The Ticketbooth 2022

the
ticketbooth
CALIFORNIA • AUTHOR’S FOCUS • LITERATURE • FRESH CATALOGUE
2022
short stories
Victor Cino
Mziwonke Qwesha
Serguei Bychkov
Alan Cumming
ww.inksandbindings.com
Hello!
cover story
Dorothy
Carlson

For as long as human civilization was
established, we as a species have been
storytellers. First as a way of communicating
the tribe’s needs to its members, then to
preserve history, and then to ponder on
possibilities and impossibilities. Some might
argue that telling stories is one of humankind’s
earliest attempts at achieving immortality, an
argument I don’t completely disagree with.
Whatever our reasons for telling stories, it
will always be, in my humble opinion, one of
the most beautiful artforms there are. And
when you come across a few rough diamonds
which are polished into true gems before your
very eyes, well, it’s a true delight!
editor’s
note
We are fortunate to have witnessed such a
thing in this year’s crop of entries for our Short
Story Writing Contest. The limited structure of
a short story makes it one of the easiest and
simultaneously most difficult media in prose
writing. How can you flesh out your characters
enough to make the reader care in just a
few pages? How can the plot be resolved
satisfactorily? What about the setting and the
secondary characters? What of them?
But it is with these limitations that our finalists
truly showcased their mastery of their craft,
and it was so thrilling to read their entries
first-hand. We spanned a unique collection
of genres in this year’s entries—from dramas
to psychological horror, from actual horror to
dystopian fiction. We know that these stories
will be as much a delight for you to read as it
was for us to screen them. Enjoy!

author’s focus
06
14
26
28
31
40
46
52
bookhighlights
09
14
62
Fresh Catalogue
17
What The Wind Blew In:
6 Stories to Read With Children
Tell Us Your Story, Marilyn Wassman | Q&A
Have We Found Our Better Selves?
Meril R. Smith
Acid and Bribery
Jeann Anne Off
Cowboy on the Wrong Train:
Mouse with a Clue
Jeann Anne Off
From Homeless to Heaven
Jeann Anne Off
Tough As Nails
Karen Chisholm
At The Feet Of Angels
Vernon Bargainer
Matters Of The Soul | Transformation Work Book
What Ruth Cherry Thinks | Q&A
Airplane Stories and Histories
Norman Currey
Life In The Hands Of Jesus
Sharmila Panirselvam
Object of Balance | Object of Destruction
Lesley Fisher
Inks and Bindings Publishing 2022 releases
short stories
14
32
42
48
Father and Son
Alan Cumming
Thirteen Steps
Victor Cino
Auction
Serguei Bychkov
From My Memory
Mziwonke Quesha | Q&A

54
cover story
HELLO
by DC Mountain
61
Small Talk With Dorothy
Dorothy Carlson

TTB / BOOK HIGHLIGHT
NORMAN CURREY
Airplane Stories
and Histories
PAPERBACK | $ 9.99
EBOOK | $ 2.99
AIRPLANE STORIES AND HISTORIES
chronicles two hundred years of aviation
highlights including the exploits of pioneers
such as Sir George Cayley, the Wright
brothers, Charles Lindbergh, Wiley Post,
Amelia Earheart, R. J. Mitchell, Sir Geoffrey
de Havilland, Allan Loughead, Frank Whittle,
and Kelly Johnson. Notable events and
developments are discussed, first Atlantic
flights, World War airplanes, jet engine
development and post-war dedesigns.
It concludes with a discussion of new
designs…
NORMAN CURREY was born in Yorkshire, England, in 1926. He graduated as an
aeronautical engineer in 1948 and was a stress engineer on the de Havilland
Comet. He went to Canada and helped design the Jetliner and Arrow. He
spent 30 years at Lockheed, working in the C-130 JetStar, C-5 and special
projects. He is a Chartered Engineer and a Fellow of the Roya Aeronautical
Society, and has lectured in the U.S. and abroad. He is also the author of
Aircraft Landing Gear Design:Principles and Practices, AIAA1988.
www.inksandbindings.com
5

TTB / AUTHOR’S FOCUS
What The Wind
Blew In:
6 Stories to Read With Children
PAPERBACK | $7.99
EBOOK | $ 1.99
WHAT THE WIND BLEW IN is a
collection of stories for children written
by Marilyn B. Wassmann, featuring six
tales of adventure, fun and learning.
Marilyn Benjamin Wassmann was born
in a leap year and earned four degreestwo
in art history, one in library science,
and one in studio art. Before retiring in
2011, Marilyn worked as an art cataloger
at the Library of Congress. She has
illustrated and contributed to anthologies
for the Greenbelt Writers Group. In 2016,
she published Pen Scratching Poets:
A Collection of One Family’s Creative
Pursuits with her husband Paul.
Tell us your story, Marilyn
the ticketbooth magazine
6
I, Marilyn Benjamin Wassmann was born on February 29 th in a Leap Year, so I am one of
the unique people who only have real birthdays every four years. I grew up in Connecticut,
and I earned four degrees in four universities in New Jersey, New York, Washington, D.C., and
Maryland—two in art history, one in library science, and one in studio art. I worked in several
libraries in the District of Columbia, before working as a cataloger at the Library of Congress
for twenty-eight years. After retiring in 2011, I continued to contribute to the anthologies of
the Greenbelt Writers Group, and with my husband’s assistance, I wrote and published a
children’s book entitled WHAT THE WIND BLEW IN. In 2016, I published a collection of poems
entitled PEN SCRATCHING POETS: A COLLECTION OF ONE FAMILY’S CREATIVE PURSUITS
with my husband Paul. Our latest children’s book is entitled THE OPOSSUM AND THE CATS. In
my spare time away from time-consuming household activities, I strive to achieve my creative
goals, because I do like to draw, paint, write poetry, and research various topics. I am happy
and busy creating and living in Hyattsville, Maryland with my husband Paul, some fish, one
dog, and several cats.

TTB / AUTHOR’S FOCUS
Who Inspired You?
During my childhood in Connecticut, I
was an avid bookworm, who often escaped
to her treehouse to read and write, so I
think that, even then, I probably wanted to
be a writer in the future. However, I needed
to direct my educational accomplishments
toward librarianship in order to earn a living,
and it was only in the years when I was
approaching retirement that I began to
pursue creative writing, especially because
of my experiences with the Greenbelt
Writers Group in Greenbelt, Maryland.
Your personal favorite book and
author?
This is a particularly difficult question
for me to answer as I have seen, read,
cataloged, and treasured so many books,
especially in the years when I was a
librarian. However, I would have to say
that my favorite book is THE BIBLE, and
that my favorite author is the poet William
Wordsworth (1770-1850) who wrote many
of his poems in the way that I like to do, by
writing lines in rhyming couplets, a form
of rhyme that helps to make poems more
interesting. I like to think of myself as a poet
who specializes in creating these couplets,
perhaps because I feel that children and
even adults generally enjoy rhyming,
especially the sound of the rhyming lines.
Rhyming, which requires words or phrases
to end on the same sound, has always
been an especially enjoyable pursuit for me.
I value and respect it as one of my “gifts,”
and I love to share my experiences with it in
my stories.
What’s your book(s) about?
WHAT THE WIND BLEW IN: 6 STORIES TO
READ WITH CHILDREN is a children’s book
that I wrote and illustrated which contains
six meaningful stories written in rhyming
couplets so that children can easily enjoy
and understand them. Each story aims
to encourage children to cultivate good
values, varying from thoughtfulness to
listening before they act, and other similar
important lessons. The first story urges
children to be more thoughtful, while the
second story teaches them to listen before
they act. In the third tale, children learn
that even animals can rescue people from
disasters while the fourth story lets readers
know that healing always comes after pain
at the right time. According to the fifth tale,
even stuffed toy animals may be looking
out for us, and the final story shows how
working together can rescue friends in
trouble. This collection is both entertaining
and educational, and the illustrations have
been described as “delightful” and “very
pleasing to the eye.” Another commentator
wrote that the pictures “will definitely
capture the imagination of the kids reading
it.” And one press release stated that this
book is “a must-have” for parents looking
for tools in teaching their kids some
valuable life lessons.”
PEN SCRATCHING POETS : A
COLLECTION OF ONE FAMILY’S CREATIVE
PURSUITS has been described as a
“mesmerizing collection of poetry and
artwork dedicated to all family members.”
This book, initially published in 2016, is a
showcase of poetry from the Benjamin
side of the family (Marilyn’s maiden name
is Benjamin). Wassmann discusses and
identifies the “poetic gene” which has
come alive in her family, and readers will
be treated to many of Marilyn’s own works
and illustrations throughout the years. They
will also get to read poetry by Wassmann’s
relatives, including her father and sister, and
some of her cousins, nieces, and nephews.
A major highlight of the first part of the
book are the poems of her grandmother,
Ethel Tillotson Benjamin whose poems
about her children, her relatives, and her
pets capture deeply personal and moving
encounters. Wassmann has also bravely
shared her own hopes for her country in
poems like “America” and “Longing for
Peace,” while cheerfully celebrating the
holidays with the “Seasons Greetings”
section. Readers both young and old who
are interested in honest expressions of
affection should enjoy the contents of PEN
SCRATCHING POETS, both for the simple
and direct lines of poetry, and the vibrant
sketches which accompany many of the
poems.
THE OPOSSUM AND THE CATS is a
children’s story in verse, written in rhyming
couplets, and interspersed with facts about
opossums and a moral about coexistence
that readers both young and old can
appreciate. Solitary and set in his ways, the
opossum is slumbering the day away when
a laboring mother cat begs him for a safe
place to have her kittens. Although he does
his best to ignore the intruder, the opossum
suddenly finds his den six cats richer when
the mother cat, no longer able to prolong
her labor, gives birth to five kittens.
With little alternative, the opossum
permits the mother cat to stay and raise
her litter in his den, which isn’t all bad.
Certainly the kittens love to tumble about
the place, and they sometimes snuggle so
hard against his sleeping form and curving
tail that they wake him up, but before he
knows it, his original reluctance is replaced
with reserved adoration for his young
co-inhabitants. It is with this affection that
the opossum turns from loner to hero the
day the kittens’ adventuring goes too far.
When he is asked to save the kittens from
impending danger, he gladly does it! (This
is a story that is predominately fictitious,
which I originally wrote to read at a meeting
of the Greenbelt Writers’ Group, and it is
somewhat based on the mysterious animal
that we felt was living for a while under the
shed in our backyard.)
What’s your advice to future
writers?
I would advise aspiring writers to find a
place where they can totally concentrate,
and become completely absorbed and
engrossed in the tasks of writing, diligently
focusing and working on one piece at a
time, always aiming to outline, if not finish
their compositions. I would urge them
to thoroughly explore and research any
information written about the subject that
they choose to write about, so that they are
completely familiar with their subject, and
so that they will be able to write intelligently;
hopefully adding something fresh, original,
and meaningful for their readers and for
the world of literature. I would also advise
new writers to be willing to change, edit,
and rewrite their compositions until they
reach a point where they have created
something that they can be proud of. They
should also always be learning as much
as possible about the complex publishing
industry, so that they will make responsible
and successful decisions during their writing
careers.
Can you share a snippet/excerpt from your book that you think your
readers will find very interesting?
From WHAT THE WIND BLEW IN and the story “Ballad of the Birdhouse: “ “he (the baby
bird) had really learned to see:/That it’s really better to learn a skill,/listen, study, practice,
and then you will/remember to be careful with every step that you take,/and you’ll be safe
not sorry for the choices you make.”
From PEN SCRATCHING POETS and the poem “Princess Diana (1967-1997):” The world
will never replace/Diana’s remarkable grace./We grieve for her friends, her family, and
then,/we search for meaning in her tragic end./The “People’s Princess,” Great Britain’s
rose/nobly endured the life she chose./She appeared to be so beguiling/especially when
photographed smiling./From a shy, quiet girl to a storybook bride,/producing an heir, but
unable to hide/from the press or the world which needed to see/the woman on her own
who was rarely free./So rest in peace, sweet “Queen of Hearts.”/Your life has ended, but
the legend starts./When we’re thoughtful and kind, we’ll remember your name./Perhaps
that’s a more lasting type of fame!”
From THE OPOSSUM AND THE CATS: “Well, every story has a purpose or a moral for the
reader, and I guess that must be YOU!/All types of creatures can help one another, and I’m
glad that this is TRUE!”
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7

the ticketbooth magazine
A L A N C U M M I N G
Father
&Son
“This isn’t my room!”
“It’s your new room,” I countered and moved to the window. “Look,
you’ve got a lovely view from here.” A lovely view across to the other
wing, at least.
“This isn’t my room!” More insistent.
“We’ve even put your chair by the window so you can sit in the sun.”
I patted the blue velvet headrest and launched a tiny puff of dust
motes that shimmered and danced in the sunlight and hovered like
miniature eavesdroppers.
“Stick it!” His lip curled ever so slightly and I imagined I detected
a lucid light behind his rheumy blue glare. So like him to allow the
bastard to rise just below the surface of his smile. I glanced at Gillian
and passed the baton to her.
Gill led him gently by the arm over to the bed. The bedsprings
squeaked as she sat beside him.
“It’s ok, Dad,” her voice almost a whisper. “I know it’s not your old
room but it’s going to be better for you here. Remember when Rosie
was born and you and Mum had us move to a bigger house over
on Kennedy Street? That was better for us, wasn’t it? You’ve even
got your own toilet and shower here; you don’t have to share it with
anyone else”. Gill flashed him a winning smile.
He harrumphed and sighed and stared down at his hands. Rosie
slid in beside him and snuggled against his other shoulder. I held my
breath and waited.
“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” He’d tickled the bait
she offered, and I knew we’d win out.
8

Then — “Who’re you laughing at?”
he barked at me.
Gill’s frown wiped the smile from
my dial. “No one. I’m just happy
that you’re happy, is all.” It came out
whiny and defensive and I hated
that he still wielded his power over
me. “Look,” I continued and glanced
at my watch, “I’m going to have to
shoot back to work, but I’ll try and
call back later.” I shot an apologetic
— I hoped — shrug at Gill who
recognised the gesture for what it
really was, and leaned forward on
my way past to kiss the old man on
his forehead.
“Bugger off!” He brushed me aside.
And you too, I thought as I burned
bright red and made for the door.
“Catch you guys later,” I muttered
to my sisters before escaping to
freedom outside in the hallway.
Gill’s gruff reproval and my father’s
insincere apology were muffled by
the swinging door and the scuffing
of the carpet as I fled the scene.
****
That marked my dad’s first day in
the dementia wing of the nursing
home, some fourteen years after my
mum passed. I say passed when I
probably meant stampeded, bolted,
absconded into God’s waiting
arms. Usually I have to be hit by the
blindingly obvious behaviour bus to
notice anything out of the ordinary,
but even I knew from a relatively
young age that she was trapped in
a loveless relationship. Dad never
beat her, never laid a finger on her
as they say, and I think that was the
problem all along; he never laid a
finger on her. Never touched her,
never cuddled her. He was civil,
polite, condescending, remote. How
Gill, Rosie and I were even conceived
remains a mystery to me.
The three of us fared better on
Dad’s narrow emotional register
while we were young. As we
developed he gradually distanced
himself so that from my teenage
years I have no fond memories of
him. That feeling, I’m sure, has been
mutual for a long time. I can best
sum up our relationship by saying
that he’d always preferred my exwife
over me.
He soldiered on after Mum died.
He had to learn to cook for himself
and after some teething troubles,
managed to get the washing
machine, dishwasher and vacuum
cleaner sorted. Gill kept a mother
eye on him and he paid Rosie to
cook and clean for him after she’d
been made redundant once. What
can I say? She wasted no time at
all securing another job. Around
the same time, I was promoted to
manage the Hong Kong branch of
my office and spent the following
thirteen years overseas where he
was far from my thoughts — mostly.
From half a world away, it was easy
to close ranks with my sisters and
their husbands and encourage
them to begin the tortuous process
of transferring him to a retirement
home. What a fiasco that turned
into; enough so that I’ve resolved
when my time comes, I’m going
quietly.
Anyway, he got used to the idea
over the next three years, more so
when we promised not to sell his
home out from under him (especially
since the rental income goes some
way to covering the cost of his care).
By the time I’d returned home, he
was comfortably institutionalised.
The bubble finally burst when he
began wandering. The staff would
lead him back to his room, but his
forays took him further afield and
he had to be rescued somewhere
along the road leading away from
the home with increasing regularity.
Things came to a head when he had
to be removed from the back seat
of someone’s car sitting outside in
the visitors’ car park, accompanied
by an overnight bag containing
the teddy bear one of my nieces
had bought him. Gill fielded the call
and we all attended the hastilyconvened
meeting.
“We can’t guarantee his safety.”
“Can’t you keep a better eye on
him?” I complained. “After all, he has
to walk past the reception desk to
get out of this place.”
The director eyed me sternly. “The
reception desk is not always staffed.
If something were to happen to him,
it would be our responsibility.”
I didn’t like the direction this
conversation was headed. Did that
mean he was going to have to come
and live with one of us?
The director shifted uneasily in
his chair and continued. “We are
assessing your father for dementia
—”
“He hasn’t got dementia!” This
from Rosie who, I believed, was still
in denial.
The director held up his hand as
if stopping traffic. It had the same
effect on Rosie.
“As I was saying, we’re assessing
for signs of dementia. If this proves
to be the case, we can transfer him
to the dementia wing. We have a
couple of vacancies at the moment,
but they are available on a firstcome-first-serve
basis. It’s a secure
wing so your father can’t put himself
at further risk.”
I shrugged and looked at the
others. That’d work for me. Gill
looked worried and Rosie had
begun to cry.
“How long have we got?” Gill
asked.
“We ought to have the results
of our appraisal tomorrow, next
day at the latest. Shall we say we’ll
need a decision by the middle of
next week?” He was looking at me
as he answered Gill. He knew the
weak link in this chain. I nodded. Still
worked for me.
I thought of something. “What
about power of attorney?”
“I had to organise something with
Dad when he first came here,” Gill
replied, “but it wouldn’t hurt to give
his lawyer another call.”
“I’ll come with you,” I volunteered.
Might even get a peek at the will.
****
www.inksandbindings.com
“And finally, here.”
Dad’s lawyer, Percy Stuart,
pointed his hairy finger at the
last blank space. Gill signed with
a flourish and returned his pen.
Stuart’s receptionist witnessed
the document which was the final
legal nail in the power of attorney
coffin. Dad had signed off earlier
in the week. His scrawl was less
familiar than I remember as if signed 9

the ticketbooth magazine
10
TTB / SHORT STORIES
by a squirrel in the terminal stage
of anaphylactic shock, though its
authenticity was attested by the day
manager of the care home.
Mr Stuart retrieved the papers
and slid them back into a cardboard
folder. As he did so, a key dropped
from the folder onto the table. It
was attached to a plastic tab with
a number engraved on it. Stuart
picked it up and handed it to Gill.
“You should probably have this,”
he said, “although we can keep it in
with the file if you wish.”
“What is it?” I asked, suddenly
interested.
Gill smiled. “It’s the key to Dad’s
safe deposit box at the bank,” she
said. “That’s where he keeps the
number plates along with whatever
else he didn’t want to part with.”
“He’s still got those?”
She nodded. Another of Dad’s
great investment ideas, this one
dated 1999. Back then, the Y2K
bug would have had planes
falling from the skies, gargantuan
failures of computer systems and
unresponsive traffic lights to grind
the civilized world to a halt. Dad
applied for Y2K personalised plates
but found himself at the back of
that particular queue. He toyed
with a couple of other ideas before
settling on MM. Apparently, M is the
Roman numeral for one thousand.
This was news to me and the rest
of the country as well and explains
why the plates’ value has remained
the same as when he bought the
damned things. Were they in the will
too?
Gill handed me the key as we
left the office. “I’ve got to rush,”
she explained. “I’ve got a dental
appointment at four. Have a look
and see if there’s something that
we can use, something he will
recognise, to put in his room;
something personal.”
“The plates?”
She laughed. “Maybe not the
plates.” She got serious. “When are
you going to go and see him again?
It’s been a couple of weeks, almost.”
I shrugged; guilty as charged. I
glanced at the key in my palm and
changed the subject.
“Is it the same bank, the one in
Manchester Street?”
Gill nodded and held my gaze for
a few seconds as if still expecting
an answer. Perhaps knowing better,
she turned and waved. “See you
later. Take care. Love you.”
“Love you too,” I replied to her
back.
****
The plates were bound by twin
bands of opaque tape. I placed
them on the table alongside a
folded, limited edition All Blacks
jersey bought sometime in the
early 1990s. Maybe we could have
it framed and put on his wall. Then
again, someone could nick it.
I dug deeper, thinking a deposit
box this size must be expensive
to rent. Pulled out a collection of
service medals from his time as
an artilleryman in World War 2. I
seem to remember a story of him
lying about his age to enlist. I was a
whole lot smarter at his age and the
Vietnam War just passed by me.
I leafed through a stack of Bonus
Bonds jammed into an envelope,
then counted them. Almost twenty
thousand dollars’ worth and, like
him, past their expiration date and
their usefulness. I lay the stack on
the licence plates and kept digging.
I picked out a pile of old, torn
envelopes, dog-eared at their edges
and tied tightly by a pair of black
shoelaces. I read the top envelope.
It was addressed to him, care of his
workplace, dating back to when
we lived in Kennedy Street. I didn’t
recognise the handwriting but it was
delicate, dark blue and beautifully
scripted. Curious, I picked at the
knots and undid the laces. The
envelopes remained stacked as if
they’d clung so tightly together for
so long they were unwilling to let go
once released.
I opened the top envelope and
shook out its contents. A folded
letter and a photograph slid onto
the desk. A young woman in a
black bathing suit, captured at the
moment of rapturous laughter at
some unseen joke lay face up at me.
I picked up the photo and peered
more closely at it.
I’d never seen her before. There
was a vitality and freshness to her
that was so infectious that I smiled.
I flipped the photo but there was
nothing written on the back.
The letter was folded in four;
lightweight, blue stock paper from
a lined pad, sharply creased, almost
brittle. I carefully pulled it apart.
There was no address of sender at
the top, no date.
My Darling,
I awoke to the smell of your skin
on my pillow, the taste of sun and
salt still on my lips. How this memory
of you still lingers when nothing is
left but the shape of you hollowed
beside me in the bed.
I ache from the gentleness of your
touch. I long for the stolen moments
we may still share together, and I
understand that sharing you is the
best I can hope for. Know that I will
always love you.
Virginia
I blushed at the intimacy. Who is
this woman? And, for God’s sake,
that is my father she’s writing about.
What the …? I fumbled for another
envelope.
Another photograph. Her again,
radiant, impossible to ignore, this
time relaxed and grinning at the
camera alongside my dad, his
arm draped casually about her
shoulders while seated in a cubicle
with another couple. She looked to
be about half his age. This one had
‘Wanaka 1972’ on the back. What
was he doing in Wanaka? More
importantly, where was Mum?
I was reeling from the shock that
I’d unearthed this mother lode of
baseline treachery. I tugged another
envelope randomly from the middle
of the pile. As I unfolded the letter,
it ripped along the crease line and I
had to place the pieces one above
the other to read what she’d written.
Dearest William,
Thank you for the cheque. I cried
when I opened it. I have never known
such generosity, given with no thought or
expectation beyond the gift. How did you
know? I didn’t intend to burden you with
my problems.
I love you more than you will ever
know. If I had the power to release you
from your pain I would do so gladly. I

understand this is not my decision to make,
but together we can face the world and
whatever it chooses to throw at us. Stay
strong, my darling.
Xxx
There was a postcard: a coloured
print of the Auckland Harbour
Bridge. On the back, written in the
same flowing script as the letters:
“If loving you is wrong, I don’t want to
be right.” Darling, they’re playing our
song.
Xxx
I couldn’t stand to read any
further, but I shuffled through more
photographs. Occasionally, the two
of them, otherwise just her. She’d
aged a little in a few; lines around
her eyes, her cheekbones more
pronounced, some grey around
her temples, as if she’d succumbed
beneath a relentless artist’s brush
for detail.
I regathered the papers and
photos, stacked them in a rough
pile, and tossed them back into the
tin box on the desk. I kept a single
photo of this woman; a small black
and white studio portrait, head
and shoulders only. I’m not sure
why I chose this one except that it
was the only one that lacked that
essence of joie de vivre so openly
displayed in the others. Here, there
was an evident sadness behind her
eyes, more melancholy than wistful.
Defiance, too, in the way she’d
turned towards the camera, her chin
jutting forward.
Gill had suggested something for
the wall in his room. I thought I’d just
found the perfect piece.
****
I twisted the door handle and
stepped into the spacious communal
room of the dementia ward.
Dinner had mostly concluded although
a few of the residents, Dad
included, were seated at tables
and picking at the remains of the
meal. He saw me enter but made
no sign he even recognised me. He
fed another spoon of greenish-grey
gruel into his mouth and wiped the
dribble from his chin with a paper
napkin. I knew he had been suffering
from reflux, and I guess the staff
felt if they passed his meal through
a blender he’d have a much better
chance of keeping it down.
Someone in a floral dressing
gown tried to elbow past me, and I
quickly turned and pulled the door
closed again. I knew about Gladys
who shadowed the exit and tried to
make a break through it each time
we’d visited. I was sure she had her
own vigilant minder, a soft-spoken
Filipino nurse so skilful in the art of
distraction that Gladys never made
it past the threshold. What intrigued
me most was that Gladys never
took umbrage at being constantly
thwarted. She’d do a couple of
circuits of the room and eventually
return to her chair across from the
door. She must’ve been a whitebait
in a past life or a homing pigeon.
“I used to
think he was
just a bitter
old bugger
when I was
growing up,”
I admitted.
“Still, if he
was any sort
of man, he
could’ve just
said ‘Screw
you’ and
gone.
““
TTB / SHORT STORIES
One of the nursing staff
approached and asked if I wouldn’t
mind waiting while they took Dad
back to his room and ran him
through the shower. I’d organised
to meet Gill but had turned up early
and had time to kill. Well, that was
fine by me.
I sat beside Gladys and ended
up having a surprisingly normal
conversation, apart from a few
detours down the rabbit hole.
She was English by birth, married
to a man who worked for the
United Nations and had travelled
extensively to unusual corners of
the planet. He died of malaria, and
she relocated to New Zealand to be
closer to her daughter.
Now she was here because of
some creeping neurological defect,
not by choice. The door opposite us
opened again and Gladys paused
mid-sentence, made another dash
for freedom, and I ceased feeling
sorry for her.
The nurse returned.
“You can go and see him now,” she
smiled.
I glanced at the wall clock which
showed a couple of minutes past
seven. I’d hoped Gill would’ve been
here by now.
“Sure, thanks.”
I suffered a momentary sense of
déjà vu along the hallway, all too
clearly remembering the last time I’d
passed along it. However, this time
I came armed with a photograph
tucked inside my jacket pocket, and
I patted it protectively. My courage,
my sense of outrage, redemption for
my mother, all linked to that face in
the photo.
The label on the door read ‘Bill
Conway’. I took a deep breath and
shoved the door open.
“Hey, Dad.” I pasted on a slick
smile.
He was sitting up in bed, resting
against a nest of pillows. He sniffed
and grunted a reply and watched
me pull up a chair beside his
bedside.
‘How are you doin’? How’s the
room?”
He pursed his lips and I thought:
Great, he’s going to say something.
“What do you want?” Well, not
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11

TTB / SHORT STORIES
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12
quite what I had expected.
“I just stopped by to see how
you’re getting on here. Gill’s
coming in too. I wanted to show
her something.”
He gave me a searching look.
I think he was checking for a
package of some sort, a box or a
newspaper or a present, perhaps.
I smiled at him, left him hanging.
“Nice room.”
“What?”
“I said, nice room.”
“No, what are you going to show
Gillian?”
“It’s a little secret, but it does
concern you.”
I lost him for a moment. He
stared back blankly, and I figured
he was having some internal
struggle staying in the moment.
His eyes danced in confusion,
then narrowed as he pieced the
fragments of our conversation
back to a coherent whole. The
little guy who switched the lights
on in his brain was back at the
helm.
“What’ve you got? Show me!”
Well, I thought, you did ask. I
reached into my top pocket and
withdrew the photo. I flipped it
onto the bedsheet.
He retrieved it and held it close
to his face, squinting to focus. I
studied him intently, waiting …
His fingers trembled and his
eyes glistened yet never left the
photo. He sniffed and his lower
lip trembled. He clenched his lips
tightly, though the corners of his
mouth turned down and his jaw
started to quiver.
He lowered his arm onto the
bedspread and the photo slipped
from between his fingers. He
turned to face me, and two large
tears tracked down across his
grizzled, unshaven cheeks. He
released a sob, choked back
another, all the while staring at me
through hollowed, hopeless eyes.
I didn’t know how to react. I’d
expected something, but nothing
like this.
“Dad—?”
The dam finally burst. He
wailed, long and slow before
surrendering to a paroxysm of
heaving sobs. I gripped his arm
tightly and shook him.
“Dad! Look at me! Stop it!
Sshhhh!” I shook him again, I
couldn’t bring myself to hold him
or comfort him. Gillian chose this
moment to burst through the
door. Her gaze flickered across
the two of us and came to rest on
the photograph stranded in the
chasm between us.
“Oh, Jesus, James, what have
you done?”
“Nothing! I —”
“Get out! Just get away from
him. Let me deal with it.”
“Gill —”
“Go!”
I’d like to think that I didn’t slink
away, but at that moment the
only thing dangling between my
legs was a tail. I paused in the
hallway to try and regain some
composure, some semblance of
dignity. I could hear Gill’s soothing
voice as my dad’s subsided to
a rhythmic weeping like waves
lapping a shore. Finally, I fumbled
my way through the fire doors
and slumped back into the chair
I’d recently vacated. Mercifully,
Gladys was nowhere to be seen.
An hour later, Gillian reappeared,
holding the photo at her side. She
came across, sat in Gladys’s chair
and dropped the photo on my lap.
“I’m sorry,” she sighed, “it’s my
fault. I completely forgot about the
letters. I should’ve told you.”
“What? You mean you knew
about them? Since when?”
“When we moved him into the
home. We were going through
his belongings, y’know, boxing
up stuff and dropping it off at the
hospice shop, mostly chucking
stuff out though. Alan found the
letters bundled in a pile shoved to
the back of a high shelf in Dad’s
wardrobe. He showed them to
me; I showed them to Dad.”
“I bet that went down a treat.
I hope you twisted the knife. He
was such a shit to Mum and then
he went and did this behind her
back.” I was indignant, angry with
him. Then something occurred to
me.
“Why the hell did you let him
keep them? In a bloody safety
deposit box, too, for God’s sake!”
“They weren’t mine to toss
away,” Gill replied. She reached
across and touched my knee.
“James, I think you have this all
wrong.”
“Wrong?” I pointed at the fire
doors. “I just find out the only
person that … man … has ever
cared about has nothing to do
with this family? I can’t believe
you’re sticking up for him.”
“You know nothing about him,
and you’re his son,” she chided.
“Did it never occur to you to
wonder why Mum and Dad were
married and I was born in the
same year?
I couldn’t remember the year
they were married. Why would I
want to know that?
“Dad got Mum pregnant. She
didn’t want to marry him, but
Grandma and Grandad made
them go through with it. I think
Mum wanted a career and, well,
I put paid to that dream. Dad told
me they tried to make a go of it
early on; you were born, I don’t
think Rosie was planned, but
there we were. Dad was unhappy,
Mum was unhappy, and in the
end they both knew it.
Then Dad met Virginia. I don’t
know how or when it started — he
never told me — but over a year or
so, it apparently developed into a
full-blown love affair. James, you
ought to have seen him when he
spoke about her. He was just so
intense, so alive, I’ve never seen
him like that before.”
“He could at least have told
Mum,” I sniped.
“That’s just it. He did. They had
this big argument. He told Mum
he’d met another woman and
he wanted out. He was going
to marry Virginia. Mum flat out
refused to grant him a divorce.
The church didn’t sanction it,
so why should she? And what
about the three of us? Dad said
she pulled out all the stops. So he
stayed, for our sakes, that’s what
he said. Mum wouldn’t sleep with
him after that. She wouldn’t let
him go but wouldn’t let him get

TTB / SHORT STORIES
near her.”
I was stunned. “I always thought it was him.”
“Yeah, well, they did a pretty good job of hiding it
from us.”
“I used to think he was just a bitter old bugger when
I was growing up,” I admitted. “Still, if he was any sort
of man, he could’ve just said ‘Screw you’ and gone.
That’s what I would have done in his shoes.”
Gill smiled at me. “One spectacularly failed marriage
later and you’re suddenly a marriage guidance
counsellor?” Checkmate.
“Besides, there was nothing to go to.” She picked up
the photo and gazed at it. “This was the last photo she
mailed him. He’d told her he couldn’t get a divorce.
She hanged herself shortly afterwards.” She looked
back at me and tears well in her eyes. “So this was all
he had left.”
I felt sick, clammy. I shut my eyes and squeezed the
bridge of my nose, took a long, slow breath and held
it.
“Does Rosie know about this as well?”
“No. I think that whenever Dad would look at us, he’d
see in us the choices he’d made but he’d made them
for us and not for him. No need for Rosie to have to
live with that.”
“Thanks,” I said, “Just you and me then.”
We sat together silently, digesting the past,
rearranging the jigsaw to fit the new pattern. Gill
reached across, patted my cheek affectionately and
slipped the photo back into my pocket.
“You’ve still got the key. Perhaps you can put this
back.”
I thought of my dad, weeping inconsolably at those
memories of what could have been which continued
to resist the onslaught of dementia. How much longer
did he have?
“How was he, after I left, I mean?”
“Best you don’t come back for a while. Give him
some time to forget what you did.”
“Not my fault.”
“No, no, not your fault.”
I left without saying goodbye. Can’t say when I’ll be
back.
Alan Cumming has been writing
since 1986 and has published a
trilogy of because in 2012, and
you can really tell that he enjoys
the art. The subject matter of his
entry, “Father and Son,” where an
aging father is being committed
to a home by his children, is
difficult and painful, but Alan’s
keen eye for human emotions captures the many
layers of this interaction and frames it for the readers
in a very real way.
www.inksandbindings.com
13

TTB / AUTHOR’S FOCUS
Selves?
Have We
Found Our
Better
HAVE WE FOUND OUR BETTER
SELVES? is a follow-up to a “survival”
book that was written during the
first three months of the COVID-19
Pandemic. With over a year and a
half of living with the COVID-19 virus
and with the probability of COVID-19
finally being under control, this book
helps all of us step back and take a
look at how we have thought and
acted during the months and months
of pandemic. Ask yourself, “Am I just
trying to forget the whole thing as if it
were just a nightmare? Or, are there
things I have learned about myself
and my family that are important
now and in the future? What new
skills have I learned? Are there ways
I think about and treat other people
that have changed? Do I like myself
better? Am I finding my better self?
Am I also helping each person in my
family find their better selves?
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“
template that Covid has imposed.
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MERIL R. SMITH grew up at the
end of World War II with children of
migrant farm workers, with children
born in the Japanese internment
camps, and with children of day
laborers and blue-collars workers.
Poverty, recessions, and helping
each other were all basic parts of
surviving in his childhood world.
“
... a manual for now and the
future, providing intelligent,
practical guidance for all
concerned with the new lifestyle
- Barbara Bamberger Scott,
The US Review of Books
HAVE WE FOUND OUr
BETTER SELVES?
TTB / AUTHOR’S FOCUS
Living through the times of the
Berlin Wall, epidemics of polio,
measles, mumps, rubella, whooping cough,
and chickenpox, economic recessions, the
assassination of President Kennedy, the space
race, the development of Silicon Valley, the
Vietnam War, and the tragedy of 9/11 have
all fueled Meril’s passion for understanding
people and events.
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15

TTB / BOOK HIGHLIGHT
The book is about being touched by one
true living God, that is Jesus, and how life
is like in the hands of Jesus. Walking with a
living God changes the entire perspective
of life on this earth. The constant worry
about death and dying once upon a time
was comforted by the Lord Jesus Himself. In
summary, He gave the author a new life with
a destiny to fulfill on this earth, the ability
to live in the presence of God 24/7, and a
promise of eternal life. The author is fully in
love with the Lord Jesus, and the book was
birth at the appointed time from the Lord as
a gift to the world.
Ever since a young
teenager, the author
was keen on the
subject of God and
His existence. There
were many burning
questions about
human existence and
God and what life is
all about. In the midst of being born into a
family with strong faith, the author was yet
searching for God. The hunger went on for
many years due to the fear that everyone
will die one day and where they will go after
that. Born and raised surrounded by many
faiths, the author was keen on learning
about the other faiths with the hope one day
the author will meet God. The search ended
when the one true living God touches the
author on an unexpected, ordinary day, and
ever since then life took a 180-degree turn,
and the rest is history.
The reason for writing this book is to
reach people walking in my shoes. The
author wanted to announce to the world
that there is a living God. By writing this
book, the good news of the gospel can
be delivered. The book also stands as a
testimony to the world that Jesus saves and
He gives a new life once you are born again.
The inspiration was the Holy Spirit that is
in the author’s life. The Lord gave the author
a season of writing, and this book was
produced simply by obeying that voice.
The target audience is everyone that can
read from any age and is interested in the
subject of God and human life. Additionally,
this book was written to reach people in
areas where the good news is not being
heard. The Lord Jesus said in Matthew 24:
14, “And this gospel of the kingdom will be
preached in all the world as a witness to
all the nations, and then the end will come.”
Therefore, this book can be well served
to deliver the message of Jesus to the
unreachable places in the world.
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LIFE IN THE HANDS
OF
JESUS
b y S H A R M I L A P A N I R S E L V A M
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Where is the
Justice?
Second Edition
William F. Hill
I have always felt that we have greatest country in
the world. It has always given me great pleasure
to see honest, hardworking people and who are
willing to take risks to get ahead and succeed. I
always felt that this was that America got to be
great and that we all should be working hard to
help improve our own lives and the lives of others
by carrying on this great American tradition. As a
result of being brought up with this thinking, I am
more than willing to go out of my way to try to
help people succeed and obtain their goals. To see
people succeed in their life’s goals and ambitions
has always been very gratifying to me and given
me a good feeling.
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The End Of The
Closet
Vincent R. Petrucci
The story talks about a young boy who spends a
lot of time at his Nonno and Nonna’s house growing
up. It is a farm and he is always busy there with
his cousins and grandparents. He loves adventure.
The book illustrates how a young boy lives on his
family’s farm. His everyday life one summer and
enjoying being with his family. The comfort of love
that turns into a mystery, the book leaves a person
wondering what happened. There are several
allegory meanings throughout the short story.
18
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Simple Man’S
Dreams: Stories of
the Hunt
Victor Scarinzi
Victor Scarinzi, a self-described Italian redneck,
shares stories that range from daydreaming as a boy,
to getting into trouble as a teenager, to learning the
lessons of adulthood in this collection of memoirs.
It was by spending time in nature that he became
convinced that there must be a God, because
who else could create the wonderful woods, lakes,
mountains, swamps, deserts, and animals that you see
in the outdoors? Fishing, hunting, thinking of faraway
places, sorting out his dreams, and planning his
future usually with a dog tagging along by his side are
some of what he treasures most. The stories will no
doubt make you think of your own happy memories
in nature and inspire you to protect the outdoors and
all that is in it. Join a simple man as he shares simple
dreamsmany of which hes accomplishedand thers
that he hasnt given up on yet.
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I Remember
Running: Sequel to
It Is Morning
Vernon Bargainer
Young Lorrie Dean did it all for love—and now, she’s
running for her life. When she learns that Andy,
her childhood sweetheart, is searching for her, she
makes the bold choice to find her. Trouble is, she
is in the witness protection program, and for good
reason. As soon as she surfaces, her enemies rush
in for revenge.
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From a Distance
Vernon Bargainer
Nineteen-year-old Sarah Lock is on a desperate
run for safety. As she sits behind the wheel of a
stolen truck and speeds away from Dallas, Texas,
she knows the battle is not over. Emotionally
devastated, Sarah watched helplessly as her
dream of finding someone to love her despite her
shame—despite the wounds of a humiliating stigma
thrust upon her as a child—shatters before her
eyes.
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At the Feet of Angels
Vernon Bargainer
This is the tale of Jenny Burnett, a young child,
kidnapped by her uncle and sold on the black
market to a childless couple. It is the compelling
drama of Jenny’s endless pining for her real
mother, of her instinctive, yet daring, attempts
to escape, of growing abuse at the hands of her
adoptive mother, and of the hapless efforts of a
sympathetic but inept adoptive father. It is a story
of the child’s quest for salvation in her play, in the
enduring friendship she strikes with a little neighbor
boy she never gets to see, and in daydreams of
angels and fairies she wills into the sky above her
prison playground
20
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It Is Morning
Vernon Bargainer
Twenty years ago, young Andy Boone shared an
absorbing and unforgettable experience with his
fifth-grade sweetheart. Now, laden with sadness
and guilt, he searched in vain for the young woman
and her family. The search begins when he crashes
his car into a prairie fence in East Texas one rainy
April morning in 1992. Little does he know that this
chance blunder is destined to have repercussions
far beyond the deep scratches on the rear of his
car. Inexplicably, he will be drawn back to this spot
again and again.
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Airplane Stories
and Histories
Norman Currey
AIRPLANE STORIES AND HISTORIES chronicles two
hundred years of aviation highlights including the
exploits of pioneers such as Sir George Cayley, the
Wright brothers, Charles Lindbergh, Wiley Post,
Amelia Earheart, R. J. Mitchell, Sir Geoffrey de
Havilland, Allan Loughead, Frank Whittle, and Kelly
Johnson. Notable events and developments are
discussed, first Atlantic flights, World War airplanes,
jet engine development and post-war dedesigns. It
concludes with a discussion of new designs…
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PAPERBACK | $ 6.99
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Have We Found Our
Better Selves?:
(What We Can Learn from Covid-19)
Meril R. Smith
HAVE WE FOUND OUR BETTER SELVES? is a followup
to a “survival” book that was written during the
first three months of the COVID-19 Pandemic. With
over a year and a half of living with the COVID-19
virus and with the probability of COVID-19 finally
being under control, this book helps all of us step
back and take a look at how we have thought and
acted during the months and months of pandemic.
Ask yourself, “Am I just trying to forget the whole
thing as if it were just a nightmare? Or, are there
things I have learned about myself and my family
that are important now and in the future? What
new skills have I learned? Are there ways I think
about and treat other people that have changed?
Do I like myself better? Am I finding my better self?
Am I also helping each person in my family find
their better selves?
PAPERBACK | $ 10.99
EBOOK | $ 1.99
Out of Habit
Kathleen Dutton
Since the age of ten, Allison Weston has lived
under the sheltering arms of the nuns at St. Ives
Institution. Sister Margaret, Allie’s guardian, is
concerned that Allie is hiding from the nightmares
of a tragic childhood. So after Allie’s college
graduation, Margaret insists that Allie experience
life outside the institution before taking her vows.
In Allie, rookie reporter Ryan Harper suspects
secrets so dark that he hungers to break the
story. But he doesn’t bargain on falling in love and
struggles with the delicate balance of unleashing
the torment of Allie’s past without breaking her in
the process.
With Ryan’s unyielding support, Allie discovers the
courage to face the shattering truth of her past and
change the things we do strictly... OUT OF HABIT.
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Kaleidoscope of
Being
Jennifer Toth
Kaleidoscope of Being is my spiritual
journey with the Lord through the
ups and downs of Bipolar Disorder as
well as life in general. God and nature
play main roles in seeing me through
this illness every day in every way.
Welcome to my world.
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From Homeless
to Heaven
Jeanne Ann Off
Usually Cody Cambres had to do ranch work alone
in the winter. However, he had a standing order
with an employment agency for an employee. One
winter he was surprised to get a call saying a man
would be on the bus that evening. Alan told Cody
that he wanted a job and a warm place to sleep
instead of living outdoors as a homeless man. Alan
had refused to stay in any mission shelter because
of life experiences involving religion. He does
enjoy ranch work. In the spring Cody and Alan are
checking cows and the calves born that spring
when a bullet hits Alan. Later a bullet from the same
rifle kills Cody’s best horse. Fire begins on Cody’s
ranch and spreads. Aimi’s house burns down and
Aimi’s husband is murdered by a bullet from the
same rifle. Alan helps both Cody and Aimi with
ranch work. Friendship develops.
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Cowboy on the
Wrong Train
Jeanne Ann Off
“Jeanne Ann Off has written a combination cattleranching
murder mystery, which is enhanced
by being dialogue-driven. Exposition is kept to
a minimum except to explain some of the beekeeping
intricacies. It has a fast-paced plot that
never drags. Even the cattle-raising scenes are
informative. When a young (18-year-old) cowboy’s
curiosity gets him on a stopped train in the middle
of nowhere while looking for stray cattle and he is
kidnapped, the action gets even more exciting.
“ Throw in a little bit about bees and beetles, and
you have a well-rounded story. And of course,
there’s the boy-girl buddy relationship. The book
could have used some basic punctuation editing,
but there’s nothing serious enough to distract the
reader.
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Acid and Bribery
Jeanne Ann Off
Tomar El Oro, the stakes winning three-year-old
American Quarter Horse stallion favored to win
the race, unexpectedly lost miserably. Having
overheard a conversation that suggested bribery,
Kelsey Kelley wondered if her best friend’s father,
Eustacio Rios, was bribed to lose.
While Kelsey searched for clues, her father, who
had deserted his family, arrived wanting to make
amends, much to Kelsey’s disgust. Kelsey learned
to accept both disappointment and success as she
was caught by the intrigue and personal danger,
while dealing Pete Kelley’s sudden new involvement
in her life.
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Where Poetry
Dwells
Connie Holt
Born in Belfast, Tennessee.
I have loved writing since
the age of ten. Writing is a
good encouragement for
thoughts and imaginations,
building blocks for strong
faith and love. Before there
is a book, it is merely gaining
life experience. Love for
my husband, who has
passed away two years
ago and privilege of kids,
grandchildren, who I love
and they love me.
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101 Shades
of Clay: Vol I
Genesis
Catherine Elizabeth Clay
Catherine Elizabeth Clay was born
on June 1st and lives in Los Angeles
with her teenage son. She lives with
a brain tumor you get to age with,
an arachnoid cyst, over her pituitary
gland that caused her to come
so hard she hit the ceiling. “The
Gentle Art of Female Ejaculation
AKA How to Fuck Like a Porn Star”
OneOpinionatedBitch.Com/I/love/
sex was written in 1997 for “the
Post Feminist Playground” for the
naysayers of the power of the pussy
and Skene’s gland that caused a
girl to “squirt”. “Resistance Training
(pushing down on someone when
they are inside you) grows both
muscles to give you a better sex life.
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What the
Bible Really
Tells Us
Adrian Benard
So many of us grow up being
constantly reminded about an allforgiving,
merciful, and beneficent
deity. All throughout life, it can
even be drummed into us that we
cannot live happy, purposeful lives
without a heavenly father who
protects us and grants our wishes
through prayer. And if things don’t
go according to plan, then we
are simply told that God works in
mysterious ways! But what if we
have more questions? What if these
things we are being told, taught,
and even sold just don’t live up to
expectation?
www.inksandbindings.com
25
Book is available for purchase at
the following distribution partners:

TTB / AUTHOR’S FOCUS
Acid and Bribery
PAPERBACK | $9.99
EBOOK | $ 3.99
Tomar El Oro, the stakes winning three-year-old American
Quarter Horse stallion favored to win the race, unexpectedly
lost miserably. Having overheard a conversation that suggested
bribery, Kelsey Kelley wondered if her best friend’s father,
Eustacio Rios, was bribed to lose.
While Kelsey searched for clues,v her father, who had deserted
his family, arrived wanting to make amends, much to Kelsey’s
disgust. Kelsey learned to accept both disappointment and success as she was caught by
the intrigue and personal danger, while dealing Pete Kelley’s sudden new involvement in
her life.
the ticketbooth magazine
26

TTB / AUTHOR’S FOCUS
Kelsey is a sixteen-year-old girl who loves horses and is
lucky enough to work at a racetrack. When her favorite
horse is the victim of an attempt to end his racing
career forever, Kelsey races into action to discover who
is trying to shut down Derbyrun Downs. Along with her
best friend, Saira, Kelsey hurries to solve the mystery
before more racehorses are hurt. When the girls get
too close to finding answers, they begin to worry they
may become the next victims.
While Kelsey’s job at the racetrack is all about horses,
her life is not. Whether she’s snooping for suspects or
going to the movie theatre with her friends, Kelsey is an
incredibly relatable character. She’s just a teenage girl;
she makes poor decisions that her mother has to help
her out of, she worries about whether the cute security
guard wants to go out with her, and she struggles to
forgive her previously absent father and his new wife.
Saira also works at the racetrack, and gives Kelsey
lessons in horseback riding and speaking Spanish. The
best girlfriends get into trouble and get out of it with
the help of their friends and families. Together the two
are a dynamic duo who work hard and play hard.
As an author, Jeanne Ann Off creates a suspenseful
mystery with all the makings of a young adult hit. Acid
& Bribery is fun, fast and might actually teach the
reader something about the racehorse industry. Off’s
effort at realism separates her novel from scores of
pony-in-the-bedroom books, and appeals to readers
with mud on their boots and horse hair permanently
installed in the lining of their jacket. The only obstacle
to Acid & Bribery‘s place in the winner’s circle are a
number of significant punctuation and grammatical
errors. This issue can become distracting at times from
the actual story.
Acid & Bribery takes readers behind the barns at the
racetrack, through the eyes of sixteen-year-old Kelsey.
We cheer with her as her horses cross the finish line,
and we cheer for her when the cute security guard
finally asks her on a date. Kelsey is an adventurous
teenage girl who dreams big and works hard to
achieve her goal of becoming a racehorse trainer.
She’s a good role model, and the best friend you could
ever want to guide you through the mystery of Acid &
Bribery. Overall, I did enjoy the book as a whole. The
storyline was a great idea and the characters have
potential to be favorites. For anyone that likes to get
lost in a story, I would recommend Acid & Briberyby
Jeanne Ann Off.
-Allison Walker, Pacific Book Review
With so many stories filled with action and adventure
in faraway lands, it’s sometimes easy to forget that
a story more grounded in reality can still be just as
entertaining. A title like Acid and Bribery doesn’t give
you much to go on, but it does offer some mystery
and mystique. Though this is a primarily human story
focusing on the behind-the-scenes relationships at a
horse track, there is little acid and bribery to spice up
the story.
The story follows Kelsey, a young woman who cares
for horses at Derbyrun Downs. Horses are falling sick
in the stalls, including Kelsey’s favored horse Tomar
el Oro and it may not be as natural as they initially
thought. While Kelsey is trying to figure out what has
happened to Tomar and other horses, she also has to
deal with a father who has recently returned to her life,
her growing interest in romance, and a potential threat
to her life. For the horses’ sake and to keep herself
safe, she must figure out who is behind all the turmoil
behind the scenes at the track.
Author Jeanne Ann Off is an imaginative writer who
tells a compelling story about a topic that many would
find pedestrian. Readers will find themselves invested
in the mystery surrounding Derbyrun Downs and all
the chaos in Kelsey’s life, which is a direct result of Off’s
writing style. One of the many significant strengths of
this book is that there is no fluff, not a single wasted
word. The book is still a perfect length, leading
readers to feel like they got a fulfilling story that leaves
everything on the table. The book ends with the first
chapter of Off’s next book, which will excite readers
who are fans of her writing style.
Usually, horse stories are marketed toward a
specific group, but this is truly a story for everyone.
It does tackle some mature content, but it does
it in a way that is not graphic, opening up a larger
audience for the story. Jeanne Ann Off found a great
niche and spun a great tale with Acid and Bribery, and
readers should look forward to anything else on which
she is currently working.
-Arthur Thares, The Hollywood Review
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27

TTB / AUTHOR’S FOCUS
Cowboy on the
Wrong Train:
Mouse with a Clue
PAPERBACK | $12.99
EBOOK | $ 3.99
This is Jeanne’s second book. The first was Acid and
Bribery, also a young adult mystery. Cowboy on the
Wrong Train is a fictional story based on Jeanne’s
experience growing up in Colorado Middle Park
cattle ranch and her imagination. It is a mystery for
young adults, all mystery readers, those interested
in ranch life and those who like reading novels
without profanity.
the ticketbooth magazine
28

TTB / AUTHOR’S FOCUS
Cowboy on
the Wrong Train:
Mouse with a Clue,
author Jeanne Ann Off
gives readers an endearing and
suspenseful tale of mystery in a novel
which could be classified as a coming-ofage
western, and a morality tale. Although
set in modern times, these characters
and this story harkens back to simpler times,
underscored by the hard work ethic of the ranch, a
nostalgic nod to earlier pioneering times of the west, and
a spiritual message of goodness and Christian fellowship. This
might be neatly classified as young adult fiction, but older readers
will also appreciate the suspense, the relatable characters, and the
deeper spiritual meanings that augment and even help drive the plot.
Ty Grenshaw is a modest young ranch worker, living in small-town, Gully,
Colorado. He prides himself on hard work and loyalty to the woman he loves:
Patti Dileo. He is an unassuming man and, in the end, a reluctant hero. Patti, a young
agent at Gully Real Estate, has brought out-of-state investors in to purchase a
ranch. This group, led by the mysterious “Skeet,” seems legitimate at first. But when
they are implicated in the murder of a local man, the simple life in this small town
is upended. Ty, his friend George, and Patti go on about their work, all the while
cautiously sifting for clues to unravel the real story behind the murder and these
strange outsiders.
While searching for missing cattle, Ty ends up literally in the wrong place at the
wrong time. However, his brushes with real danger enlighten him in more ways than
one. The author builds the suspense quite well, always keeping the reader and the
protagonists guessing. Ty and Patti learn of a “Secret Organization” whose radical
aims not only threaten their lives but their way of life; their cultural heritage. Add
to that a mystenous young girl, named Nirvana, living in the forest, and you have
mysteries begetting more mysteries. So, what seems like a small coup by the Skeetled
cabal turns out to have much larger political and cultural implications. As these
plots thicken, Patti undergoes a spiritual awakening mirroring TVs awakening to the
cruel realities of the real world outside the quaintness of their small town.
This story really is a page-turner because of the action and suspense-driven plot.
The author’s knowledge of ranch life and command of Biblical scriptures shine as
the foundations of the novel. She even provides a glossary of Biblical quotes. The
Christian themes give this mystery more depth and resonance because Patti’s and
TVs spiritual awakening parallels their growing awareness of the conspiratorial
threats to their very way of life. In the end, will the rnystery be solved? That wont
be spoiled here, but I will say that this novel has some solid suspense and moral
insights, giving readers a charming story with more than subtle hints at grander,
spiritual significance.
-Jason Lulos, Hollywood Review
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29

TTB / AUTHOR’S FOCUS
the ticketbooth magazine
Author Jeanne Ann Off’s From Homeless to
Heaven is, in its very title as well as its narrative,
a kind of rags to riches story. It centers around
a formerly homeless man, Alan Washburn, who
chooses to work on a Colorado ranch, instead of
living in a homeless shelter. However, the “riches”
Washburn experiences are far more of the
spiritual variety than monetary kind. Although he
arrived with little physical baggage when he went
to live with and work for Cody Chambers, he still
carried much emotional baggage.
Washburn liked almost everything about the job and
the outdoors environment at Chambers’ cattle ranch.
He was a natural when it came to performing physical
labor, and what he didn’t already know how to do,
he learned to do quickly. Washburn and Chambers
made a fine team and developed a symbiotic working
relationship. Even so, Washburn brought some heavy
unseen baggage with him to his new role. You see, the
Chambers family (of a husband, wife and small son),
were loyal churchgoing Christians. At first, Washburn
resisted Cody Chambers’ church invitations. Washburn
had had some bad experiences with church in the past
and simply didn’t have room for any religion in his life.
The book’s author, Jeanne Ann Off, has a Bachelor of
Science degree from Colorado State University and
a Bible College degree from Faith Bible Institute. This
science education shows through on some of the
book’s more technical sections, while her Bible studies
come into play whenever the Bible or theology are
discussed in the book.
As a family of faith, the Chambers do it right when
it comes to ‘being a witness’ to their employee/
guest. Although Cody is quick to provide an answer
whenever Washburn asks God-related questions, he’s
not the type of man to ever push his faith on another.
Instead of constantly thumping Washburn with his
Bible, so to speak, Cody and his family show their faith
in the way they live their lives, instead. Washburn and
the Chambers face many hardships – both natural
and human-made – throughout the story. In all these
situations, though, the Chambers exemplify doing the
right thing, which is not always the easy thing.
One of Washburn’s biggest trials is his continuing
encounters with his ex-wife, who has become a thorn
in his side. He discovers that he impregnated his wife
before they separated, which leads him to request
and receive full custody of his young son. He also
eventually comes to Christian faith. Furthermore, he
falls in love with a recently widowed neighbor named
Aimi, and they are married before book’s end.
A big part of Off’s story is watching Washburn evolve
from an angry, formerly homeless and recently
divorced man, into a more spiritually centered family
man. It is encouraging to watch Washburn’s life change
– for the better. The message of the Gospel is that
Christ died for all, and that nobody – no matter what
bad things they’ve done in life – is ever completely
out of God’s reach. Off tells this story by including
appropriate scripture references whenever these are
appropriate. This book is Christian-focused, without
ever becoming overly preachy.
From a Christian worldview, even folks living in the
nicest homes are essentially still homeless. Yes, Alan
Washburn was physically homeless, but he wasn’t all
the way home until he found his heavenly home with
his Christian brothers and sisters. It’s also worth noting
that Washburn wasn’t promised some ‘pie in the sky’
salvation by the Chambers family. They helped him
find joy and peace right here on Earth, long before his
earthly life ended.
All things may not always be good, but with a little faith,
they do eventually work together for the good. This is
the message of Jeanne Ann Off’s encouraging story.
-Dan MacIntosh, Pacific Book Review
30

TTB / AUTHOR’S FOCUS
From Homeless to Heaven
PAPERBACK | $9.99
EBOOK | $ 3.99
Usually Cody Cambres had to do ranch work alone in the winter.
However, he had a standing order with an employment agency for an
employee. One winter he was surprised to get a call saying a man would
be on the bus that evening. Alan told Cody that he wanted a job and a
warm place to sleep instead of living outdoors as a homeless man. Alan
had refused to stay in any mission shelter because of life experiences
involving religion. He does enjoy ranch work. In the spring Cody and
Alan are checking cows and the calves born that spring when a bullet
hits Alan. Later a bullet from the same rifle kills Cody’s best horse. Fire
begins on Cody’s ranch and spreads. Aimi’s house burns down and
Aimi’s husband is murdered by a bullet from the same rifle. Alan helps
both Cody and Aimi with ranch work. Friendship develops.
JEANNE
ANN
OFF
JEANNE ANN OFF has a Bachelor
of Science degree from Colorado
State University and a Bible College
degree from Faith Bible Institute. She
also took a writing course from the
Institute of Children’s Literature. She’s
married to her wonderful husband
Don Off, and they celebrated their
64th wedding anniversary in 2021.
Both of them grew up on Western
Colorado cattle ranches. 31
www.inksandbindings.com

THIRTEEN
STEPS
Victor Cino
the ticketbooth magazine
32
For three weeks now, Luke had listened to her screams, but
on this night, one of her screams was an excruciating, shrill
scream which forced him to muffle his ears. He could not
stand her pain any longer, and so Luke lifted himself weakly
and painfully from his den leather chair, took his cane and
walked with slow steps over to his walnut desk.
Outside, Vermont snow lay icy and crusted over the grass of
his front yard, tall oak and maple trees stood barren of leaves,
and he could see not a living soul. The sun began its evening
descent to the horizon behind dark, gray clouds. Trickles of
tears dripped down his cheek. It was time he thought.
He opened the front drawer of his desk and pulled out the
snub nose .32 caliber pistol he had kept there since New York,
fully loaded but never used. He held the gun in his hand and
wondered if he was about to do the right thing. Just then he

heard his wife scream again, a long scream this time
which she could not control, her cancer tearing oked up
to the second floor and once again counted thwe steps. It
was his habit as he grew older to count them to measure
his progress, for it was painful to climb those steps; but
now, he knew he would not mind the pain he would suffer
climbing them.
With great difficulty he grabbed the bannister and
began to climb with cane still on his arm and gun in hand.
Crouching down he lifted his legs each step up the steps,
his mission in mind, the gun in his hand shaking. It was
not easy for him to walk the thirteen steps, but he did not
mind the pain.
He recalled the first time he had noticed her, her house
across the way from his. How old were they he thought?
No more than three. He watched her golden hair fly as she
mounted her tricycle and rode up and down the sidewalk,
smiling and laughing and screaming with joy as she rode
her tricycle laughing and screaming with joy as her legs
pedaled faster and faster. He knew even then he loved her.
There was no getting around it. He loved her.
Was this memory perhaps a figment of his imagination?
He could not remember, but it was so encased in his mind
that after all those years, the memory became a reality.
He smiled through his tears as he continued his climb,
carefully measuring every step to avoid a fall.
And now they were both very old, wrinkled, weak,
thinning bones, shrinking bodies, closer to death than
ever before, and she would be gone once he reached the
last step, walked into their bedroom and shot her.
He thought again how he loved her from that first
moment and how over the years she had saved him so
many times. How could he kill her after she cared for
him as if she were his guardian angel. And as he climbed
the steps he knew the memory of that moment was real,
not fictitious, and wondered how strange it was for him
to remember her tricycle ride so distant in time, but
still there strong in his mind. Tears flowed freely as he
thought that he would now be killing this child who had
became his guardian, his wife, his love for all his life.
The third step found him thinking of second grade
There was Laura watching with her hand to her mouth
as Biff held him face down, pushing his face to the floor.
Luke recalled how he could barely breathe. He kept
gasping for air and face down he saw Laura, her hand
to her mouth, terrified at what Biff was doing to him and
enjoying Luke’s suffering. He looked up and smiled at
Laura, then laughed. He pounded Luke in the head and
laughed again. That was enough for Laura.
She looked around to see what she could find and there
it was, a heavy metal basket full of debris.
She picked up the basket, dumped the garbage, and with
clenched teeth ran over to Biff and smashed it against
his head again and again. Biff screamed. He let Luke
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33

TTB / SHORT STORIES
the ticketbooth magazine
34
go and felt his head which bled
from a deep cut. Blood flowed
freely down his neck. He got up
screaming and ran down the
school hall with Laura in pursuit.
She stopped when he turned the
corner, turned to Luke, ran back
and lifted him from the floor.
“Let’s go before anyone sees us.”
She looked at his head. No blood.
She smiled. She took his hand and
leading him, ran down the hall
the opposite way of Biff and out
the door of the school; and then
she laughed, that same laugh he
recognized when she was three
with blonde hair flowing riding
her tricycle.
“He’s not chasing us now. We’re
safe!” She laughed and held his
hand, the hand he now held the
gun with. He recalled that time
when she saved him from getting
beat up by Biff.
He could not recall what step he
was on but rested. He was tired.
He thought he was halfway up
the steps, but he needed rest, and
so he paused, and suddenly he
recalled how he never needed
rest when he played soccer at
Colgate. He recalled how the
coach pulled him from the field
and had asked him if he was tired.
“Tired? No sir. I feel great. Can I go
back in?”
And as he climbed the thirteen
steps, he thought of Laura on
that Saturday afternoon as he
played soccer at Colgate. Just a
few students watching his game.
He could hear the crowd from
the football stadium, and knew
Laura was there watching her
boyfriend, the star quarterback
for Colgate.
It was cold and his heart was
breaking, knowing she was
there just a few yards away,
watching her boyfriend. He ran
hard. He ignored the cold , felt no
pain when he smashed against
Syracuse players and knocked
them down.
But his heart was breaking, his
pain almost intolerable, warm
with love for her, but breaking
from pain. That was love all right!
Painful if not returned, and
breaking as easily as a cold twig
in winter, for he knew Laura was
not a few hundred yards away
watching the Colgate-Syracuse
football game.
Luke knew she was dating the
star quarterback for Colgate. She
was in the stands at the game, no
doubt. He ran hard not to think of
her, but it was no use. No amount
of running could end the pain in
his heart.
There was a sidekick and action
paused. He could hear the roar
of the crowd of 30,000 at the
football game, and his heart sunk
deeper. He looked for her, but she
was not there.
And then the soccer ball fell out
of bounds and he ran to retrieve
it, and when he looked up, there
she was, smiling , clapping her
hands and waving to him! He
smiled and waved back! She
shocked him, and then he knew
she loved him and they would
be together! That was Laura, his
great love. And once again she
saved him from the pain breaking
his heart, saved him from despair,
and saved him one more time.
That was Laura!
He wiped tears from his eyes
and smiled at one of the great
moments of his life, a moment he
would never forget. He knew that
Laura had given up the Colgate
quarterback for him. At the half,
he went over to kiss her, cold
cheeks, warm lips, tasty , sweet
and loving.
And he loved her still as he held
the gun in his hand, pausing to
rest. He lifted himself up gingerly,
and began his climb shaking his
head and gritting his teeth. Laura
screamed again, and Luke gave
out a frightful sound of his own
knowing what was to come. Could
he do it? He was not certain. He
would know when he reached the
top of the steps, walked into their
bedroom and saw her lying there.
Then he would know.
He felt a chill run through his
body. He suffered a bad cold the
past winter. but there she was.
They loved Vermont but the air
was cold, damp and wet, the sky
cloudy most of the time, and his
solace then was the fireplace
as he shivered, and Laura. She
placed a wool blanket over him,
put a large cup of hot cider there
for him to drink, the cider she
made which warmed his heart,
warmed his body and saved him
from fever, pneumonia. Once
again, Laura had saved him. And
now he was about to kill her.
Flames from the fireplace
flickered and danced across her
face and she leaned over and
kissed Luke, and it was always
for him a kiss as if their first kiss,
warm and moist. In winter Laura
kept the house warm and he was
happy, at peace, and filled with
love for her, for she cared for all
his needs.
And when early spring reached
the mountaintop where their
house stood, Luke held Laura
in early morning, when cool
clouds overhead finally gave way
to sunshine and tiny droplets on
the grass began to dry, he went
out to the porch with Laura, his
body free of wet air. He held her
close for she had saved him once
again, and he loved her there
on the porch in early morning,
looking out with her over the vast

TTB / SHORT STORIES
expanse of one hundred acres
they owned.
And beyond their land, peaks
of tall mountains were covered
in clouds which moved ever so
slowly. She brought him coffee and
toast and leaned over and kissed
him, and he wondered about her
beauty and whether Laura was
more beautiful than the grass now
dry, the tall mountains now free
of clouds and sky so blue, or the
rays of sunlight which rose ever
so slowly above the horizon. Laura
was more beautiful than all of
these. And he thought again how
she had saved him.
It was good to move away from
New York. Bad memories and bad
times.
Back then she waited for him
late at night until one in the
morning. He went into their
bedroom quietly not to wake her,
but there she was , light on and
reading, and with just an icy look
from sad blue eyes. her blonde
hair lying loose on her pillow, sat
up, placed her book on the pillow
next to her, and exposed him.
He knew the jig was up. She
was calm and Luke was terrified.
What was she about to say?
Would she throw him out? Worse,
divorce him? But she did not
shout; instead, she spoke calmly.
“You’re drunk. I can smell you
from here. Your suit is wrinkled,
and your tie is barely hanging
around your neck, a tie, which
right now I would like to strangle
you with.” She sat up in bed and
stared at him coldly.
“I don’t know where you were,
or what you were doing, or who
you were with, and I just don’t
want to know because I love you
and we all make mistakes, but,
don’t make any more mistakes
if we are going to last, and if you
want me to still love you. No more
mistakes. Understand?”
She leaned over, turned out
the light, and he stood there in
the dark ashamed of himself for
the terrible mistake he had done.
He had almost lost Laura, almost
lost her. She was right. His heart
was pounding. But in one brief
moment, she had forgiven him
and saved their love.
He sighed as he reached the
sixth step. She had saved their
marriage, and then sometime
later, he recalled again when she
gave birth to their young child,
barely able to breath, with lungs
so small it was clear to them he
would not survive.
He held her hand when her
doctor stood there and told them
quietly that her baby had died.
Laura gripped his hand and
looked at him, with grief on her
face as if etched in stone.
She did not cry but grasped his
hand and held it tight. No tears
for her; but he was not so strong.
He fell to his knees sobbing
uncontrollably.
“Get up, now!” She said. ” You
must be strong. You must! For us
you must be strong.”
He slowly rose, held her hand
and let no more tears fall from his
eyes, while she lay there strong
in the face of his weakness to the
death of their child.
“Now you listen to me, Luke. You
listen! He is gone but we must go
on and live. We must be strong.
Don’t get weak on me now. Don’t
fall apart. We need each other and
that means you don’t fall apart!
Understand! Now get up and fix
my pillow, and then go out and get
something to eat.
www.inksandbindings.com
35

““
TTB / SHORT STORIES
the ticketbooth magazine
36
Oh, my
God. I am
such a fool.
What a
mistake
that would
have been!
I love you!
What was I
thinking?
A cold winter rain iced the
clouded windows. There she was
lying there in her bed and looked
up. Her nurse had come in to
hand her the baby; and she held
the baby gone. She held him for
a few moments before her nurse
leaned over and took the child.
holding him for a few moments
before her nurse leaned over and
took the babe from her.
Cold winter wind blew across
the hilltop of dead stone. A blue
sky captured puffed clouds
moving rapidly, so close to touch
, he thought. He turned to see
the small crowd gathered there
standing on the hard ground
surrounding the small white
coffin. He held Laura as they
stood there. She stood ramrod
straight, her frozen eyes gazing
on the coffin as it lay there about
to be taken down. The priest
blessed the child, the crowd
departed.
Laura and Luke stood there
silently to see the coffin laid down
into the cold ground where wind
nor rain nor cold could touch the
babe, now dead, a life not lived,
never to smile, or laugh, grow or
love; but , Luke thought, given up
to heaven! That for sure.
Luke turned to see the men with
shovels waiting to see their car
depart and then turned away. His
face wrinkled with tears about to
fall; but Laura stopped him. She
grabbed his chin and held it tight.
“Now, look here, Luke. We’ll
make it. We will, and you must
be tough now for yourself and
for me. Understand? Now come
over here closer to me and hold
me tight, and then kiss me like the
first time you kissed me. I want
that from you right now!
“And then we will go on. You got
that. Luke nodded and their car
drove out of the cemetery with
Laura holding him tight to her
body.
Six steps and he was nearly
halfway there. He paused once
more to feel a sharp tug. A
cramp! He stopped and rubbed
it and kept on rubbing it. He was
ready to go and gingerly took the
seventh step.
It was not good news when his
manager called him in. New York
Telephone and a good job. Strong
benefits , easy work, but he was
not happy. It paid the bills and
that was it. He tried to work as he
did before to no avail. The baby
gone kept him listless and useless.
His manager sat him down and
said what he thought. He was not
performing. His mind wandered.
He needed rest because, to the
company, he said, he was useless.
“Take some time off and then
come back and let’s see how it
goes.” he told him; but it was no
use. He could not think, he hated
his job even more, and he began to
fall into a deep depression.
She was there at the door when
he came home to tell her what
had happened. He sat down and
shivered. She brought hot tea and
biscuits to warm him. “What shall
I do?” he asked.
“I never liked the work you did.
It was not you. You never had
interest. You did it for us and the
baby, but now you need to think
otherwise. I think we need to rest
and perhaps go where we wanted
to be long time ago.”
She turned and looked at the
new walnut crib Peter had crafted
for the baby, a beautiful crib,
strong. Inside lay soft cushions
and blankets.
“I think that would be the craft
for you. Yes, why not? Why not be
a carpenter? We need peace and
quiet, and yes, Vermont could be
for us. There is always work up
there. Building wood sheds and
barns, and later houses. Yes! You
could that! Plenty of work and no
pressure! I like that!”
Luke’s eyes lit up. He gulped
down the hot tea and munched

TTB / SHORT STORIES
ferociously on the soft biscuits
she had placed on the table.
And she was right! That was
his craft, and he was good at the
craft. It was the craft of Jesus!
That made him proud and he
would built chairs and tables, and
then barns, houses of three and
four bedrooms. Yes. He loved the
idea.
And for Laura, he sold their New
York apartment and bought an
old house which needed work. He
built the furniture, tore out walls
and built new ones, installed new
cross beams, strong enough for
the strongest Vermont winter;
and a house on 100 acres of land
at the top of a mountain! And at
the bottom of the hill, he could
see how the ground was built as a
natural bowl. He envisioned a pool
which he could build, working
with a stream which flowed right
across it. Yes. He would build an
outdoor pool in the spring! It was
all Laura’s idea!
The grass in front sloped
down to a small barn, and above
the barn, he could see the long
ridge of mountains, their peaks
touching clouds so clearly. And
when work was done, and dinner
finished, they sat on the porch he
built for them to watch in the west
the sun dip below
The horizon with rays of deep
maroon , to close the day to night
with hot tea, a rocking chair and
Laura, sitting there on that porch.
It was Laura who had that idea to
build the porch. Laura. He was at
peace. He leaned over and kissed
her cheek, warm as toast.
Peter felt the pain of a cramp as
he reached the ninth step. He held
the bannister, cane and gun still in
hand as he kept on climbing while
listening to groans and louder
screams. He bit his lip and shook
his head. I must do this. I have no
choice. I need to end her pain.
He reached the twelfth step,
paused and listened. In the
bedroom there were no longer
any screams. “Oh, God!” he
thought. “Had she died?” He felt
his heart pounding and a sharp
pain. He stopped and gripped his
chest. “Oh, God, don’t let me die
here! Please, God! I am almost
there!”
His heart gave in while he lifted
chunks of wood from an oak he
had cut down, an old oak which
had begun to rot. He loved the
tree, but it was not to be. It had
to go and he took it down and
thought how strong the wood.
It would make fine chairs and
tables. But it was then as he took
the ax and hit the old tree, the first
pain hit his chest. He collapsed
and lay there until Laura came
running. She lifted him carefully
so he could stand and limp to their
car. He leaned heavily on her, and
he could not believe her strength.
Into the car and into Brattleboro.
“None too soon! His doctor said,
as he lay there fully conscious
now. There was Laura! She had
saved his life.
“How she carried you from the
oak to the road is beyond me!” he
observed. She saved your life. She
sure did!”
He held her hand and motioned
to her to come closer which she
did, and he kissed her, soft, wet
kiss on her lips so sweet.
“You saved my life!” he said.
“No, silly. Your doctor is
exaggerating. I just had you lean
on me and lifted you into the car
and then you fainted. I made it
here in a hurry, and got no ticket
along the way. None!” He smiled.
She was proud of that. “You did!”
Peter said. “The doctor was right!
You saved my life! “
“Oh, quiet you. Rest and in a few
days you will be home and in two
weeks you will be back to work
doing God’s work!”
As he stood on the twelfth step,
he moaned. “Oh, God! Will I have
the courage to take the gun, lift
it, and pull the trigger. I need that
courage. He wiped away tears
and reached the thirteenth step
and stood there for a moment to
rest. And as he rested, he heard
no sounds coming from Laura.
All was silent, but then he heard
a soft moaning coming from the
bedroom.
He stepped slowly to their
bedroom, the door half ajar, and
he was glad she slept. It would be
easier that way! It will be quick.
She will feel no pain and her pain
would end.
He walked slowly to their
bedroom, barely tapping the cane
on the hard oakwood floor he
had lain years earlier. He recalled
that when he was finished, Laura
came over and walked up and
down, up and down, prancing and
smiling, and then she leaned over
and grabbed him.
She dragged him down to the
oak floor, and she kissed him that
soft , moist kiss he loved so much,
the floor he now tapped gingerly
and quietly with his cane in his
left hand and the gun in his right,
shaking and pointed downward.
And now, he was at the bedroom
door and walked in. He took a
deep breath and shivered. He
entered the room to see her lying
there ever so quietly. She would
feel no pain, he thought. Her
hair , once chestnut now so grey,
strewn across her pillow, her
tanned face still so beautiful, her
blue eyes hidden behind closed
eyelids.
He walked to the bed and stared
at her for a moment and thought
how much he loved her. Tears fell
down his cheeks. He lifted the gun
to shoot, but paused: his hand and
gun shook! He sobbed. “I don’t
want to do this! He thought. But
shoot he must.
He leaned over , pointed his gun
at her head, and with hand still
shaking, squeezed the trigger
and fired!
www.inksandbindings.com
37

TTB / SHORT STORIES
the ticketbooth magazine
The shot exploded , its sound
echoed back and forth against
the walls. Puffs of feathers flew
into the air. His shot had hit her
pillow, but missed Laura!
She opened her eyes, gave
a start and stared at Luke,
and as the feathers fell to the
bed, she could see him with
gun in hand, still shaking and
looking terrified at what he had
attempted to do, but failed. He
began to cry uncontrollably.
There was Laura staring at him
in shock.
“What in the world was
that?” she shouted, and saw the
smoking gun in his hand. He had
missed. But how could that be?
How could it be?
She looked up at him and saw
the gun in his shaking hand and
she understood.
“You crazy man! You tried to
kill me!” She took the gun from
him and threw it down on the
pillow.
“You tried to kill me and you
missed! You always were a
bad shot. Couldn’t kill a coyote
twenty feet away! I remember
that! And you still are a bad shot!
What were you thinking, you old
fool?”
He burst into tears and held
his head down.. She grabbed his
hand and pulled him down.
“Here, come sit down by me.”
He sat down on the bed, still
sobbing uncontrollably.
“Enough of this, you crazy
man. Don’t you love me?” He
nodded.
“I could not stand you
screaming from your pain. I
could not take it any longer.”
“So, you thought you would
shoot me and end my pain and
your pain! Fat chance! What did
you want to do? Go to Hell! You
would have gone deep into the
fires of Hell had you killed me!
Don’t you know that? It would
be Hell for you for all eternity.
Better to let me suffer and die
than to lose your soul to the
devil! Isn’t that so? Now, come
over here and lie down with me!
C’mon, lie down!
“Oh, my God. I am such a fool.
What a mistake that would have
been! I love you! What was I
thinking?” More tears fell down
his cheeks. He dropped his cane
and did as she had asked, and
rested there. She took his head
into the crux of her arm and
rubbed his head.
“Now, you listen to me!” She
wagged her bony finger. “Don’t
you ever, ever do anything like
that that again. Dumb! And you
are not dumb! Now, get a hold
of yourself!’ She paused as he
wiped tears away.
“Okay, hush,” she said. “Stop
your tears and relax! It’s over. I’m
okay and you’re okay. Close your
eyes and go to sleep. It is late. I’m
all right now. I feel little pain, and
I will lie here to sleep with you. I
feel better now that you are here
with me.”
She closed her eyes and he did
what she had asked. He rested
his head on the torn pillow, still
warm from the shot he had fired.
Laura suddenly opened her
eyes.
“Luke, you ever try to kill me
again I swear I will get up from
my bed, take your gun and beg
God for forgiveness after I shoot
you! I will call it self defense.
You got that, you old fool!” She
paused and smiled.
“I love you though. I knew you
were just trying to end my pain
and no more. I get that. Now
rest, darling. I love you!”
Luke stopped his tears and
smiled. He let out a gravely
chuckle and coughed. It was no
more than a minute when Laura
had fallen asleep. He waited
until then before he looked
around the darkened room, and
then stared briefly through the
window at clouds passing by a
full moon before he himself had
begun to fall asleep.
38

TTB / SHORT STORIES
There was silence now in the
darkness of the room except for
the now dim moonlight working
its way past clouds which grew
thicker and caused the moonlight
to fade so that Luke could barely
see Laura sleeping next to him
so quietly and still. He closed
his eyes once more and fell fast
asleep.
It was dawn when he blinked his
eyes and leaned over to Laura, her
eyes closed, and she not moving
but still quite still. Outside, he
could see the bright glow of the
morning sun rising so brilliantly
above the horizon and the valley
below. He smiled. It will be a
beautiful winter day, he thought.
He got up quietly so as not to
wake her, reached for his cane
and thought, I will make her good
strong coffee, eggs scrambled,
and dark white toast, all just the
way she liked her breakfast, and
together we will enjoy the cold,
bright winter day.
He took one quiet step and
turned once more to see his lovely
Laura lying still on the bed, but
her face was pale. He let out a cry.
Laura was now gone, dead, and
her soul, had gone to Heaven.
Through wet eyes, he saw her
there and shivered. No more to be
with her. No more to see the light
of day, her arms around him and
he kissing her ever so gently, just
the way she liked his kiss, soft and
full of love.
He knew she was in heaven
now, and with her last breath had
saved a place for him there with
her.
www.inksandbindings.com
39

TTB / AUTHOR’S FOCUS
the ticketbooth magazine
PAPERBACK | $11.99
HARDBACK | $16.99
EBOOK | $ 1.99
God’s ways are higher than our
ways. His thoughts are higher than
our thoughts. We are called to follow,
to take the next step, to keep coming.
We don’t know what God is doing and
He has a reason for that. I know I have
tried to “help” many times, and God has
graciously cleaned up my messes, set
me back on my feet, and kept my feet on
the path as I followed Him.
I know these poems will bless you.
They have blessed me. Sometimes I just
“stood on the side” and wrote what God
was saying. I wasn’t even part of it, but I
wrote the words and was amazed. I am
still amazed today, and God is getting
great glory for Himself.
TOUGH
AS
NAILS
POEMS INSPIRED BY GOD
KAREN J
CHISHOLM is
a worshiper,
using her gifts
as pianist,
singer, and
songwriter to
bring praise
and worship to her church and to the
body of Christ. She has published, then
republished three books in which she
shares the encouragement God has
spoken to her for all to share. Her songs
can be heard on YouTube by typing in
Karen J Chisholm.
Karen’s family includes three sons and
ten grandchildren, but many others call
her “Grandma Karen.”
40

TTB / AUTHOR’S FOCUS
“
The compilation injects a strong
dose of humility, helping people
come to the realization that
they are but part and parcel
of the supreme and that, in the
grand cosmic sense, humans are
miniscule.
With short lines filled with
frenetic action, the style is both
poetic and musical, an ode to
Christ as indicated in several
poems by phrases like “He paid
sin’s price.”
“
Lines that would reverberate
with vigor through any church on
a Sunday morning.
-Mihir Shah, The US Review of Books
www.inksandbindings.com
41

A U C T I O N
SERGUEI BYCHKOV
the ticketbooth magazine
42
We didn’t have to travel to London to attend the auction. We could take part in the auction
from the comfort of your own home, sitting on the sofa and being present as a ubiquitous
hologram, as many of those who wished to participate in the auction did. See how many of
shimmering, bluish shadows glow in the holographic area of the auction.
We could have hired a broker. Yes, we could have, but for some reason we believed that
only a personal presence at Christie’s would bring us the long-awaited victory for which we
had put our entire fortune on the line. Everything we had: the house in the Crimea, where
they had lived for more than two hundred years, her husband’s favorite paintings, which he
had collected for four hundred years, and all the jewellery she had inherited over the past
five hundred years. If we win, we will become paupers and we would have to live in a cheap
and cramped flat somewhere in the midlands.
Well, that’s fine. May money go to hell, along with the trappings of a well-fed life, if it

doesn’t bring happiness? As my husband says,
“Money is just paper and it can’t replace a
dream.”
“He’s right,” thought Maria, watching from
afar as Alex filled out the auction papers and
paid the deposit, “only when your dream comes
true does one feel happy.”
The husband got the number and moved
towards her.
What number had he been given? Of course,
it didn’t matter at all, but in a case like this,
whether you like it or not, you will become
superstitious.
Alex sat down beside her and, as if sensing
her impatience, showed her the sheet issued to
him with the number 249 written on it. Mmm...
that’s not a bad number. Maybe they’ll get
lucky. If you add 2, 4 and 9, you get fifteen, not
thirteen. That’s right — they’ll get lucky.
“Alex is very worried,” Maria remarked and
smiled at her husband to cheer him up. How
could he not be worried when they had put so
much effort into their dream? Blessed Virgin
Mary help us!
She ran her eyes inquisitively around the hall
and shuddered. They are here! It’s them again!
“Those Englishmen are here,” she said to her
husband with hatred in her voice, pointing
with her eyes in the direction where the pair
of Englishmen who had played against them in
the last auction was seated. Damn them to hell!
“Nothing, sweetheart, we’ll see who’s who,”
Alex replied and, to kill the remaining few
minutes before the start, began to read the list
of lots up for sale.
Bloody Englishmen! What’s that to them?
What are they missing in this life? On the other
hand, — pity them, they couldn’t win last time
either, and some Chinese bought the license. Or
a Japanese? Or a Filipino? Who can tell, they all
look alike. No, I remember, the world news was
talking about a Malaysian. That’s right! His wife
was glowing with happiness. I’d k-i-l-l her!
“Gentlemen!” The auctioneer, rising behind
the podium, proclaimed, “Christie’s monthly
auction begins its work. There are two
hundred lots for sale today. So, gentlemen,
lot number one: a painting by the Hungarian 43
www.inksandbindings.com

the ticketbooth magazine
44
TTB / SHORT STORIES
artist Vasari ‘Nun with a Bible’. Early twentieth
century. Oil on canvas. It measures 78 by 38
centimeters. The starting price is 50 million
units...”
What if they lose their license again? And
while she pities the English, Germans, Chinese
and everyone else on the planet, who will
pity her? As her great-great-grandmother
Elizabeth likes to say, “Own shirt is closer to
your body.”
After losing the last auction, she and Alex had
almost lost their minds. Or maybe they really
are as crazy as all their friends say.
“I don’t understand, why would you want to
do that?” Maria’s best friend Natalie repeatedly
said, or rather lectured, “you are saving
money for twenty years! Twenty years you are
denying yourself all the pleasures of life! Why
on earth would you do that? To work and not
allow yourself a couple of times a year to go
on holiday to unwind and relax! For example,
why don’t you fly to Andromeda? The sunsets
there are to die for. Maria, you haven’t been
anywhere in twenty years!”
Well, what do you say to that? And if her
friends don’t understand her aspirations, what
about the rest of the world? They’re fools, you
see, with her husband only because they want
to live like everyone else and they don’t dream
of Andromeda. But no Andromeda, if you put
it on the scales and add Jupiter in addition, will
outweigh their bright dream. Why live without
a dream?
“Sold!” The auctioneer’s voice reached Maria,
“75 million units, number 58 in the seventh
row... Lot number two...”
The auctioneer’s voice was no longer audible
again; she only noted with a glance his moving
lips and the movements of his hand towards
the people raising the numbers...
I can’t wait for our lot. It’s a long way to
number 12! And Alex is so tense, his jaw
clenched like a wolfhound on the enemy’s
neck. But that’s all right, he’s always like that
at a crucial moment: focused and determined.
Well done! Just don’t get nervous! The main
thing now is not to pester him with talks and
questions — he will send her to hell in a fever,
and then he will be tormented with conscience
and look guilty in her eyes.
“Lot number 7,” she heard the auctioneer’s
voice say, “a long-range space yacht. Made in
Ukraine. The starting price is 350 million units,
gentlemen.”
“Look, the Ukrainians scored the famous
Boeing. Well done! And even though it is a small
thing, it is nice and kind of a good sign that they
will be lucky today.”
Alex is a good husband after all. How much
he’s done for their dreams! Bloody money!
They saved up for two years for the deposit
only. And the other twenty years? Day by day,
dollar for dollar, like a hen by the little grain
for the little grain. Isn’t that what the old greatgreat-great-grandmother
proverb says? The
only thing I wonder: who is the hen? Probably
is a good hostess?
Will the license be out of their hands again?
Would I have the strength not to burst into
tears? I did last time. But when we got home,
the tears flowed from their eyes like little
waterfalls. Alex didn’t even try to comfort her.
Either he knew it was useless, or he deliberately
gave her a chance to cry and thus defuse
herself, or he was afraid to approach her,
feeling guilty.
Was it his fault that the stakes had gone too
far? Alex simply couldn’t go any higher; he
knew they didn’t have that amount at the time.
So, she didn’t blame her husband for anything.
Fate, apparently.
“Lot number 11 is a hotel complex on
Saturn. The starting price is only 700 million
gentlemen. Who will give more?”
The next one is ours! God help us! How much
is it going to cost today? A lot! Every year,
the Earth government sells fewer and fewer
licenses and the prices get higher and higher.
Last year, for the entire population of Earth,
including the Mars colony, only nine were sold.
What were they thinking before? A hundred
years ago, they were giving away licenses for
nothing compared to today’s prices. They
were stupid. But many, many years ago, they
say, there were no licenses at all. It is simply
impossible to imagine such a thing! You decide
for yourself whether you want it or not. There
were no bans!

Yes, everything has changed on earth
since people conquered old age and gained
immortality.
“Lot number 12, gentlemen,” the auctioneer
announced, “a license from the Earth
Government, which has been traditionally sold
only from our auction for over four hundred
years. The starting price is one billion units,
gentlemen.”
No, she is absolutely not allowed to play at
auctions! Everything swam before her eyes.
She glanced at her husband and was amazed at
his change.
His cheekbones were drawn up, his eyes
aloof, his face rigid, even angry. She hadn’t
known him like this at all. Frightened by his
emotions, she stopped thinking altogether.
As if in a dream she saw Alex’s hand coming
up time after time, the Englishman’s hand, the
other hands (oooh, bastards).
“Three billion six hundred million units
are, gentlemen. Who can go higher?” The
auctioneer cheerfully announced, seeing that
the bidding had stalled at that figure, “Courage,
gentlemen, courage, for this may be the last
Earth Government license in the history of
mankind.”
The last one?! In history? Jesus, we have to
take it for whatever it’s worth. Why doesn’t
Alex raise the number...? Whose bet is it?
Alex’s...? God, who made that last bet? Who?
Alex...? It wasn’t him? They’re going to start
counting. My God, they’re going to start
counting, and this is the last license! There’s no
more hope. A-l-e-x! Do something!
“Three billion six hundred million units—
one,” the auctioneer shouted warningly to
Maria’s horror.
She wrapped her arms around her head,
squeezed her eyes shut, and with a low howl,
“My mommy,” she slid off the chair onto the
fl o o r.
“Three billion six hundred million units—
two,” the auctioneer announced loudly and,
as it seemed to Maria, ominously. He looked
around the room carefully, hesitated for a few
seconds in the hope that someone would raise
the price, and, gaining some air, finished the
lot, “three billion six hundred million units—
TTB / SHORT STORIES
sold! So, gentlemen, the Earth Government’s
birth baby license has been sold! I congratulate
number two hundred and forty-nine in the
fourth row!”
Just minutes later, all the world’s news
channels were showing Maria burying her
nose in Alex’s lap, profusely watering his
trousers with tears.
The future
is coming,
and it looks
bleaker than
ever. SERGUEI
BYCHKOV
was talking
to a friend while waiting for their food in a
restaurant when he decided to pen this science
fiction. Auction is a slow burn, details unfold
slowly but surely, and little by little you realize
you’re hooked into an inescapable reality
that awaits human civilization. The end result
is an indelible story that is seared into your
consciousness.
www.inksandbindings.com
45

TTB / AUTHOR’S FOCUS
At the Feet of
Angels
Vernon Bargainer
PAPERBACK | $14.99
EBOOK | $ 3.99
This is the tale of Jenny Burnett, a young child, kidnapped by her
uncle and sold on the black market to a childless couple. It is the
compelling drama of Jenny’s endless pining for her real mother, of
her instinctive, yet daring, attempts to escape, of growing abuse
at the hands of her adoptive mother, and of the hapless efforts
of a sympathetic but inept adoptive father. It is a story of the
child’s quest for salvation in her play, in the enduring friendship
she strikes with a little neighbor boy she never gets to see, and in
daydreams of angels and fairies she wills into the sky above
her prison playground.
The story takes place inside the heart and mind of the
little prisoner and reveals her every impulse: her dreams,
her hopes, her fears, her anger, her confusion, her prayers
and her attempts to reason. It is a tale of struggle and play,
of compelling innocence, of times of soaring joy, of special
friendship, and of poignant memories and determined
effort.
the ticketbooth magazine
Vernon Bargainer lives with his wife
in Mesquite, Texas. He is the father
od six children and the grandfather
of five. He holds a Baccalaureate
degree in psychology from the
University of Texas and a record of
35 years in human relations with the
public service.
46

TTB / AUTHOR’S FOCUS
“... Bargainer effectively depicts the atrocities
that kidnapped children have to suffer daily, and,
unfortunately, the outcome is not always a happy
reunion. Probing deeper, the story reflects on
how broken the human mind and spirit must be
to transpose one’s addictions onto a completely
innocent child. ...”
— Mihir Shah, US Review of Books
“ ... the narrative was well written perfectly
plotted, ultimately presenting a shocking view
of the good, bad and ugly of human nature as
well as brought about a distinct awareness to
the seamy world of child abduction and blackmarket
adoption. Author Vernon Bargainer has
given readers much food for thought with this
literate journey through child abduction.”
— Lisa Brown-Gilbert, Pacific Book Review
“ ... Bargainer’s writing is very impactful
and emotional, especially about angels and
spirituality. He writes eloquently about the
bond between a child and her mother, no
matter how long they’re separated. The
twist ending in At the Feet of Angels will
also greatly surprise readers. ...”
— Ella Vincent, Hollywood Book Reviews
www.inksandbindings.com
47

From my
memory
Mziwonke Qwesha
the ticketbooth magazine
48
If the Western world thinks that they were the first
ones to notice the phenomenon of the flying object,
they are mistaken. In Africa we had our juju-club
long before the white man set foot on our shores;
midnight invisible flyers, skydivers, broomstickriding
units and the cage pilots. But they were all a
secret society.
“White people do not understand our ways. They
always tend to underestimate them. Even when
the cage landed on East London’s Oxford Road,
they took it as a joke.” Gabha started the fire after
scolding me for being lazy.
As darkness was upon us, the bleating goats inside
the kraal gave meaning to the half-mooned dark
sky outside. Watching the fire glow, he gulped his
calabash of millet beer, placed it down and wiped
his white millet smeared beard and pulled his
moustache in a playful manner. He then belched:
“Son of Ntsikana!” After playing with his stomach,
he continued to narrate how a strange object
had surprised motorists and pedestrians alike, by
landing on East London’s main road; blocking all
traffic.
The morning was fine and joggers were already
on the street, workers were on their way to work.
School children were on their way to school.
So many strange things, that have no explanation
in the European school of thought, have happened
or reported to have happened in this part of the
world. The most recent had been the hares that
cut the fence in the Peddie area. As the apartheid
government was tightening its screws on the black
communities, the rural people were not spared.
Government re-arranged the pastures in the rural

areas by dividing them with
a fence. Each time this was
done, the following morning the
fence would be on the ground again. In a desperate
attempt to see who was cutting the fence, in the
face of opposition from rural dwellers, government
decided to have police to keep watch over the fence
during the night. After one such night the police
reported to their commanders that hares were
responsible for cutting the fence, they had seen it
with their eyes. Legend has it that the policemen
were sent for mental observation at a psychiatric
hospital, because their report was out of this world.
What hare can have the capability to cut a wire
fence with its teeth?
To the African habitants of the area there was
nothing strange in that, for their medicine men had
many tricks up their sleeve to confuse the white
mind.
“I was on my way to work too, and found people
gathered near this strange object. They were staring
at three naked women and an old man who were
glued onto their seats. The old man hugged what
appeared to be a steering wheel.”
Gabha described the driver as having the
appearance of a deputy devil, his Hitler-like
moustache shining as if it had been freshly painted.
The women were bowed down on their seats as if in
prayer. They were all bare-breasted with identical
necklaces around their necks. Their hair was
unkempt as if for ages. But their faces were never
visible.
I tried to figure out how the object could have
looked like. And the first impression that came to my
mind was the cable-car found on Table Mountain in
Cape Town.
While processing this thought, grandma
interrupted us when she came to ask for a key to
the kist. Whenever grandpa had hidden something
in the kist, he kept the keys to himself. Even in this
instance, he had his bottle of brandy in the kist for
the past five months, for he took six months to finish
a bottle of brandy. He used it only on cold days, by
pouring two lids-full of brandy into his coffee, just to
keep his blood warm.
“Please, don’t touch what does not belong to you in
that kist,” he warned her as he was taking the key out
of his shoulder-bag.
I waited for him to finish handing the keys to
grandma before I prodded him. “And then?” I asked.
“The seats were made up of human ribs...”
“Hhhh?” I gasped in
shock.
“The gear of the cage was made up of a human
spinal cord, a small skeleton of a head worked
as the gear-knob.” My body shrilled as I listened
to this account from an eye-witness. “And I later
understood that the spinal cord belonged to a long
dead headman... That wasn’t all. Two spot lamp-like
things were carved out of human skulls, with its
globes modified from dried testicles.”
Gabha paused, looked at the bright African skies
that lit upon us. He shook his head as if feeling pity
for heaven and then picked up his calabash, shook
it, and had a look at the animals that were restless
inside the kraal. Calves were fighting for a warm
spot under their mothers. And a lone jackal was
audible from a distance. I sipped my hot coffee and
then asked: “What type of a cage that had a steering
wheel, Tat’ omkhulu? What was it steering with the
steering wheel?”
“Listen to me, child of my child. Don’t talk when
I talk or we shall not understand each other,” his
bright eyes lit up like the stars in the sky as he added
with a smile: “This was no ordinary cage. Not the one
on Table Mountain, but the one used by witches at
night.”
The mind-reader threw out of the window my
Table Mountain version.
Growing up in the African community, I have
heard a number of witches’ tales. Although I could
not really conjure up an image of a witch, I had my
rudimentary thoughts. I got the message that this
was out of the ordinary, just by having human parts
in the construction of the vehicle, if I can call it that.
But why did it land on Oxford Road? Did it run out
of fuel or was there a mechanical problem? It is said
that witches operate at night, what witches are these
that operate during day light?
Imitating the head of the police, who had come
to investigate the sight, he spoke in a deep voice,
describing how he had interrogated the witches
and why they decided to land on Oxford. “The
passengers had smeared themselves with black
paste, which I later learnt to be a portion. We
could not see their eyes; only the driver’s face was
visible to us. His eyes were a colour of the rainbow.”
My body went numb as he added: “They looked
frightened but also dangerous.”
www.inksandbindings.com
49

TTB / SHORT STORIES
the ticketbooth magazine
50
The darkness surrounding
our environment made me
uncomfortable, as if the witches
would just emerge out of
nowhere. I held tight to my cup of
coffee for reassurance and some
warmth as granddad stoked the
fi r e .
“Photographers, who were
rumoured to be from the Daily
Dispatch, flashed their cameras
as scribes were busy taking
down notes and others trying
to interview the witches. It
was for the first time that such
spectacle had ever been seen
in the city. According to some
of the spectators, it was the
most abominable spectacle.
Traffic officers, assisted by the
police, were diverting traffic
to alternative routes. The fire
brigade stood at a distance
unable to figure out why they
were called out to the scene; there
was no fire and no jaws of life
were needed,” as expected, he
paused by going for his calabash,
looked at the content, stirred it
and took another gulp.
“I bet my father’s last cow, the
pickpockets had a good day that
morning as they repossessed the
wallets from the back pockets
of white spectators. The whole
town woke up as if it never slept.
All coming to see this spectacle,”
now granddad picked up his
walking stick and proceeded
to lean near the kraal where he
emptied his bladder. In a hurry to
nowhere, he stood there and filled
his pipe from the tobacco inside
his shoulder-bag.
Upon his return, as he was
about to sit down again, he shook
his head and commented: “White
people do not understand our
ways, they keep undermining our
science.”
I waited patiently for him to sit
down and I moved out of the way
the beer calabash so that he does
not knock it over. For him, sitting
down was a struggle as it was
for him getting up. Whatever the
situation, he rejected help and
preferred to endure his old age
struggles alone.
“You said that the white people
underestimate our science…” I
jogged his memory.
“Even on that day they laughed
when the witches described their
emergency landing as being due
to the lack of blood in the bloodtank.
They could not understand
that,” he glanced at his calabash
before continuing: “That cage
didn’t have an engine but only
pedals made of human palms.”
Spinal cords, human ribs and
now human palms as pedals..? Is
this a true reflection of events?
At this stage I was busy
modifying another version in my
head when he said: “Then the big
moment arrived when boys were
to be sieved from men.” Again,
with a cunning smile that was
made brighter by the flames of
the fire in the centre, he shook his
head slowly as he bowed to pick
up the calabash. He sipped and
after wiping his forehead with
the hem of his shirt, he continued:
“That cage could fly like an
aeroplane and roll like a car.
And this was what the chief of
the police refused to believe. His
greatest mistake was asking for a
ride to prove their claims.” Come
on, grandpa! I heard my inner
voice yelling. “Some people tried
to warn the chief of the police
from embarking on the ride,
arguing that he might fall under
the spell of the witches, but, he
refused to heed their advice.”
In a bout of frustration, the
junior officers decided to hatch
a plan of keeping talking to the
police chief while they had sent
another vehicle to bring the
police chief’s wife to talk sense
to him. Another opportunity
presented itself when the witches
indicated that they had to refuel
first. To the chief of the police
this seemed to be an excuse to
escape. But, after reassurances
from the driver he decided to
wait and see. But, whatever they
refuelled didn’t take time. A
huge black cloud just enveloped
the cage, the next minute it was
over, the cage was visible again.
Even its occupants seemed to
have been reinvigorated by this
strange refuelling of their object.
The driver indicated to the police
chief that he was ready to go.
“No, Piet, you cannot trust
these people. These are devil
worshippers, they will kill you.
Let us arrest these people for
obstructing traffic and their
improper dress-code,” the chief’s
assistant pleaded with his boss.
“I am not a coward. I want to
prove or disprove their
claims,” responded the police
chief as he indicated to two
police sergeants to get extra
ammunition and parachutes, just
in case of emergency.
To the noisy reaction of the
crowd, the two policemen walked
their chief to the stairs of the
cage, where he stood to wave at
the crowd, before taking seats
inside with the two policemen in
tow.
Spectators pushed for a spot at
the front as cameras continued to
flash as the three arms of the law
climbed on the strange object.
A few moments after entering
the object, the chief of the police
ordered the driver/pilot to move.
At the distance, the vehicle
that had gone to fetch the chief’s
wife was arriving. She flew out
of it before it could come to a
complete stop and ran towards
the strange object, yelling: “Piet,
no, no!”
Her words were inaudible to
its recipient due to the drone of
the crowd. And while the wife
was going through the throngs,
suddenly, all the women in the

TTB / SHORT STORIES
cage threw their hands up,
sticking out their tongues, and
slowly and slowly the cage went
up. Some people held their
breath as others were nervously
waving skywards. In other
smaller groups the discussion
was continuing about the wisdom
in that the police chief decided to
take the ride.
Hannetjie, the police chief’s
wife stood helplessly in the
crowd, watching as the object
disappeared in the skies. She
stood there and cried and cried,
wishing that she could have
spoken to her husband before
embarking on that unknown trip.
“Up to this day, nothing has ever
been heard again about the three
police men. It became a one-way
trip to wherever they had gone,
gone forever!” He lit his pipe
and drew a heavy puff, nodding:
“White people shall never
understand our science.”
Ends.
There would
have been no
other way to tell
this fantastically
horrifying story
by QWESHA
MZIWONKE
than this. A retired archivist
and award-winning poet and
anthologist, Qwesha shows his
love for his native South Africa
and all its mysteries in his written
work. “From My Memory” is one
such instance, where he combines
elements of horror and magic
realism as he regales his readers of
a time the police bit off more than
they can chew.
Introduce
yourself!
I am a South African writer
and award winning poet who
has published widely in local
publications and anthologies. In
2011 I published a collection of
poetry titled Africa, Through The
Window.
Where did
you study?
I am a Master of Arts (Creative
writing) graduate from Rhodes
University, South Africa.
What is your
profession?
I am a retired archivist.
What’s your
favorite
things to
do?
Photography has been my
inherited passion. And I am a
sucker for outdoors.
Tell us more
about the
story that was
selected as a
finalist.
“From my memory” is self
-explanatory in that I tapped
from my memory to remember
something similar to what I
have written, having had it told
to me by one of our village’s
comedians, while I was still
young. The manner in which
the story was told became
etched in my mind for many
years. Africa is Africa, there are
many myths and truths told
about it, and I wanted to tell
this little known about world of
black magic. Whether its myth
or truth, it is for the reader to
make the judgment.
www.inksandbindings.com
51

TTB / AUTHOR’S FOCUS
PAPERBACK | $6.99
EBOOK | $ 2.99
MATTERS
Of The
SOUL
“How we know our inner world defines how we experience external
reality.” From that initial sentence in Matters of the Soul, a format
for growth is presented with sections for Exercises and Reflections.
Questions to spur journal writing encourage readers to make the material
their own. Imagery exercises guide readers deeper within themselves to
explore as yet unknown realms.
The result of doing these inner world explorations is the development of
a mature spirituality anchored in the seamless unconscious continuum,
psychological and spiritual. Co-creating, passion, presence, and power
become personally meaningful concepts.
We all have these resources inside us but no book has clarified these
concepts or taught the reader how to work with them. Matters of the
Soul empowers the reader to take the next step in her unique journey
by expanding the notion of the unconscious from a storehouse of
psychological injuries to a vast horizon of spiritual possibility. Offering
an experience of change in a workbook, Matters of the Soul opens
the door to a new way of thinking and being which the reader may
use over a lifetime.
What Ruth Cherry Thinks
the ticketbooth magazine
52
RUTH CHERRY, Ph.D. is
a clinical psychologist
in private practice. She
specializes in the integration
of psychological and
spiritual dynamics to
promote healing.
1. Tell us more about yourself.
While my growing up time
was stable and middle-class,
I always felt a tug from some
place inside me, pulling my
attention inward. I learned
to trust my intuition. I’ve
meditated daily for decades.
I’ve learned that the outer
world reflects the inner world.
When I pay attention to my
inner world, I’m guided.
2. What inspired you to
become a writer?
I didn’t consider becoming
a writer. I studied psychology
and practiced individual
psychotherapy. I meditated
regularly. I learned to “allow”
and to trust my inner world
guidance and to pay attention.
Without understanding
what was happening, I
received words. In the evening
after my work day concluded,
I wrote the words that ran
through my head. I was
surprised to read the books
that appeared. I was simply
the first reader; I don’t take
responsibility for the writing.
Writing chose me, I didn’t
choose writing.
3. What is your favorite book
and who is your favorite
author?
My first book, Winnie the
Pooh, taught me to read, to
appreciate the depth of feeling
in each of us and the power
of relationships to heal us. I
found wisdom, empathy, and
compassion in those pages
which later I experienced in
the world.
4. Tell us more about your
book.
Matters of the Soul
The intellect can carry us
only so far in knowing reality.
Acknowledging our personal
experience pulls our attention
inward. By moving deeply
inside ourselves, beyond
thought and feeling and
experience, we enter the
realm of consciousness, that
ocean of Being in which we all
participate.
Over the course of a
lifetime, perhaps we have
compromised our integrity
without recognizing that we
did so. Maybe we released a
dream and settled for being
“realistic.” Maybe we lost hope.
Our soul is the part of us that
wants the very best for us. The
goals and ideals of the soul
don’t shift with experience
even though our behavior
does. In our soul we still hope
for what our intellect tells us
we can’t have.
Matters of the Soul leads
readers on an exploration
of the levels of their own
consciousness. Healing
follows from integrating
aspects of ourselves which
we have previously disowned
without recognizing the
damaging results of a lifetime
of “reasonable” choices.
Operating at this basic level of
being offers the most powerful
healing we can experience. It
carries us to the cracks in our

PAPERBACK | $6.99
EBOOK | $ 2.99
TRANSFORMATION
WORK BOOK
We all yearn to anchor in our own truth. We want to live authentically and
meaningfully. We seek passion, joy, and self-expression.
TTB / AUTHOR’S FOCUS
We want more. Doing everything right isn’t enough.
And, so, we surrender.
But sometimes we lose our way. We’re distracted by influences from outside
ourselves. Or we trust our intellects to do work they were not designed to do.
We use our best judgment. And days pass and years pass and we realize that
good judgment doesn’t lead us to fulfillment.
“When we reach that point we throw up our hands and we say, “I must live deeply and passionately. Acting
respectably isn’t enough. I want to honor my heart’s longing,” then you open to transformation.
Transformation is the process by which we recognize that we are both human and divine and that our divinity heals
and guides us.
soul and then shows us how
to heal them.
When we remember
ourselves, we allow passion,
creativity, and joy to move
through us and carry us.
We experience a sense of
oneness with Life. We realize
a freedom we have not
known previously.
Transformation Workbook
Transformation Workbook
offers readers dozens of
prompts to spur and direct
journal writing, a powerful
means to move through
unconscious material. By
sitting with each prompt
and observing, the reader
is guided to write from the
depths of her soul. Layers
in each of us exist which
our intellects can’t touch.
Journal writing bypasses
the conscious mind with its
resistance. Transformation
Workbook provides structure
for the reader’s inner world
inquiries. By writing in
response to the prompts,
the reader learns to let her
unconscious guide her.
Readers will be surprised and
delighted as they discover
new facets of themselves
through journal writing.
5. Can you share a snippet/
excerpt from your book that
you think your readers will
find very interesting?
Matters of the Soul
Excerpt:
Matters of the Soul is to be
experienced. As you read the
text, do the Exercises, and
write in your journal, you will
be inviting your passion to
guide your life. Experience is
the key: whatever comes up,
experience it. When you do
that, this process continues
to move. When you think, it
stops. When your conscious
mind is out of the way, your
unconscious is available. It
invites you to a marvelous
affair getting to know the
creativity and wisdom that
live inside you.
This book is for you to know
on a very personal level. Let
it guide you into yourself.
Knowing your own reality
deeply is the most significant
consciousness work you will
do this life time. This text and
these Exercises can guide,
support, and encourage you
in that work. When you have
done all the Exercises and
written in your journal, you will
have a valuable diary of your
own spiritual growth.
Transformation Workbook
Excerpt:
Noticing your feelings from
your Detached Observer
perspective allows you to
acknowledge your feelings
without identifying with them.
What do you notice?
What’s behind your
feelings?
Write as long as you can.
What challenges you
about practicing stillness
and looking at your thoughts
without thinking your
thoughts?
And noticing your feelings
without identifying with your
feelings?
Write all your association.
6. What advice can you give to
aspiring writers?
Practice journal writing and
meditating every day. Learn
a skill, earn one or more
degrees and a license. Work
hard, and save every penny.
After mid-life your writing will
become inspired. Until then
pay your dues and maintain a
humble attitude.
www.inksandbindings.com
53

HELLO
Jessica Webster had walked down the same hallway every morning for seven years. And every
morning of those seven years, when she’d walked past the painting of the sandy beach, she had heard
nothing. Not a peep. Not a sigh. Not even the creak of a floorboard under her feet.
But on the morning of January 6th, 2022, she did hear something.
It wasn’t a peep.
the ticketbooth magazine
54

y
DC
Mountain
It wasn’t a sigh.
It wasn’t the wind in the eaves or the sizzle of bacon
downstairs.
It was a voice.
It said, “Hello.”
Jessica froze mid-yawn, her hands halting the task
of tying her fuzzy pink bathrobe. She turned her head
slowly. Did the painting just…
“Jess! You up? School bus in fifteen minutes!”
Jessica cinched the bathrobe around her waist. “Yeah,
mom! Coming!” She scurried down the hall to the
bathroom. As she was closing the door, something caught
her eye. Something was wrong with the painting. A
shadow. A smudge.
She hesitated. At this rate she would already be late for
school.
She leaned out from the door and peered at the painting.
A…footprint? She was sure there had never been a
footprint in that painting before, but there it lay, a dark
mark with five toes and a deep heel on the far side of the
beach.
“Jess-i-ca! Now!”
“Coming!” Jessica pulled back into the bathroom and
slammed the door.
www.inksandbindings.com
55

TTB / COVER STORY
the ticketbooth magazine
56
She pondered the footprint as
she brushed her teeth.
She pondered the voice as she
pulled on her jeans. She pondered
whether or not to risk ridicule as
she hopped down the stairs on
her left foot, pulling her sock on
the right one.
“Hey mom?”
“What, honey? Here, eat this,
quick.” Her mom threw bacon
and eggs on Jessica’s plate.
Jessica stuffed a bite in, breathing
through her mouth to cool it.
“You know that painting in the
hallway?”
“Yes, what about it?”
“Where did it come from?”
Her mom brushed a stray hair
from her brow, planting one
spatula-holding fist on her hip.
“Oh, that old thing? It was here
when we moved in. Don’t know
why I kept it. Just sort of felt like
a part of the house.” She turned
back to her cooking. “Hurry,
now!”
Jessica’s mouth was already as
full of eggs at it could get. She
grabbed the bacon and jogged to
the door. “Bye, Mom” she grunted
through her mouthful.
“Don’t talk with your mouth
full, honey. Have a good day at
school!”
* * *
“Jeeeessicaaa! Have you
heard a single word I’ve been
saying?” Carmelita’s hand
flashed through Jessica’s vision,
waving sarcastically. “Honestly.
Being your best friend is, like,
the greatest trial of my life.”
Carmelita rolled her eyes and
sucked a long slurp of chocolate
milk up her straw. “Where’s your
head?”
Jessica didn’t feel like admitting
she’d been thinking about the
painting again. “Oh, you know…
boys.”
That did the trick. Carmelita’s
eyes glazed over. “Did you see Ben
Halvatski’s hair this morning?
Dreeeeeeamy!”
* * *
Jessica didn’t bother
announcing her presence when
she unlocked the door at home
and threw her back pack on the
floor. Her dad was still at work,
and she knew her mom would be
at Freddy’s softball practice.
First stop, the fridge. Holding
the bread bag with her teeth,
peanut butter in one hand, jelly in
the crook of her arm, and pickles
in the other hand, she swung the
fridge closed with her foot. This
was her favorite time of day. The
house to herself, peace and
quiet, and a snack. Nothing
could be better.
But once the sandwich was
made and half consumed, her
mind drifted to the events of
that morning. “I wonder…” she
whispered to herself, her voice
filling the empty space. She
realized she was staring blankly
at the stairs.
“
Jessica?
Jessica!
Oh, where
is that
girl?
“Jess-“
“
No one was home. No one would
be around to make fun of her.
Resolutely, she hopped off the
barstool and climbed the stairs,
half a peanut butter and jelly
sandwich dangling limply in one
hand.
There it was. A peaceful blue
ocean, crystal waves lapping a
golden shoreline…
And one single footprint. She
hadn’t imagined it, then.
She moved closer. She felt silly,
considering, but…
She stepped up till her nose
brushed the cool glass protecting
the painting. She pressed a finger
to the footprint. It was as much
a part of the painting as if it had
been there forever.
She took a breath and prepared
to speak.
“Jess! Ya home? Wait’ll you hear
about practice today, Harvey
biffed it for real!”
Jessica jerked back from the
painting guiltily, cheeks burning.
* * *
She didn’t have a chance to
think about the painting the rest
of that day, and certainly not the
privacy she would want to explore
it. She almost jumped out of bed
at least ten times that night to
investigate it by moonlight, but
that was stupid. Paintings can’t
talk. Only a lunatic would believe
something that crazy.
* * *
“Jessica! Jess-i-ca! Up and at
em’s, it’s seven thirty!”
Jessica moaned and rolled over,
snuggling deeper into the covers.
It can’t be morning already…
“Jessica! Now!”
Jessica shoved back the covers
and sluggishly groped for her
bathrobe. She stumbled to the
door and hunted for the knob.

TTB / COVER STORY
“I’m coming!” Jessica shouted
grumpily, at last finding the door
knob and setting off down the
hallway. She had her bathrobe
half tied when-
“Hello.”
Suddenly, Jessica was wide
awake. Her mouth hung open.
It was all real. She had heard a
voice yesterday.
And…
She gasped.
A new footprint, the next step of
the former, firmly planted in the
sand beside the old one.
“What…on…earth?” Jessica
breathed, leaning closer.
“Have you brushed your teeth
yet, Jessica?”
“No, mom, but-“
“Well, hurry up! Bus in fifteen
minutes!”
Jessica gave the painting one
last longing glance, then turned
and made for the bathroom.
* * *
Jessica yawned and rolled
over. Sunshine streamed in the
window. The weekend was here.
She had slept in.
Then she remembered the
painting. Maybe no one else was
awake yet…she scrambled out of
bed, leaving her bathrobe behind
in her haste.
Down the hallway, she stopped
just before the painting and
peered at it.
Only two footprints.
A sense of deep disappointment
swept over her. What?
Did it only work on weekdays?
Or…
Or had she imagined the whole
thing?
With a sigh, she continued on to
the bathroom. She had just passed
the painting when…
“Hello?”
Small, quiet, hopeful, the voice
brushed past her ear, like a
favorite song, too short and then
gone.
Jessica looked behind her.
A third footprint had joined the
other two.
Excitement thrilled through her.
Her very own miracle; a talking
painting in her hallway. And no
one knew about it but her.
* * *
Each day of the following week,
Jessica received her morning
greeting from the painting. Eat
day, a new footprint joined the
previous ones. Left, right, left,
right…whenever she got a chance,
and no one was near, she peered
at the painting, re-counting the
footprints. On Friday, there were
eight. On Saturday, there were
nine. But she only heard the voice
on her way down the hallway each
morning, as though the footprints
were trying to follow her.
Saturday morning, again awake
before anyone else, she stopped
short of the painting. Her heart
raced. Today was the day.
Today was the day she would
risk looking as foolish as any
human ever did. Today was
the day she would answer the
painting.
Curiosity was driving her mad.
Curiosity, and…something else.
Something about the voice each
morning. She knew the sound so
well now, she could replay it again
and again in her mind. It had
kept her up late the night before,
ringing in her ears.
It sounded so…lonely. Hopeful,
but also sad. As though…it already
knew she would never answer.
Well, it was wrong. Today, she
would.
She took a deep breath. There
was only room on the painting
for one more footstep. She didn’t
know what would happen when
the footsteps passed out of the
frame. Would her invisible friend
be gone forever?
“What is your fascination with
that painting? Wierdo.”
Jessica jumped, whirling to find
Freddy grinning cheekily up at
her from his seat on the bannister.
“What do you want, little freak?”
Jessica snarled, face hot.
“I’m not the freak around here,
Jess.” The first-grader shook
his head mournfully, a sly grin
yanking up the corner of his
mouth. “I can see the headlines
now. Jessica Webster, perfectly
normal fourteen year old
from Bismarck, North Dakota,
committed to the funny farm after
her younger brother caught her
making out with a painting in the
hallway of their suburban home
Saturday…”
“I’ll kill you, Freddy!” Jessica
shrieked, lunging for him, but
Freddy swung expertly out of her
reach and dashed into his room.
His door slammed the second
before she could ram her shoulder
into it. “I’ll get you eventually! You
can’t hide in there all day!”
“Jessica, could you quiet it down
a little bit? We are trying to
sleep. I swear, these kids will be
the death of me…” Jessica’s mom
glared at her through the crack of
her door before closing it.
Fuming, Jessica went
downstairs to pour some cereal.
* * *
She didn’t think about the
painting till that evening when she
was putting on her pajamas. Her
heart sank. There was no more
room for new footprints in the
sand. Had she missed her chance?
* * *
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57

TTB / COVER STORY
She stood before the painting. It was barely light out, the dim gray morning
filtering in through the windows.
She waited. But no voice came.
Sudden tears burned in her eyes. The miracle was over. She’d missed it.
She sighed. Leaned her head against the cool glass.
“Hello?”
A grin exploded across Jessica’s face. She laughed. Opened her mouth. One last
footstep.
“Hello.”
* * *
the ticketbooth magazine
“Jessica? Jessica! Oh, where is that girl?” Jessica’s mom
stomped down the hallway and threw open Jessica’s bedroom
door. Imagine, sleeping in till noon…
Jessica was not there. Her pink bathrobe lay undisturbed
where it had been flung the night before.
Jessica’s mom turned slowly from the room. The bathroom
door was open. No Jessica there. It was Sunday, so no school.
Where was Jessica?
A strange sense of dread was lapping at her soul as she
walked slowly back down the hallway. It was suddenly hard to
breath for some reason.
She paused. That painting Jessica had been so interested in
this past week. Something was different about it…
She could have sworn there had been only one set of
footprints yesterday. But two sets of footprints, side by side,
meandered together down the sandy beach, vanishing where
the frame ended.
“Huh.” Jessica’s mom shrugged and continued down the
hallway.
The End
58

TTB / COVER STORY
www.inksandbindings.com
59

the ticketbooth magazine
The daughter of a
teacher and an aircraft
mechanic, Dorothy
Carlson inherited
her parents’
passion for
stories and
aviation. She’s
been crafting
stories since
her youth,
most of which
began as a way
to pass time
for her and her
sister. In her
winning story,
“Hello,” she also
takes inspiration
from her family,
in this case her
grandfather—
or more
specifically, her
grandfather’s
painting. The
story makes
powerful use
of the medium,
creating tension
despite the limited
scope, telling just
enough to reveal the
story and the untold
to frame it.
For Ticketbooth
Magazine’s cover
story, we put the
spotlight on the
very talented
award-winning
author Dorothy
Carlson as she
talks about
her personal
and literary
background.
60

small talk
with
dorothy
What things do you do in your leisure time?
I am a wife and mother of two girls. I am
28 years old and I live in Lemmon, SD. My
husband and I live off the land sustainably. I was
homeschooled by my mom, a school teacher and
English Major, and my dad, an aircraft mechanic.
They both passed on to me a love for the arts;
reading, drawing, and yes, writing! I also took part
in Civil Air Patrol, a volunteer auxiliary of the Air
Force, as a young person. CAP definitely taught
me a great deal about seizing the moment and
digging deep to find an inner strength-and to lean
on God when my strength runs out.
When did your writing occur to you?
Any literary background you want to share?
I come from a literary background, in the sense
that I have been writing since I learned to hold a
pencil. I have always kept journals, and I loved to
come up with stories. I remember being young
and laying in bed beside my little sister Sarah.
She was bored and couldn’t sleep, so I would
make up a story. I found that the best story had
a riveting beginning, a problem, a climax in which
the problem is solved, and a satisfying conclusion.
These concepts have served me (and my little
sister) very well! I remember one night, my sweet
little sister, who couldn’t have been more than
five, whispered at the end of a particularly exciting
adventure, “You’re really good at making up
stories.” And I believed her. Believing you can is a
super power.
I love the works of C.S. Lewis, J.R.R Tolkien, and
Madeleine L’Engle. More modern works I admire
include The Squire’s Tales by Gerald Morris and
The Ranger’s Apprentice by John Flanagan.
Much of my work is also inspired by my faith
in God. Currently, my focus is on Young Adult
Fantasy. The night before I received the email
saying I’d won this contest, I completed the rough
draft of the first installment in my five-part Fantasy
series, titled To Bind Fire. I intend to edit, polish,
send out to Alpha and Beta readers, and then
publish this work.
Have you joined other literary competitions
before and have you won in any of them?
Tell us more about your winning story. What
inspired you to write it?
I have never entered a writing contest before,
much less won! I am thrilled to have won this one!
My confidence in myself as a writer has surged as
a result and I am so grateful!
My short story was inspired by my Grandfather,
Steve Vivian, who passed away three years ago.
He loved all things beautiful, and filled his home
with objects that delighted the eye and engaged
the mind. The largest painting he owned was a
huge, beautiful, dusky image of the stormy sea,
perhaps a reminder of his California home which
he missed so much. This image was in my mind
as I wrote Hello. Every painting has a story to tell.
Next time you pass one, pause and ask it what it
has seen. It will answer you in every brush stroke.
What is your advice to aspiring writers out there?
Does your heart have a story to tell? Put it
on the page. That cursor can look intimidating,
blinking expectantly. It issues a challenge. Will
you answer? I did, and here I am!
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61

TTB / BOOK HIGHLIGHT
OBJECT
OF
BALANCE
OBJECTS
OF
DESTRUCTION
Saving Father Element - Book 2
the ticketbooth magazine
62
PAPERBACK | $19.99
Hardback | $34.99
EBOOK | $ 2.99
Object of Balance is about nine little fairies who find themselves
embarking on a great quest through hostile lands to save their
world, Andel.
It is a race against time. They must find one of the objects the
great wizards were using to keep everyone in their world safe.
It has been stolen from the wizards and it must be found and
brought back before it is too late. What the creature that stole the
object didn’t know was that the object was keeping something
even more evil back. Without the object, their world will become
riddled with all the storms the elements can throw at them.
It is not all bad. The fairies do find that through their travels, they
meet many new creatures who become their friends and allies.
Well, with the fate of the world in the balance, wouldn’t you be
willing to help?
When the wizards told the fairies they had to go and get the
object back, they were shocked. How could nine little fairies
possibly do this? The object itself was bigger than all of them put
together! The wizards told them they had to; there was no choice.
The wizards could not go as they had to stay and hold the other
evil at bay until the object was put back in its place. Still, the fairies
worried but did as they were told. They would find a way!
Object of Balance is a warm and wonderful tale full to the brim
with many different characters that I hope everyone of all ages will
love. There are ferocious dragons, a giant as tall as a mountain,
ogres, witches, trolls and so many others. It is family oriented and it
has many lessons to be learned. Enjoy!
PAPERBACK | $18.99
Hardback | $29.99
EBOOK | $2.99
It has been five years since the creatures have banished Father
Element, but now there is no sun, no wind, and no rain or snow.
Their lands have become barren of all living vegetation, and they
are always in the dark.
Again, the creatures find they must go on a quest to find three
objects that will help save them and Father Element from the evil
that is plaguing their world.
Object of Destruction is jam-packed with adventures and new
creatures of all kinds. Come help the creatures of Andel save their
world. You wont regret it!
LESLEY FISHER lives in
a small town where she
has lived for many years.
She has brought up her
two boys there. They are
now all grown up and don’t
need her as much. Finding
she had more time on her
hands, she needed to fill
it with something. She has chosen to write fantasy
books. Lesley finds she enjoys it so much that after
her first book Object of Balance she is constantly
finding new ideas for more books. Her hope is that
she can bring a little imagination to all.

i
b
‘s
illustration levels
west
toast
cinnamon
valley
golden
cake
check www.inksandbindings.com for more details on our illustration levels and packages
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