By Sharon Waller Knutson
I have nominated Mary McCarthy for three Best of the Net awards, Shoshauna Shy and Joan Leotta for two each and Cynthia Anderson, Rose Mary Boehm, Laurie Byro, Abha Das Sarma. Jim Lewis and Michael Byro each received one nomination or their work in Storyteller Poetry Review from July 1, 2023 to June 30, 2024.
Nominations are for three pieces of artwork (scattered throughout the feature) and:
Six poems
Cynthia Anderson
https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2023/07/storyteller-of-week.html
Queen of the Mist
A Civil War widow at 25, her infant son dead,
Annie Edson Taylor faced the rest of her life
with gusto. She crossed the continent eight times,
became a dance instructor, took off with a friend
for Mexico—the details can only be imagined,
since she was a good Episcopalian and confessed
no sins—thank God, a substantial inheritance
bridged the gap between expenses and income.
She spared no cost at any juncture—and so,
near her 63rd birthday, found herself penniless,
lodged in a boarding house, relying on the charity
of relatives who begrudged every dime. Then
kismet struck like a 200-pound anvil—
why not be the first to ride Niagara Falls
in a barrel? Of course, she would survive,
make a fortune on autographs and memorabilia,
travel the world again, heave ho! Full of bravado,
she hired a promoter, had the best barrel made,
and did it—though the physical shock shook her
to the core. Nobody ought ever to do that again,
she claimed. In a photo of her sitting alone at a table,
waiting for adoring hordes to shower her with gold,
she looks grim. Her manager stole her barrel.
She spent twenty more years a pauper before
meeting her maker. If not for her desperate act,
she would be entirely forgotten—
just another woman who ran out of options,
who was willing to die if she could not live
in the style to which she was accustomed.
Rose Mary Boehm
https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2023/11/storyteller-of-week.html
Glamour
Aunt Lil wore her black hat at a coquet angle,
its little veil pulled over her forehead.
She was Arpège and blood-red lipstick,
long, pointed fingernails to match, nylon stockings,
everything I wanted to be one day.
She bought me ‘Schillerlocken’*.
My uncle was a lawyer,
a tall tree in a forest of lesser trees.
He seldom bent down to my ten-year-old,
somewhat undernourished body.
With a stentorian voice he hinted
that I was making a nuisance of myself
just by being a kid.
I found out later that he had always thought
my mother a creature of a lesser race.
She didn’t speak like one is used to hearing.
It was whispered behind fluttering hands
that Aunt Lil had been a barmaid.
Now she was the wife of a professional,
was perfume and lace, and a deep-red slit
replaced her mouth when she laughed.
Which she didn’t do often.
The idea that this childless couple would look after me
for ten days while my mother went back
to East Germany (in danger of being sent to a Russian
gulag if caught) to sort out the lives we left behind in a hurry
had been hammered out between the women.
Uncle Fried looked at me across the huge dining table
as he would a fly and frowned.
‘Has nobody shown you how to eat
with knife and fork, child?’
My voice not quite steady from fear:
‘We had nothing to cut, Uncle.’
“Schillerlocken” is a sweet, cone-shaped German pastry. The name was inspired
by the typical curly wigs that men, like the German poet Friedrich Schiller,
used to wear in the 18th century.”
https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2023/12/special-gifts.html
Marigolds dry on the windowsill.
I wait.
When you find me,
we will hold each other
Sway to summer’s music.
Mosquitos, frogs, peepers and rainfall.
I’m in no hurry.
I have waited slow months.
Emptied my vases
then filled them.
Scattered the floor with yellow.
Money cannot bring you back.
But these gold peso petals
will buy us a moment.
I sit on the porch
and watch for you.
In the company
Of sweet marigold murmurings
When you appear,
I hold out by hand.
Then we dance.
In Mexico, people believe you see gold when you die, so they plant marigolds on graves to lure them back to earth.
Artwork Mary McCarthy’s Grief
https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2024/01/ekphrastic-challenge-responses.html
Mary McCarthy
https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2024/01/ekphrastic-challenge-responses.html
Mourning
My grief is a winter owl
in a live oak tree
the Spanish moss
weeping for me.
My grief is perfectly
camouflaged,
patterned feathers
against patterned bark.
My grief is the silence
of air passing
beneath the owl’s wings
soundless
so that the mouse
has no fear
until the final pounce.
My grief coughs up
old bones and scraps
of undigested fur
unable to absolve
everything it takes.
My grief sleeps all day
to ride the night out
wide eyed and alert
listening
to small dreams
stirring in the grass
thinking of second chances
the taste of moonlight
and blood, like wild
strawberries in the snow.
Abha Das Sarma
https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2024/01/ekphrastic-challenge-responses.htmlDo Not Go Just Yet
I kneel
hour after hour
casting myself
into pouring darkness
over a long winding night.
I see your pain lifting
with the rising of your face
above the naked trees,
like the clouds sifting pink
behind an eternal grey.
A house of many doors,
a table well laid,
beauty in place,
just as you had wished.
Happy Landings,
you said to every journey I set.
Tonight, I am the eye of the storm.
I carry thunder in my hair,
stars fall on earth in slow drizzle.
The fishermen pull the nets
over the shore until its time
to lay them in waters again
Jim Lewis
https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2023/12/special-gifts_8.html
group therapy
Artwork: Michael Byro: Evening Walk
https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2023/12/special-gifts.htmlJoan Leotta
https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2023/12/special-gifts_29.html
Christmas Stocking Surprise
Chaos surrounded Christmas’ approach last year. My husband, Vince, was suffering recurring bouts of sinus infection. Our daughter Vicky was driving to Myrtle Beach from Washington, D.C. but her beau, Jim Willis was not able to take a vacation from his job in London.
Even worse, Vicki’s last call portended a breakup. “Dating for two years, Mom, and he still avoids marriage talk.”
The one bright spot was that my sister-in-law, Graziella, a long-time widow, had agreed to move closer to us in the new year and had agreed to spend Christmas with us while she looked for a place. Since our family held onto the elaborate Italian Seven Fishes for Christmas Eve, her help was most welcome.
A Christmas morning, stockings filled with small surprises are also an annual tradition. I still had things to buy for everyone’s stockings.
A few days before Christmas, Jim called from London to speak with Vince. Vince listened, mumbled, and then handed the phone to me.
Jim’s voice was shaky. “I just asked for Vince’s permission to marry Vicky. He said yes. Can you put something in Vicky’s stocking for me?”
I was thrilled and puzzled. “Sure.”
“Great! I’d like you to put her engagement ring in the toe of the stocking, but the even bigger favor is that I need you to go to Charleston to pick it up. The ring is a family heirloom and my grandmother, the one who lives in Charleston has it. I know it’s a bit of a drive from Myrtle Beach, but can you get it?”
He explained further. “I plan to phone in my proposal on Christmas morning, so I want her to find the ring along with a note I’ll email to you.”
“Of course, I can go! Charleston is only a 2.5-hour drive away. I’ll call your grandma and arrange a good day to swoop down for the ring.”
Jim was thrilled. As I was considering the best time to go, I heard a car in the driveway. “Helloooooo” Graziella called from the back door.
I told her about everything.
“Please let me go to Charleston for you!”
I had to admit, sending Graziella on this errand made my life easier than if I tried to go myself. I had more shopping to do, more soup to make for poor Vince.
We called Jim’s Grandmother. “Tomorrow works for me,” she said.
The following morning, about two hours after Graziella left our house in her ancient Ford Fiesta, my phone rang. “Now don’t worry,” Graziella began, “I wasn’t hurt…”
I let myself breathe again.
“Front end of the car is a mess. I’m going to stay in a motel near dealership that’s fixing it. I called Jim’s Grandma and rescheduled. I’m about an hour out of Charleston.”
I channeled my anxiety into baking additional cookies. The following afternoon, Graziella called again. “Dealer had to order a part. Don’t worry. The manager is taking me to pick up Vicky’s ring today, so I’ll be ready to leave from the motel tomorrow morning. Bonus is that I’m closer to home, so even though I’ll be traveling on Christmas Eve, I’ll be there early enough to help.”
More cookies. Vicky arrived that afternoon. “Where’s Aunt Graziella?”
“Visiting a friend near Charleston. She’ll be back tomorrow before we sit down for the Seven Fishes.”
Early the next morning, Graziella texted: “On my way home!”
Vicky wandered into the kitchen for some coffee. “Was that Auntie Graz?”
I nodded. “Yes—she should be here in about an hour.”
While Vicky helped me prepare our calamari sopra linguini, she confided more worries about Jim. “I spoke to him yesterday and he seemed unconcerned about missing Christmas with us.”
I squirmed. Afraid I’d spill secrets I suggested, “Let’s make more cookies.” Graziella came in as we were putting the last tray of gingersnaps into the oven. Graziella slipped me the ring box when Vicki turned her head. I slipped it into my apron pocket until I could duck into my bedroom to put it in the toe of Vicky’s stocking.
I opened the tiny velvet ring box to put in Jim’s note. A sunbeam sparked rainbow reflections from the large center stone of this three-diamond affair. Each gem was an old-fashioned rose cut set in squared prongs in a white gold band. I set it into the toe, then put in her orange, candies, and assorted trinkets.
That evening we ate and laughed our way through caviar, fresh anchovies, smoked oysters, smoked clams, and herring, shrimp, and calamari. Artichokes added a bit of green. After supper, we read Luke 2, opened presents, ate cookies, and drank champagne. After the others went to bed, I set out stockings.
Christmas morning, we dumped out our stockings. We all watched while Vicky opened the velvet box from the stocking’s toe. She gasped and put on Jim’s Grandma’s ring. “He loves me and wants to get married,” Vicky announced.
On cue, her phone chimed. Jim.
Suddenly Graziella’s purse began to sing Bossa Nova. She excused herself and went into the kitchen.
Vince and I retreated to the hall to give Graziella and Vicky privacy. While Vicky was still talking, Graziella closed her phone and walked over to us, smiling. “That was Bill, the dealership manager. He has an appointment here in Myrtle Beach on the 28th and wants to have supper with me.”
***
This year, I’m setting two new places at the Christmas dinner table. One for Jim and one for Bill. Stockings? Well, this year Vicky’s and Jim’s will contain knitted baby slippers (surprise for Jim!) and Graziella’s will hold a diamond ring from Bill.
All that weeping and sobbing Mom did in the taxi to Heathrow after saying good-bye to Dad, gulping and hiding behind a curtain of hair, hand clutching Kleenex. I thought she was broken up about leaving him for another month. Until she said in November, no, Dad’s not coming home from London; no, not for Christmas neither. Those calls from Mr. Hartrey, more and more of them; her giggles as they spoke. Then I knew that taxi cab sorrow was not because she didn’t want to leave my dad–but because she did. And he had finally let her go.
Creative non fiction
Shoshauna Shy
It seems excessive to stop off at Barrique’s for a slice of banana bread when your mother-in-law baked a rhubarb pie, and that’s sitting on your kitchen counter this very instant. It even strikes you as woefully expensive considering that you worked fifteen minutes today to earn something that will take you less than three minutes to eat.
But the truth is this purchase from a barista whose red curls frizz in the July heat buys you the memory of the very first slice of banana bread you ever tasted at the age of five on Denny Chader’s porch in Glen Dean, Kentucky. Floorboards under your callused feet, and his mom in a rick-rack apron putting it on a napkin for you, her hand warm upon your shoulder. One of the first happy moments in your life. Plus this purchase buys you the opportunity to occupy a chair by the plate glass window and listen to Vivaldi over an intercom, violins spreading a sense of contentment through you as if nobody is shooting anybody anywhere right now; no referees are getting punched into comas by soccer fans; no one sought medical help in vain and lies in a desert tent, dying alone.
And here at this seat where late afternoon sun pours in like caramel, you get to eavesdrop on a trio of middle-aged women in Spandex at the next table as they exchange X-rated confessions. Their peals of laughter are as refreshing as a cucumber-scented steam bath at a spa. You can’t help but smile at them
.
So, really, how frivolous was it to surrender two dollars and fifty cents for this inch-thick block of bread?
A camera-heavy crowd gathered on the beach below my deck. I overheard one say, "We're hoping to end the year with a dolphin sighting. She's a rare black dolphin, and not in a pod." Another added," We've seen her here before at twilight feeding time." I walked off the deck away from the crowd, in search of shells.
When I returned to our rental, the crowd was slipping away into the evening, probably off to New Year’s Eve parties. After searing a steak and downing a tall glass of mineral water.
My husband and I watched Times Square from the couch but fell asleep before the ball dropped.
After a while, light seeping through the blinds called me to the window. My husband remained asleep. I am the early bird of the family.
With a fresh cup of coffee in hand I slipped outside in the cool of New Year’s Day on Edisto Island. Sandpipers were skittering along, darting in and out of the marsh grass onto the sand, into the gentle waves. A pelican swooped down across water, scattering the sandpipers. Then, in the still pale light of pre-dawn, a flash of fin on water caught my eye. The up and down in crescent ballerina leaps, her dark gray color, darker still than the gray sky, told me it was the Black Dolphin the others had sought last night.
I shouted out, "halloooooooo."
I think I caught her eye. She shifted course, taking a leap toward me. I thought I saw her smile. Why not? Two loners, together in the morning light, savoring our solitude. I considered seeing her a good omen for my coming year. I wonder what she thought about sighting me.
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