been selected by storySouth for the Million Writers Award, Notable Online Short Stories. She has an MFA from George Mason University

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Avocation Calling by Peggy Duffy

— Hmm, said the guitar-playing man. So you’re a man playing guitar?

— No, said the man-playing guitar. A man-playing guitar. It’s hyphenated.

— Oh I see, said the guitar-playing man. So you’re a guitar then?

— Yes, said the man-playing guitar.

— If you don’t mind my asking, said the guitar-playing man, what brand of guitar are you?

— To be honest, I’m not entirely sure, answered the man-playing guitar.

— Hmm, said the guitar-playing man. Why don’t you look at your headstock? The brand name is usually printed on the headstock.

— You’re crazy, said the man-playing guitar. I don’t have eyes. I’m a guitar.

Simon Thalmann is a writer and agricultural research assistant from Kalamazoo, Michigan who spends most of his time necessarily working under the hot sun. While he regrets not being able to use that valuable time working on his writing, the time spent outside and usually alone gives him a lot of time to think up new ideas. Recently his work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in The Iconoclast, The American Dissident, Freefall, Ship of Fools, True Romance Magazine, The Laureate, and Spillway.

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The Man-Playing Guitar and the Guitar-Playing Man by Simon Thalmann

I had forgotten my umbrella- the morning seemed more promising and I left without it. I watched the crowds from my little annex on 5th Ave. The fair had been rained out but the street was still considerably full. This wasn’t my neighborhood and actually hadn’t even planned on coming to the fair, but recently someone mentioned that plan is a four letter word- and a bad kind too.

I taught Sunday mornings and plan was to rummage through some used bookstores for some World War two books. I was to be teaching this mammoth, monstrous war in just a couple of days and wanted to be armed. History was never my subject until September and a job came up. History for 6th and 7th grades shouldn’t be too hard they comforted me. They apparently had not found a history teacher and it was 3 weeks into the school year. I could read and write and that was sufficient. And so that is how I became a history teacher.

Honestly, once I started- it hijacked me with its patterns, charisma, tragedy, complexity and passion. The stories of the world and its people; “truth is stranger than fiction” it was ridiculous and awe-inspiring at once, and eventually I ended up browsing the history shelves.

It was May 18th. One would imagine it to be gloriously sunny and impatiently hot however it was one of those days; rainy with a bit of chill, dull as an English gentleman and quite right for a bookstore, especially ones that had the right musty smell, the cramped and narrow aisles and the fluorescent lights on their way out. I took the train to Bergen and meandered through the neighborhood jumping the puddles and dodging the cars and very wet and cold found myself in front of a book shop. I cannot remember its name but not all titles carry such great significance. It had this great big window- a trademark of used book stores and the door creaked open a bit as I entered - this was definitely a classic.

I expected an old man attending but it was a young man. He had glasses- big dark wire ones and his curly hair had grown wild. He was bohemian, hippie-ish with a bit of Paris in him. He most likely rode a bicycle to work, wished he lived in the sixties and worked in the book shop to pay the “arm and a leg” rent in Brooklyn. He was practically hidden from view, behind the counter with Lincoln log towers of books climbing the counter. I had to practically tiptoe and peek around until I found him. Where are the books on World War Two? I must have interrupted him from some Chekhov play or a analysis on post- modern thought. And then he heard me and pointed to the shelves.

I found some books; random paper dolls of Eisenhower and his wife, a memoir from Vietnam and a book of Van Gogh paintings for just four dollars, if I couldn’t have the real thing- this would do. The History section had these big, fat books that would do what any sleeping pill could not and so I found myself buying things I really didn’t need but at the time felt necessary.

The rain seemed to send many people in the shop. No one really interested in reading but simply to find a dry moment. When alone in a book shop, I can actually find companionship in the books themselves but as the store filled up, it became increasingly harder to scan the shelves. I am sure you know the position, tilting your head as you move along- your eyes grow dizzy from the lighting, your mind overwhelmed by the possibilities while the jazz music playing on the radio drums in your ears. So I take a break from squinting at the book titles and trying to fit the book back in- it came out but getting it back in- always seems hard, well especially if you are holding books in your other hand and a bag on your shoulder.

My eyes catch another’s. It was quite unintentional but now they look back. So I give a little smile- just to smooth the awkwardness of meeting eyes in the intimate little book shop off of Bergen St. But the smile isn’t good either because no one knows what that smile means.

I tire of playing this looking at you through the books and purchase a couple of books that will overcrowd my bookshelves that are already jammed and tight as the train at rush hour. I turn to leave and meet eyes again. This is impossible, at every conceivable junction there are eyes. Everyone seems to be looking. The rain hasn’t hesitated all the while and is generously drenching the brownstones, the cemented sidewalks and the potted plants with big, fat droplets.

And that is how I found myself standing, watching the world go by on that wet Sunday afternoon.

Everyone was rushing- even though it was meant to be this lazy, stroll by me fair. The rain stretched the legs as people dashed and darted around. It was funny to watch the umbrellas. They poked and bumped each other. They really crowded the sidewalks and tested proper etiquette. Will you let that woman pass? Or maybe cut her off- misting and spraying her with a twist of your umbrella.

But I am digressing. Most people walked in pairs; couples side to side, pushing baby carriages or walking a dog. It was someone to spend the day with, catch an errand and saunter casually down the avenue. I watched the parade of people pass, some noisily on cell phones while pulling the other one in some new inspired direction, some passively down the straight and narrow, while thankfully some had some goofy smile on their face, laughing over some silly comment and infecting those watching with the same dose of adult abandonment for a few sacred moments of childhood bliss.

Soggy and soppy; everyone seemed to be happy. The dry and dehydrated mechanics of reality seemed to lighten up and all that was hard was a bit softer. The dense earth expanded for the incoming rain and the human spirit as well seemed a bit hopeful, a wee bit less doubtful and all in all surprisingly joyful. I also had this unexpected subtle anticipation; a flutter in my heart for a brief while and a slight smile on its way to greet the masses.

I used to feel so much lonelier. I couldn’t properly enjoy myself, the activity, the present, for the thought of missing something seemed unfair and it wasn’t good enough. I wanted someone to interrupt, to push off the sidewalk, roam the alleys and for our eyes to meet and then end up smiling and it would be okay, even if we didn’t know what the smile meant.

I felt justified, one couldn’t be satisfied with the status quo, there was always something more to experience, discover and essentially conquer. I was the romantic who turned cynic and then wrote sad and regretful stories, the ones that make you say “oh- if only…”.
The band was now singing Dear Prudence, won’t you come out to play
Dear Prudence, greet the brand new day
The sun is up, the sky is blue
It’s beautiful and so are you

Dear Prudence let me see you smile

And I smiled as I realized that there was progress, I may still be alone but hey not for long. And then the sun parted and there he was. Just kidding, life is imaginative but it’s not a fairytale and I am no princess. It was raining as I walked home, I couldn’t have asked for more.

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Brooklyn Rain by Rivka Rubin

The little plot was quiet and still – like a forgotten, empty writing book left over from school. It was close to home – I could see the roof of my house – and yet it was so different. There was a wild tangle all over it’s surface – a strange mix of fast growing weeds and the more familiar garden plants my mother grew at home. It felt like another country – but just around the corner from home; very handy when you wanted to play pretend.

That day we were intrepid explorers, bent on a secret mission to save – something or someone or other. We were very important anyway. It was vital that we succeeded; everything hung in the balance. I had “borrowed” my mother’s carving knife and had it stuck into the waistband of my shorts – like a real explorer I told my friend. I used it to hack at the jungle undergrowth we were slowly making our way through – the native machete wielding bearers had disappeared because of the multitude of ferocious wild animals we were always encountering.

That expedition had been very unlucky – we’d lost a couple of the natives right at the start to a huge pack of lions and tigers (Like I said, I was nine – and very shaky on geography) and then the marauding bands of wild tribesmen had polished off a good number more – but we had fought valiantly and hard – heroes both. And we’d saved the rest of the bearers from hideous certain death (having their heads shrunk on their necks, and then being boiled alive for the tribesmen’s lunch. I didn’t have much sense of a time line too at that age).

As the sun lowered in the sky, and the evening crept up on us, I wiped my eyes clear of sweat and turned to my trusty companion:

“How about we come back and finish this after tea? My Mum’s called us twice, and I know she’s got some ice-lollies in the freezer-box for afters”

“What flavour?” asked my gallant sidekick.

“Raspberry Ripples”

“’k then – race ya?”

Avis Hickman-Gibb is a newly established writer, living in rural Suffolk, England with her husband, one son and two cats. She’s had stories published in Every Day Fiction, Twisted Tongue, and Shine! and has up-coming stories in Bewildering Stories, The PygmyGiant, The Ranfurly Review and The Boston Literary Magazine. She is currently working on a book of short stories and is addicted to writing flash fiction.

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A Land of Make-Believe by Avis Hickman-Gibb

On a sofa, in front of the window, two dummies sit erect. One dummy, a male, wears a fair wig. The other, a female, has brown hair, fibrous to touch. Outside, down in the puke stained street, if someone cares to look up, they will see two dummies heads through flimsy curtains and, hopefully, presume I have company.

Though my companions are mute, I can tell my their sour expressions that they too dislike the noise and stench of take away food that seeps through a hole in the rotten window frame, permeating the air like stale sweat. Tonight, a bitter finger of wind streams through that hole, ruffling my dummy’s frilly dress as if she trembles with shock or maybe fear.

But this has been my home since I fled the country of my birth and I describe to my silent friends, stretches of lush fields of my youth. I tell them about my mother, stout and comfortable, keeping our sturdy farm house spotless. I weep, even now in my dotage, as I recall her delicious Goulash, her rough, gentle fingers wiping dirt from my face. I speak of my father, broad in shoulder, short in stature, whose lips, when smiling, cracked wide open like a brown nut in autumn.

And, as I reminisce, my companions nod their heads as if my language is their own and I promise that, when I pass through this lonely mortal life, I will soar like a bird over seas and countries until I reach my beloved homeland.

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Silent Companions by Jennifer Walmsley

What was so special about Sewickley? She wasn’t explaining. Lots of trees, he guessed, lots of single-family homes, good schools. The sort of place everyone came from. Up to then, he’d spent his life moving with his family from one such place to another, and one or two classmates he’d known in the different schools from each of those towns seemed to have wound up just down the hall in his dormitory.

He caught himself as he realized his mind was wandering, and she saw it. She broke off the little lecture. Maybe he’d been in the running, maybe not, but now he was certainly dinged for not paying attention. The way to get into a good university is to pay attention, or seem to. There’s extra credit if you make the right remarks. Whatever the test was here, he’d failed it.

Why, he wondered in later years, did he keep coming back to that little encounter, and why did it make him feel so acutely that he hadn’t made the grade? She’d thought that whole talk through, he gradually came to understand. Likely she rehearsed it. Maybe this was the fiftieth time she’d done the whole routine. It was her version of the admissions process; she was working her way through an applicant pool. She was looking for the one guy who’d pay attention to her little lecture all the way through, or at least seem to..

Almost certainly, he reflected, she found him.

John’s writing has appeared, or will appear, in Byline Magazine. Dark Sky Magazine, The Dartmouth Review, DOGZPLOT, Holy Cuspidor, Literal Translations, the Los Angeles Reader, New Partisan, and Written Word. He has degrees in English from Dartmouth College and the University of Southern California.

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Sewickley by John Bruce

”D’ARBY!” He added loudly. Found it hilarious, thought he was original. Despite having done it once a fortnight for almost a year. Jokes wear thin but this one had eroded. Well for me it had, however not for the newer hordes of strugglers who sniggered at this wit, those who’d heard of the musician at least. Blue shiny tracksuit pants and a zipped top in the middle of summer. Scuffed black dress shoes inappropriately completed the ensemble. Craggy features, stained teeth and sunken jowls from a lifetime of cheap cider and tobacco aged him beyond his years. Perched on the edge of the waiting area couch in the Job centre, his perch, which he’d occupied since the closing of the mines in the eighties. Hair greased, clean shaven, but too high above the ear almost reaching the temple. But I was the figure of amusement. Nice. Let it wash over, don’t even acknowledge his outburst. Dignity.

“..please!!” shrieked the desk jockey, swivelling her dulled head dramatically. No need. She knew who I was by sight, but seemed to be compelled to go through this ritual every fortnight. Trudge over, equally melodramatically. Sit down in the chair, sigh, force a forced smile forcefully. Think can you shout any louder? Give it a go, the moving traffic outside on Market Street ain’t heard you. Go on, bellow into the wind. Fool.

”How are you Terrance? What steps have you taken to search for employment?”. Fake smile doesn’t even reach the cheeks let alone the eyes. Patronise on.

”Well, I check the net dot gov sites daily, ask peers and relatives constantly and check the M.E.N. and other local papers”.

”Any luck?”

”Not as such, however if I was in luck I wouldn’t be showing up here, logically. I’m not being inundated with offers like. Oh, apart from a SLIGHT stroke of fortune. I’ve applied to work here as an admin assistant. This very office. Given my transferable skills you have told me to put down on applications, and my intellectual capabilities, surely to God at least I’ll get an interview. I handed in my application when I handed in my J.S.A. booklet”. Just nod in agreement please, surely to Christ at least I’ll get an interview.

”Why do you want to work here!” Manic laughter. Just let me sign so I can fuck off. Better yet, you fuck off. ”Only joking it ain’t too bad!”. Lay off the caffeine. You’re making a fool of yourself love.

”It’s local for a start, I can do it in my sleep and It will pay the bills. Plus I’m desperate for work as you have known for almost twelve months”. Polite smile hiding rage. Patronised by a moron. Who is the Patron Saint of patronisers? He must have worked in a Job Centre in antiquity.

”Well good luck, I’m sure you’ll hear something from us soon. They are shortlisting this week, so you’ll hear within the next few days. You’ve been searching a while now Terrance, you will have to enter the New Deal soon if you’re still unemployed, to still recieve your money”. Solemn, passing wisdom.

”What’s that?”. Inquire keenly. Least try to seem keen.

”Basically, you will go into our other office for about 4 hours a week. They’ll help you fill in application forms and tell you what to say in interviews. Give you tips and help you search for jobs. Tidy up your C.V. with proper lingo.” Polite smile.

No way in hell. Remedial class for the unemployed. No fucking chance in hell.

“I don’t need any of that. I have a C.V. and I’m fully literate. I have an academic background and need none of their advice, plus fingers crossed I’ll be working here by then! Surely, given my experience I can get the nod for working here answering phones and using the photocopier!”

Confidence high, bubble burst by another fake smile, want to shout ”WHY NOT? GIVE ME THE JOB. SIGN ME OFF. NOW!!”, think better of it. Preserve whatever strand of self esteem is left.

”I understand, but it will be compulsory”. Pseudo-sympathetic raising of the eyebrows. Just fuck off.

”But what on Earth are they going to tell me that I don’t know already? It’s just wasting bus fare and my time when I could be looking for work!” Agitated now a little, compulsory?

”It has been a while though that you’ve been out of work.”

”I know but I’ve applied for loads. It’s just cos I have experience only in one field. Experience your lot’ll never get mooching about behind a desk in a lifetime. So I get overlooked for a numpty who’s done typing for a few months. Something will turn up soon though. I don’t need some geeks telling me how to put a stamp on a fuc…fllipping envelope. It’s going to waste my time!”. Pleading now.

”It’s compulsory. No exceptions.” Getting haughty. “Let’s look at what’s on the computer. You don’t drive right?”

‘No.” Go on, rub it in.

”Locally, there’s one here for telesales. What about this one, customer service adviser? Oh and furniture salesman. I’ll print them OK?”. Daring me to say no.

”No”. There you go.

”Why not?”

”I have already applied to those. I’m awaiting reciprocated correspondence”. She didn’t follow, but mimed understanding, simple twitch of the eyes giving her away.

”Oooookay then, well that’s all we have locally. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help”. She said unapologetically.

”Maybe you can. How about the training mentioned in the paper? The government says if the unemployed don’t take up offered training we’ll get our money stopped. I want any training you’ve got. I’ll start training right this minute. How come I’ve never been offered any?” Show her the paper, circled quote in biro. She flinches quizzically.

”There is no training. It’s the New Deal I assume. Don’t worry, you’ll be on it in a fortnight. Well that’s it then. I’ll just get a pen.”

”Hang on, it says there’s training. Quoting the fuc…flipping Prime Minister here!”. Unbelievable.

”The training is the New Deal. That’s all I can say to you. Back in a sec”. Scurry for a pen. Sign and fuck off mitherer. There’s the pen now.

”Well what about me doing a course like in college or uni or something?”

”You can’t.”

”Why not? How can I get more so-called skills then?”

”You can’t because the allowance is on condition that you are actively seeking employment full time. I know it’s daft, but I don’t make the rules sir”. Giggle.

”You’d probably struggle to make a fucking brew”. Mumbled, not meaning to say it out loud.

”Sorry?” What did that cheeky bastard say she thought. Had enough of this desk. Heard all the excuses, all the sob stories. It ain’t the Samaritans, it ain’t my fault either.

”What? Nothing.” Twinge of guilt.

At last, the signing paper. ”Have your circumstances changed since your last signing day?”. Fuck right off. Twinge dissipates swiftly.

”Yes, they are getting worse”. Me stoic, she laughs a laugh fired by nothing resembling joviality. ”Sign here please. Great, see you in a fortnight.”

”Hopefully from the same side of the desk.” Spit it. Then flash a lopsided grin.

”Good luck Terrance.” Fake, just fuck off. Now.

”Thanks.” Bounce out head down with the shame of being seen here. Straight to the off-license, for later. To sleep. Induced rest. Serenaded gratingly as I slope towards the automatic doors by tracksuit and winkle pickers. Wishing Well, By Terence Trent fucking D’arby.

***

First smoke of the day triggering bowel movements. Clap of the letterbox. Postman. Take my papers through, on the throne. Job Centre, open rapidly. A ”With compliments” slip. Nice touch. Flick overleaf. ”Mr Trent, unfortunately you have been unsuccessful with your application for administrative assistant with the Job Centre. Good luck with future career ventures and thank you for taking part in this exercise. Any further regards call…………”

No way, no chance have I not even been shortlisted. Bastards. Fold and fold again, rip twice, wipe and flush. Just fuck off. Fuck right off. New Deal? No Deal. Fuck right off. Now.

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What? by Lee A Sykes

I saw them in my dreams – a tangle of black spreading across the hills, punctuated by jointed legs, flexing slowly in the heat. I found them in the bath tub, legs given way under the weight of their bodies. I moved to turn the tap on, rid myself of this nightmare, but as my hand touched the metal a spasm of pain shot through my arm. They seemed to disintegrate in front of me, a child’s scribble done in reverse as layer after layer of the messy black lines were removed.

My eyes flickered open to the alarm clock shining 04:48 in angular red numerals. I moved quietly across the hallway and touched open the door to Robbie’s room. Emily – my sister, younger by five years – was asleep on the sofa under an old duvet with the door half open and I stepped lightly to avoid disturbing her.

I sat on his bed. It was stripped, bare, the mattress stained in one corner. I remembered how, as the illness had taken hold, he would wake up terrified of the spiders that, he said, streamed into the house through every gap; under the doors, through the vent in the bathroom. I would check, gently sooth him. Sometimes there was one there, a single creature looking – at least I imagined – rather bewildered by all the commotion. Robbie would scream and cry as I would coax it gently onto an electricity bill and shake it onto the path below.

As things got worse, he spent more and more nights at the hospital. Most times I stayed, getting what little sleep I could in a fold up bed beside him. Others – like tonight – I let his father stay with him while I headed home for the sleep I knew would never eventuate.

I sat there in Robbie’s room for more than half an hour before the loud ringing of the phone destroyed the silence. My son died that autumn night, with the branches brushing against the windows and the creaking call of a tui sounding in the background. But so did the spiders.

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Spiders by Anna Potts

You are given a random word, and then sixty seconds to write whatever comes into your head. It’s a great little writing exercise.

oneword.com

Martin

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One Word. Write.