Elder 6

STARS OF
WRITING
NEBULA
Ezine
The best work of American’s
senior writers

Millard Johnson
Producer
Welcome to the
demonstration
issue of
Nebula Ezine.
When I began thinking
of how WLOV could best help
writers in The Villages along
their writing journeys, one of
the first things I thought of
was how nice it would be to
have a way for writers of
short stories and poems to
get their writings to an
audience of readers.
The Love Story Reading
program I produced for three
years had helped dozens of
writers get their works to an audience of hundreds, but I wanted
more. I wanted more authors to be able to get their creative
output to a larger audience.
My first thought was to create ebooks of short story
collections on Amazon, but every ebook has to be marketed
separately from the one that preceded it. Amazon has no
subscription model.
My second thought was the literary magazine. But paper
magazines are enormously expensive to create and distribute.
The Nebula is the best solution I could come up with. Easy
to create and inexpensive to both produce and distribute. And
once we have readers, we put them into a Simplelists subscriber
file so we can send subsequent issues at no cost.
The only issue is — Nebula must be a top quality zine. It
must be something YOU are proud to host your best writing.
Tell me what you think. If this is worth doing, we will find a
way to do it.

Forbitten
Love
by
Barbara Rein
Mora flicked out her tongue to lick the corners of her
red-stained lips, savoring every drop of the sweet
nectar. The vessel she drank from had more
wrinkles than she would have liked, but vintage blood had that
exquisite taste of honey. Delectable. Come morning, a retired
attorney would wake in his Royal Caribbean stateroom with a
vicious hangover. But he’d have no memory of being the main
course at a lady vampire’s midnight buffet.
Satisfying the hunger left Mora exhausted. She dragged
herself to the suite she shared with her dwarf maidservant, Anya,
and slipped out of her red off-the-shoulder silk dress. One of a
wardrobe of red dresses chosen for its forgiving color. Letting it
puddle to the floor, she yawned.
“I’m sorry, Anya. I’m too tired to hand it to you.”
Though the bed bezckoned, Mora never availed herself of
the ship’s luxurious linens. Instead, as she had done nightly for
over a hundred years, she raised the lid of an oversized steamer
trunk and climbed in. Securing the vault from inside, she settled
in and slept the sleep of the undead till the next sunset.

Cruising on one mega ship after another offered Mora a
freedom she’d seldom had in her long past. Though the
Caribbean was her first excursion on waters beyond Europe, her
design remained the same: to join the throng of passengers after
dark when those searching for amusement filled the cocktail
lounges and casinos. There she’d have her choice from a menu
of handsome morsels. Though fawning men bored her, she
pretended attraction to those begging to kiss her full red lips, to
hold and caress her seductive curves, to run their fingertips over
high cheekbones hinting at Slavic royalty. Yet no one got close.
Mora’s piercing green eyes held her chosen prey captive and
immobile long enough to drink her fill. The spell always took
place in the victim’s cabin where he’d collapse in a trance upon
his berth. Her swift getaways rivaled those of a quick-change
artist as she shape-shifted into the victim’s likeness. Some may
have seen her arrive, but no one ever saw her leave.
The glittering lights of Curacao greeted Mora when she
woke the next evening. Donning a vermillion robe, she stepped
out onto her private balcony, a chilled flute of Dom Perignon in
hand as she called for her maidservant.
A minion, a human slave taken into service centuries ago,
Anya existed through the bite and benevolence of her mistress.
The old dwarf approached, her steps shuffling.
“Anya, what is wrong with you? You move as if slogging
through mud.”
The maidservant lowered her head, hands turning one over
the other. “M’lady, I’m in need of your service. My movements
weaken. My body shrinks. My skin sloughs off. If you would be
so kind as to spare an elixir for one who swiftly fades.”
“Please don’t grovel. We’ve never denied our need for each
other—me for your omniscient visions, and you for my infusions
of life. Come closer.”

With mincing steps Anya approached, easing back the
hood of her shapeless frock to expose her neck. Mora bit gently,
as she had done countless times before—a small nip of blood in
exchange for a trickle of saliva. The vampire’s fluid coursed
through Anya’s diminished figure. Recovery was swift; the
intimacy fleeting. The two stood at the railing—one tall and
imperious in hues of blood, the other squat and all seeing,
forever garbed in black.
“Look at the island, Anya. Darkness hides a beauty I’ll
never see. I envy your freedom, able to walk those quaint streets
by daylight. I wish I could stop hiding from the sun and drink in
the sights instead of a mortal’s blood.”
“Only since boarding this ship have you talked of being
dissatisfied. I fear for you, M’lady. Do not wish for what cannot
be.”
Mora took a thoughtful sip of champagne. “I know I can’t go
back to my worldly existence. But tell me, is the future so bleak
that a woman can’t dream?”
The clairvoyant dwarf took her time, staring out to the island
lights. “I see explosion. Brilliance.”
“Your vision must be of this evening’s fireworks. They’re of
no concern to me. Now help me into the red strapless chiffon. I’ll
dine from the casino tonight.”
***
Admiring eyes followed Mora as she sashayed her
way through the maze of gaming tables, her focus
undeterred by the blare of slot machines and
boisterous crowd. Money meant little to her, having amassed
fortunes through the ages. But the casino attracted a crop of
eligible men ripe for the harvesting. She lusted for a heartyveined
gambler to slake her thirst.
Finding a seat at Baccarat, she bet modestly, careful to lose
more than she won, putting on a demure pout when wagers and

cards turned against her. To her left, a raven-haired gentleman
in a red-vested tuxedo bet heavily, winning often. His hushed,
accented jests about their rotund dealer kept her laughing.
“Look at the spread of waist. I wonder, if laid flat, would he
spin like a roulette wheel?”
“If he did, I’d bet on zero. The only place the ball could
drop would be his navel.”
Her tablemate’s eyes crinkled in delight at her witty
comebacks and she relished the repartee. Yet she had no thirst
for this player. Her desired meal sat across the table—a strongjawed
high roller whose pulse throbbed at his neck each time
he raked in his chips. Mora licked her lips, fangs aching to
emerge. But her quest came to a halt when a spilled cocktail on
the felted surface ran onto her mark’s lap. She sighed when he
fled to change his trousers.
The gentleman at her side misread her distress.
“Bet along with me and you will not despair your losses.
Let us find another game to play. Allow me to introduce myself.
I am Striga.”
Though disinclined to mingle with the unappetizing, Mora
found this foreigner with a biting sense of humor intriguing. The
two traversed the glitz and gold room, Striga pausing at a game
of craps where a gaggle of women in décolletage cheered the
rolling dice. He smacked his lips, brushing the back of his hand
across his mouth, a knuckle slipping between his teeth.
Mora followed his gaze.
“They’re not to my taste. I mean, the game is not to my
liking.”
Though she enjoyed Striga’s company, her urgent craving
had her searching the crowd for the return of her anticipated
meal.
The gentleman made a small departing bow.

“It was a pleasure to share our moments. But forgive me, I
must partake in the feast. The gambling feast”
He took Mora’s hand to bestow a kiss. But he jolted erect at
their touch, his face registering shock. Mora sucked in her
breath. Attuned to the warmth of blood flowing through a body,
she detected none. He stirred no hunger within her. Yet a spark
ignited, a longing from a far distant past.
“Come. You must stroll the deck with me,” Striga insisted,
gripping her elbow and drawing her through the crowd.
Stunned by the current surging into her, she allowed him to
lead her outside. At a desolate stretch of handrail, he at last
released his hold.
He whispered, “I know you.”
Mora gasped. Was this a past mark unremembered? A
vampire hunter who’d escaped detection? She turned to flee. He
caught her wrist.
“Do not leave,” he said, his voice husky. “I know you.
Because we are the same, thriving in the dark on the blood of
others.”
Again, Striga’s touch burned through her, heating the cold
flesh of the undead and igniting a flicker of life and lust left
dormant for centuries. She shivered in the soft Caribbean air.
“This can’t be happening to me. My feelings died centuries
ago.”
Striga stepped closer. He cupped her chin, bringing an
unnatural flush to her pale skin.
“In all my years of thirsting for blood, I have never
considered the soul I once was. Yet since embarking upon this
cruise, I have had a sense of disquiet. Now your touch incites an
awakening in me for what has been long lost. I see in your eyes
that you, too, have been stirred.”
Entranced by his silvery voice and penetrating stare, she
uttered the secret shared only with Anya.

“Ever since boarding this cruise, I’ve also yearned for the life
I used to have.”
“Ah, the brines of the Caribbean have caused many an
undead to veer from their destiny. We would be wise for the
knowing. Come. Let me show you these fickle seas from on high.”
Before she could protest, Striga flared his evening jacket
around them and took off into the night sky.
They soared as one above the cruise ship. Circling wider
over the Lesser Antilles isles, Striga filled Mora with tales of
vampires lost to the whims of the salty mist. Locked in Striga’s
arms, her senses heightened with exquisite pleasures that should
have remained buried: the kiss of wind teasing her raven locks;
the ocean’s tang and fragrance assailing her face. Never before
had she flown in human form, the sensation erotic as a whisper of
silk on bare skin. Her eyes, long barren of emotion, splashed tears
into the sea below. What made her ache for what she’d once
been? Was it the swells shimmered with moonlight, the vast spray
of stars, or this kindred spirit who held her close?
A hint of brightening sky had them hasten back to the ship.
Mora hesitated, reluctant to leave Striga’s arms. His eyes held his
own sorrow.
“For many decades I have plied these waters, feasting well
from this mode of existence, secure in my lidded berth. Never
before has the Caribbean played its siren song for me. Now I fear
it calls. I should never have held you to what was once my heart,
for I am doomed by the sea to have it throb again. I will seek you
out tomorrow night. Till then, it will be agony.”
Stunned by their intimate journey, a dazed Mora stumbled to
her suite to share the encounter with Anya.
“What were you thinking? Did you even feed? Hurry, get into
the trunk before full sunrise.”

Throwing off her dress, Mora paused. “I can’t explain what
happened. Our connection was powerful. Intense. Unbearably
so. You see into minds. Do you have any idea who he is?”
“Sleep now. I will look deep to discern his roots.”
The next evening, as the minion swept her mistress’s ebony
hair into a nape-clinging nt Striga Vlonsky, a Romanian vampire
of heinous tastes. He is said to do more than drink the blood of
his victim. He sometimes ingests the heart.”
“Well, I find him captivating. I’m meeting him later this
evening after I feed.”
“Be wary, M’lady.”
But the loyal maid’s warning was lost as Mora rushed out
the door.
For her meal, Mora chose a young medical intern from
Philadelphia. She toyed with him at a lively poolside bar, willing
him to drink only Perrier so as not to dilute his blood. Her green
eyes mesmerized him into taking her to his stateroom where he
obeyed without thought, unbuttoning his white dress shirt so she
could drink her fill. His blood had that zest of youth—fresh and
bracing. Sated, she shape-shifted into the intern’s likeness and
emerged from the cabin just as a young blonde in stilettos
swayed by.
“Follow me,” said the blonde in Striga’s voice.
The two rushed outside as a thunderstorm abated. Lone
passengers on the deck, they huddled under a canopy, laughing
as they reverted to their own human forms. Mora’s smile fell
away though, when Striga took her by the shoulders, his
penetrating stare boring into her with alarming ferocity.
“The ice in my veins is heated by a hundred fires. In all the
ages I cannot remember a hunger as powerful as my attraction
to you.”
His hands lit a craving in Mora, a wild yearning resurrected
from a life forgotten. Her breath came shallow and fast.

“Don’t let go. Your touch makes me feel alive again.”
Obsidian eyes devoured hers. “My hands ache to caress
you. My lips seek to consume you. But there is danger. The
ancients warned of this when two vampires come together in
passion. Our thirst will no longer be for blood, but for the light we
now shun. We will be altered, existing in a way we have never
known.”
Her green eyes beseeched him. “I don’t care. As long as I’m
with you.”
“You must care. We will be inseparable yet transformed.
The change will take but a moment, yet a moment so sublime
even mortals would give life for it.”
Mora felt faint, her words coming from a heart that ceased
beating long ago. “I think I’ll die all over again if you don’t kiss
me.”
Striga took her in a gentle embrace, his lips a whisper away.
“Are you sure?”
“Oh yes,” she breathed, her lips rising to his.
***
The crew on the bridge told of seeing St. Elmo’s fire that
night. But Anya, standing inside the doorway of the deck,
watched in tears as Mora and Striga burst into flames, their
entwined images spiraling into the sky. The cold ashes of
centuries fused in the tropical air. Transformed into crystal, the
embracing pair descended back to the ship, settling as a small,
translucent figurehead onto the prow. The black-clad creature
scurried away in the dark, returning with a bottle of champagne
to christen the diminutive statue, “Due Vampiri Amore.”
***
Without Mora’s fluid to extend existence, Anya
withered to dust. Yet her shadow haunts the decks
at daybreak, guardian to the sheer sculpture
clinging to the bow: two vampires locked in eternal pose,
devouring each other with their eyes, their crystal faces etched

with passion. An endless Caribbean sun shines through them,
fulfilling the ancient prophecy—Mora and Striga, once trapped
by the thirst of night, now forever drink in the light.
Barbara Rein debuted
her first book series in
fourth grade, The
Adventures of Cassandra
McGillicuddy in Outer Space,
complete with stick figures
drawings. Admonished by her
teacher for doing book reports on
her own books (and didn't she have
chutzpah), she put writing aside for
years while stories piled up in her
head. One day she opened her
laptop and out they poured. She's now an award-winning and
Amazon-best-selling author. She lives with her husband and
dachshund, traveling with a well-packed suitcase between New
York and Florida.
Barbara writes strange, fantastical, and downright weird
short stories. Darkly brilliant tales that teeter on the edge of reality.
Reimagined nightmares concocted from a childhood diet of
macabre fairytales and endless episodes of Twilight Zone.
"Forbitten Love" is one of twenty-two stories in her book, Tales
from the Eerie Canal," available at Amazon.
She also writes chuckle-inducing personal essays inspired
by the quirks and oddities that bounce her way.

There were years I thought our story
had as much to do with timing as with love,
years I thought we’d never make it through.
Then, of course, there are
the years now entirely lost unless
I’m drifting through scrapbooks.
Pam O’Brian
But lately I’ve been thinking
about you--
how your hand holds the coffee mug
how the edges of your eyes crinkle when you drive
how we still lie in bed at night
wrapped around each other like Smoky Mountain quilts,
marvel over the boy and girl who
put together the high school yearbook,
laugh remembering the Easter you scared
the children with that pink insulation bunny,
wonder how we’ll do
when these aging limbs stop working,
when the terrifying disease hits.
I don’t know.
Perhaps the children were the reason we stayed
through the careless summer days.
But now, now
you are the reason I will still be there
when winter ices in
and you are the map
to those few things
I do know about love.

Click the icon to play the story:
Social Handicap
by
Millard Johnson
read by
Tony Oteri
Iam the moderator of The Writers of the Villages critique
group, which meets every Tuesday morning in The Villages,
Florida. Our group is always a joy to attend. People come
and go. The dynamic is in constant flux. And although we have
been meeting for years, I never fail to learn something or relearn
something I have forgotten.
In 2002, our meeting was on February 14th, Valentine's Day.
In honor of the day, I pulled out a love story written years ago and
polished it up. While it was not a particularly remarkable love
story, reading it on Valentine's Day had a kind of magic. The next
year, as Valentine's Day approached, I challenged everyone to put
aside their novel, or whatever they were working on and write a
sappy love story. They did. Our critique day was like a kids’ party!
It was so successful that I took the idea of the Love Story
Public Reading to the Writers League, and it has been Valentine's
staple ever since. The Valentine’s evening is filled with sugary
hearts, ice cream sundaes, and maybe a tear or two.
In Social Handicap, read by Toni Oteri, I wanted to write a
story of love between everyday people, people like you and me.
Only not as beautiful and sophisticated as we are.

The Golden Calf
The Golden Calf
by
Clay Gish
Glaring, a massive bison bull strutted toward me while
I snapped photo after photo. “Roll up the window!”
my spouse yelled. Reluctantly, I did as told. The bull
snorted and turned to threaten the next human. Around me,
other drivers faced off against a squad of equally fearsome
bulls. The line of cars lengthened on either side of the road,

stuck in a bison traffic jam. No one dared honk a horn for fear of
setting off the giant, shaggy guards. In the center of it all,
gazing around with curiosity and wonder, stood a small fuzzy
golden calf.
Who knows how long the face-off would have endured?
Finally, the calf’s mother took the situation into her own hands
(hooves, that is); she walked into the road and nudged her little
one to a grassy area on the side. On spindly legs, the calf
trotted after her,
oblivious to the problem
he had caused. The
team of bulls
swaggered after them,
releasing the cars to
continue on their way.
Theodore Roosevelt
National Park in
Medora, North Dakota
may well be the most
exciting, unusual place
in the national park
system. Home to roaming herds of bison, the park bursts with a
vitality befitting its namesake. Though set in a region known as
“the badlands,” I encountered a landscape that conjured up
fairy castles more than outlaws. A labyrinth of candy-colored
mountains — ribbons of creamy sandstone with stripes of pink
and green sediment — created a magical backdrop for wild
west adventures.
My first stop of the day was at the South Unit Visitor
Center just inside the park perimeter. Rangers armed me with
maps and information about the local flora and fauna. A small
museum featured exhibits on the history, nature, and geology of
the region.

Theodore Roosevelt’s first home in the West, a small
hunting lodge called Maltese Cross Cabin, sits just behind the
visitor center. With no one around, I spent some time exploring
the cabin; I walked where Roosevelt once walked and enjoyed
the views as he once did. Before arriving at the park, I knew
nothing of Theodore Roosevelt’s time in the West and the
important influence his experiences here would have on him
and the nation. He later said, "I would not have been president
had it not been for my experience in North Dakota."
Roosevelt first came to the Dakota Territory in 1883 to hunt
bison. The skinny, bespectacled young man became enamored
with the cowboy life and bought a small ranch. He hired a ranch
manager, constructed this one-and-a-half story cabin of
ponderosa pine logs, and bought a herd of cattle. His ranch

ecame known by the cattle brand, an eight-pointed Maltese
Cross. For a while, he split his time between his home in New
York and the Dakotas.
On Valentine’s Day 1884, Roosevelt tragically lost both his
young wife, Alice, and his mother. Heartbroken, he sought solace
in the Dakota wilderness. He even considered making ranching
his sole career. Roosevelt bought a second, larger ranch, which
he named Elkhorn, and added a thousand head of cattle.
Eventually, politics beckoned. He sold the ranch in 1890 to his
managers and returned to New York and public life.
While in the Dakotas, Roosevelt wrote three books about
his adventures in the West. They became his treatise on
conservation. Though an avid hunter, Roosevelt bemoaned the
loss of habitat and wildlife he witnessed. He predicted a collapse
of the cattle industry because of ranchers’ unsustainable
practices, particularly overgrazing.
In the Dakotas, he helped form the Boone and Crockett
Club, one of the first fair-hunting organizations, and established
a stockmen's association to help preserve the region’s natural
resources. As Governor of New York and President of the United
States, Roosevelt made conservation a key policy. During his
presidency, he protected nearly 230 million acres of land as
national forests, parks, monuments, and reserves. Small wonder
this national park bears his name.
A 36-mile loop drive through the park, with plenty of pull-offs
for wildlife and scenery photo-ops, brought me closer to nature.
The bison traffic jam occurred about two-thirds of the way
through my journey. Along most of the drive, I passed small
bands of bison grazing safely in the distance. At one dramatic
junction, a large herd grazed high on a mountain ridge with a
magnificent overlord bull standing on the peak. I foolishly thought
this glorious moment would be my bison highlight!
Small wildlife colonies abounded as well. Rabbits hid in
shadows and hopped across the plains as my car approached. I

encountered several elaborate prairie dog towns, whose
residents posed for photos far more happily than the bison — at
least as long as I remained in my car. When I got out of the car
trying for close-ups, they quickly scooted into the nearest burrow.
Hiking trails twined through the park. I chose one that
traveled along the Little Missouri River. From atop a bluff, I
looked out at the river winding its way through the painted
desert. The river had carved a deep valley in the candy-colored
mountains. The sand along its banks glittered in pinks and
greens. As I contemplated the beauty, a scene right out of the
Old West materialized. Across the river, a herd of wild horses
rose majestically over the crest of a bluff. Their dark outlines
contrasted sharply with the pale blue sky.
Here at this moment, I felt Roosevelt’s presence far more
strongly than in his hunting lodge. Gratitude flooded me. His
foresight preserved this land and the stunning wildlife it supports
for me and for all the generations of Americans to come.

For 25+ years Clay Gish worked as an exhibit designer,
developing the vision, educational goals, and scripts
for museums around the world. A historian and
educator, she wrote about child labor and taught American
history and government. Currently, Clay is a travel writer and live
in Florida.

Dancing
by
Allen Watkins
While dancing on the moon at night
At least in thought my love I see
We glide across the treeless height
While dancing on the moon at night
Bathed forever in silver light
As hand in hand you waltz with me
While dancing on the moon at night
At least in thought my love I see
Allen Watkins was born and raised in Neodesha,
Kansas. After graduating from East High School, in
Wichita, Kansas, Allen worked for the Boeing Aircraft
Corporation for twenty-four years. In 1985, Allen and his
wife Pearl moved to St. Augustine, FL. where they both
worked for Northrop Grumman Corporation until
retirement. They moved The Villages Florida in
November 2002. Allen joined numerous writing groups
as well as the Poetry Workshop. The written word,
stories and poetry, is very important to Allen.

Abba Gee 1940
by
Linda Dickson
Got no right? Eli Fox, I have every right to know where
you have been. I haven’t left this house for fifteen
minutes in the last fifteen days—somebody has to
be here every minute of every day and since that somebody is

always me—it’s 1940 and I have all the rights I need to ask you
where your butt has been for the last twenty four hours.”
Mama sat on the porch all night waiting on Daddy to come
home. She hadn’t known I was asleep on the floor just inside the
front window. I heard her get up and go out. I was afraid she was
leaving … leaving all of us. Her yelling at Daddy woke me up
from a sound sleep. I’m twelve and a half years old and I wish I
had a nickel for every time their yelling and arguing has woke me
up in the middle of the night.
Mama didn’t get to find out where Daddy had been all night
cause he just came in the house and changed his shirt. Then he
left again without a word. Daddy don’t come home most nights.
Sometimes he’s gone for a week. That’s usually the week the
rent is due and we have moved in the middle of the night many a
time cause we couldn’t pay. One time, Daddy was gone so long
Mama had to go to Uncle Luke and tell him we had nowhere to
live. He’s Daddy’s older brother and has a good job as a fireman
now that the Depression has run him off his farm. Uncle Luke got
the other brothers to go in with him and rent us the house we live
in now which is right across the street from the fire hall. Me and
my two brothers get to go over and play in the fire hall any time
we want to unless, of course, they get a call there is a fire
somewhere and then we have to run for home. The bad news
about getting to live here is he moved Pop and Grandma in with

us. They lost their farm to “Mr. Hoover’s depression” and had no
place to stay neither. Daddy was so mad when he came home
and found out Pop was living with us, he vowed to leave and
never come back.
Mama says the Depression didn’t make much difference to
folks like us. We never had nothing anyway, but I remember
when she used to get all dressed up in her suede high heels
and dangling ear bobs to go dancing with Daddy. We seemed
like we had a lot back in them days. I’m the oldest and I can
remember more than either of my brothers about the good old
days before we lived with Pop and Grandma. Willy, my oldest
brother, is just barely eleven and Bud, the baby, is near about
eight years old now. Boys don’t seem to pay near as much
attention to stuff as girls do. I asked Willy one time if he thought
Mama was pretty and he said he didn’t know; she was just
Mama. But I think about stuff like that.
Mama is prettier than anybody in the movies. Her hair is
long and wavy when she takes it down out of them rag rollers
and it’s the exact same color as sorghum molasses in the
sunshine. I want to look just like her and some folks say I do, but
I can’t see it. She named me after her own self. Her full name is
Elizabeth Abigail Fox but everybody calls her Queenie. I don’t
know why. She says she always wanted a baby girl so when I
was born, she just decided to name me Elizabeth Abigail, too.

She meant to call me Abigail but when Willy come along, he
couldn’t say it right. It come out Abba Gee and that has stuck.
She’s back sitting on the porch, alone, waiting on the sun to
come up, I reckon. If Mama and Daddy ain’t yelling and arguing,
then Mama and Pop are. Our whole house smells like pee. Pop
has taken to marking his territory since Mama got rid of the slop
jar and demanded he go to the indoor toilet. He got so mad he
raised his hand to backhand her.
But this time she stood her ground, “Go on ... go on and hit
me, old man. Go on … cut off the only hand that feeds you. I’ll
be happy as a hog to watch you starve to death. Hit me. An’ I
swear … I swear to Jesus, I’ll never turn another hand to see
after you … EVER.”
Pop backed down. Even he knew she meant it. That’s
when he decided to pee all over the house. He said if she
wanted him to go in the house, by God, that’s exactly what he
would do. Pop likes to set fires, too. I seen him do it one time but
I didn’t tell on him. I ask him why he did it and he says it’s the
quickest way to get Uncle Luke to come. Mama says Pop didn’t
just go crazy. She says he’s still himself only more so.
God help him if she catches him—
God help us all if she leaves us—
I like living in this house though. Me, Willy and Bud not only
have the fire hall; we also have the back alley. The grownups

have the big house and the front porch but the kids rule the
alley. Well, the kids and the vagabonds, the drunks and the
stray dogs that is. Our alley is a good one because there are
busy streets on both ends of our block. The backside of the
houses on our street, Holly Street, and the houses on Russell
Street all share a common alley. Every house has a three-sided
cinder-block pit for burning trash. The city gives us metal
trashcans and they send somebody out to pick them up and
empty them into a big truck every week.
Pick up days are our favorites. Sometimes they send
convicts with wide striped shirts, guilty of Lord knows what all.
And other times its men folks in fairly nice clothes that come
after the trash; nicer clothes than the men that live on Holly

Street. Mama says they probably made the wrong person mad
or they been running around with the wrong crowd. This only
served to prove Mama’s theory that you are whoever you
associate with. Whatever the reason, the well-dressed pick up
men keep their heads down and work careful. Look like to me
they trying to preserve their shined shoes as best they can.
Willy loves to fill our leaky metal can with soured milk just to
hear them cuss.
The “hobos”, as Pop calls them, are kind a sad. Like
walking scarecrows, they barely able to lift the metal cans. Willy
calls them “zombies”. He’s been obsessed with zombies ever
since he saw a picture show at the Roxy about them. Mama
said they were “alkies” trying to drink themselves to death.
At least once a day we make a run through the alley to
check out every fire pit and bin. Willy and Bud found a quarter
once and spent the whole day at the Roxy. I found a diamond
ring without no diamond. The rings empty prongs made a great
weapon for threatening Willy. Aside from the fire pits and trash
bins, every house had a alley house. Some are barely standing
with giant holes in their roofs, but others are kept up nice
because they are rented out to relatives or boarders.
I wished I could live in ours all by myself. No Mama to
make me watch after Grandma … no Willy or Bud to tear the
heads off my baby dolls and no crazy old Pop peeing all over
the place. Every time I asked Mama if I could move into the

alley house, she said the Gypsies would get me if I lived out
there all alone. Mama has been talking about Gypsies ever
since I can remember. How they were out hunting for little girls
just like me. But, after all the times Mama warned us to look out
for them, they still almost got us.
We were playing cowboys and Indians and didn’t even
hear them coming. I was just about to shoot Bud dead when his
eyes got big and he let loose a blood-curdling scream. I knew
he didn’t want to get shot by no cowgirl but his scream caught
me by surprise and I dropped my stick that I was playing like
was a six-shooter. Bud kept screaming and I was about to tell
him to hush (after all my gun was just a Sycamore stick) when I
noticed he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking behind me.
So, I turned to look over my shoulder and I know I lost five
years growth once I did. My heart came right up into my throat,
which explains why I couldn’t even scream. Bud was still doing
the job for both of us. Look like the blood vessels in his throat,
which were turning blue, would burst and kill him any minute.
I had no power to stop him, I couldn’t move. I was froze
right in the middle of July … froze right where I stood. And I
was standing less than an arm’s length from a bonafide Gypsy
woman. She was an old Gypsy woman and they were the worst
kind. They stole little children on account they couldn’t have
none of their own. Stole them and sometimes they cooked

them and ate them. Or they raised them to be Gypsies and steal
more little children. The men Gypsies just robbed you blind. I’d a
whole lot rather be robbed blind than eat up dead.
I swear I don’t know how the old woman slipped up on me.
She had little bells sewed into the hem of her long skirt and more
tiny bells slipped on giant hoops that hung from her ears. Her skirt
was every color there is and even in the heat of July, she had a
shawl around her shoulders (probably a good place to hide stolen
babies). She was as broad as she was tall and covered every
inch of the ground she stood on. Her hair was black as coal and
hung lose all around her shoulders and her back. I couldn’t tell
which was nastier, her hair or that old shawl.
She didn’t say a thing but directly, she curled her upper lip
into what was a smile, I reckon. I couldn’t stop staring at her front
tooth (she only had one). The lone surviving tooth was made of
gold. No wonder the other teeth were missing. She probably
pulled them out and sold them. I could smell a strange odor on
her breath, like the musty smell of the basement with pepper all
over it. I can remember it better than I can tell it.
Bud finally ran out of air and stopped his high-pitched
screaming. In the silence, the Gypsy woman said something to
me but I couldn’t make out a word she said. Her knarly hands
looked something like Grandma’s except she had rings on every
finger and bracelets stacked on both arms. I knew it wadn’t good

jewelry because it had all turned green on her. She reached out
and touched my hair. I was still too scared to move and
wondered if she meant to snatch me bald headed.
A younger giant Gypsy man stepped out of our alley house
and spoke sharply to the old woman. She jerked her hand away
from my hair and turned. When she did, I could see the Gypsy
man had Willy. He was hanging like a sack of potatoes over the
man’s arm as he turned to walk back down the alley. The old
woman was following him with bells tingling and bracelets
clanging.
My Lord to Jesus! They were stealing Willy! Bud was no
help- he’d sunk all down inside himself and fell to the ground.
Mama’d kill me if I let them steal Willy.
I ran after the Gypsy man and tried to pull Willy free. But
the man was strong and had a good hold around Willy’s waist.
With his other arm he snatched me off the ground and held me
so hard against his side I lost my breath. Soon as I could
breathe again, I kicked and beat at him, tried to bite him, but all
to no use. He had us. Me and Willy both was gonna be a Gypsy
stew.
I was about give out when I heard the old woman yelling in
her foreign tongue. My captor turned and I could see Mama had
the old woman by her hair with a butcher knife at her throat.

“Put my babies down you nasty thieving son of a bitch. I’ll
kill her … I’ll kill her dead.” Mama had the old woman’s hair
pulled so tight she couldn’t move her head.
Pop was coming fast as he was able behind Mama. He had
a piece of brick in his hand that must have been the only
weapon he could find. “Put ’em down. Put them babies down
afore I hit you in the head with this brick,” Pop yelled shaking his
fist in the air.
I knew right then my Mama could do anything … knew it in
my soul. Knew she could save me from anything on earth.
The Gypsy man dropped me and Willy both and began
pleading with Mama not to kill the old woman. I reckon even
Gypsies love each other cause the man had tears running down
his face as he continued to beg Mama to let her loose.
Mama yelled for me and Willy to get up and come to her,
which I was well on my way to doing. But Willy wasn’t moving.
Mama kept yelling his name but he was laying just as he fell. I
ran back to him even though I was scared the Gypsy man would
grab me again. Willy didn’t look hurt, no blood anywhere that I
could see. Still, he wouldn’t wake up so I drug him by his arm
toward Mama.
Everybody was yelling. Pop threw his brick, but it didn’t hit
nobody. Mama was losing her hold on the old woman cause she
was trying to sink to her knees. Soon as I got Willy in reach,
Mama let go and pushed the old woman down. She told Pop to

go to the fire hall and get Luke but Pop was too busy looking for
another brick to throw at the Gypsies. He wasn’t listening to
nobody cause he was so excited to have somebody to fight
with.
Mama grabbed Willy and we all crawled backed up against
the alley house wall while the Gypsies ran off toward the street.
Mama started to cry as she looked over Willy trying to
determine what was the matter with him. He just looked like he
was asleep to me. Mama picked him up and headed for the
house. Pop was still looking all around for something to throw
and didn’t seem to notice the Gypsies were gone and Mama
was carrying Willy all by herself. He was all riled up and I was
just as afraid of him as I had been the Gypsies. I thought it was
a shame Gypsies didn’t go around stealing crazy old men cause
we could’ve sure let them have Pop.
“Get in the house, Abba Gee. Find me the ammonia. Lord
God. What have they done to this baby? Run find your Uncle
Luke … tell him to come get Pop out of the alley!”
I started shaking all over. My teeth rattled in my head like I
was still freezing cold but I did what Mama said. I took off for the
fire hall. Seemed like the ground was moving under my feet. I
was running and yelling, but I wasn’t getting nowhere nor
making any sound. When I did get to the fire hall, I couldn’t
make no words come out my mouth. I was trying to explain what

happened but I was shaking so hard all I got out was “Gypsies”
and “Willy”.
I don’t remember much after that cause I just laid down on
the concrete floor of the fire hall and passed out. Least that’s
what Mama said I did, which worried me quite a bit until Mama
explained the difference between passing out and passing on.
We never did find out what happened to Willy. To this very day he
won’t even begin to talk about it.
I know this much for truth. Don’t never let nobody tell you
that gypsies don’t come and try to steal the children for I was
almost one of them right out there in the back alley. Safe for my
Mama, I could a been graveyard dead then and there.
Linda R. Dickson, born 1950 in
Nashville. Tennessee and a
Tennessee resident until
retirement in 2010. I do not
consider myself a writer. I am a
storyteller. Compelled to write
down some of the stories else they
die with me. There are no lists of
credits, accomplishments, nor
educational hints at talents
undiscovered. In the great tradition
of storytelling, I lie, embellish and steal stories of my ancestors
whose names are lost even to me.
Believing every life is a story, I am grateful for a small voice to
record part of mine.

Click to play Outrun Forever:
Words: Billy Wells
Singer: ???????
Producer: Wil Mouches

Freedom and Dignity
(the day I went to prison)
by
Paul Lewin
I was a college student. Mathematics. Some say the
highest rung on the ladder of intelligence. Next to God. It was
Sunday, my day to relax. Away from topology, a branch of
mathematics studying Mobius strips, Kline bottles, and string
theory.
To relax and leisurely journey through the pages of The
Sunday New York Times. Coffee and schmeered bagel in my
hand. I was sitting on a blanket, at the water's edge overlooking
Watson and Crick's idyllic Cold Spring Harbor.
With pen in hand, as was my custom, to circle the words
and ideas 'fit to print.' At least that was the promise of the Times
first page masthead.
I was the smartest and best, one word at a time. Left to
right. I was blessed.
And then it happened. I could not read the next word. It
was terribly blurred. Were my eyes failing? I could not make

out a single letter. My mind's journey towards yet more superior
intelligence was interrupted. How long would my disability last?
And then I realized it was a tiny insect sitting on the next
word! Blocking my ability to comprehend the next great idea of
the day. At least, it was not my eyesight. As I focused, the
insect started to crawl to the right. Soon it would block yet
another word. That insect could stymie my ability to read. Pen in
hand, I casually drew a line to the insect's right. The insect
approached the ink line, stopped, and reversed its direction.
Why? Could the insect sense the odor of the ink? I decided to
experiment. I drew another line to the left of the insect. Again,
the insect changed direction and began crawling toward the top
of the page. Then I had a devilish idea. Why not draw a circle
around the insect? Would that be the insect's ink prison? Sure
enough, the insect refused to crawl across the circle of ink.
Would it spend the rest of its life in the ink prison I had created?
How clever I was to have been able to confine the dumb,
annoying insect to a place where my superior reading efforts
would not be disturbed.
I suddenly was haunted by thoughts of my cruelty. That
insect would perish in my prison. I felt sad. And then it
happened. Miracle of miracles. I never noticed the flat insect had
tiny folded wings. Unfolded, that annoying, stupid creature

turned into a flying ladybug. Up and away, it flew. Pausing briefly
at my head, and then soaring to a place far above me. I wish I
were that ladybug. It was me that was confined to live in prison,
never to soar up and away. The letters of the ink of the printed
New York Times' words were my prison bars.
Paul Lewin is a retired mathematician. A National Merit
Scholar, he attended The University of Rochester where he
majored in Mathematics. At the University of Waterloo, Canada, he
taught Computer Science.
His blog, “It occurs to me” utube.com/divaannfisher, on the
channel he created has 1,574,147 views.
Paul is working on a self-help book to be called "How To
Learn Patience Quickly."

Credits
Larry Martin — consultation and initial input for a proof of
concept test of Yumpu software
Mark Newhouse –– consultation
Paul Lewin –– consultation, content
Barbara Rein –– content and consultation
Pam O’Brian –– content
Tony Oteri –– content
Phil Walker –– content
Linda Dickson –– content
John Mellon –– consultation
Dick Walsh –– editing
The following people graciously offered content that was
not used in this sample issue: Mark Newhouse, Jim
Stark, Patrick Miller
Layout software –– pages by Apple, PDF by Adobe
Photos –– Unsplash
Photos –– Shutterstock