WHWN is in its second season, which promises to be as big a hit, and as much of a blast, as the first. Wonderful writers just keep signing up to share their experiences, passion, heartfelt words, observations, and ideas. They come to class each week ready to support and challenge each other, and wow us with their suggestions and comments. We thank all of you who have passed through the program for allowing us to be part of your development as a writer. It's been a privilege to work with you. We wish you every success!
The typical WHWN writer is dedicated, creative, talented, and generous. Here are some excerpts from members of the WHWN writing family. Enjoy!
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"seven" (poem)
seven hear me, I beg, I don’t wish to complain. my days are filled with wonder—my hours
are occupied with good work,
on behalf of good men, my good men, my seven benefactors, and small as spoons they may be,
but pray you, don’t call them midgets, or imps, or gnomes. they’re precisely the right size, these worthies, for the tight work they do, mining diamonds and agates and other rarities.
and chivalrous! why, rarely
do I open my own door, or scootch my own chair at mealtime,
and most sundays in the season, thaddeus (“dopey”, I believe he’s known by some) by my side pulling weeds in our cozy vegetable patch. my life is idyllic, to be sure, except for…my moon-heat. it may be ill form to speak so plainly,
but there be times when I feel like my entirety will be devoured
by wet flame when his hand brushes mine among the radishes…and then, on Saturdays following the discovery of a most excellent lode, the other seven come a-calling to our cottage--the lesser-known seven--giggly, slutty, scary, posh, sporty, baby, and shoeless joe (for ben, or “doc”, is a little queer you know). and the ale,
my god, the ale the fourteen quaff, it must be a sin, and I spy my love my thaddeus in scary’s drunken arms, and my heart crumbles like ash, and I just wish he could find me as beautiful as I find him…so, of course I recognize my step-
mother when she comes a-knocking but I wolf the apple, gladly, greedily, praying that this time they’ll just let me die…
Cliff Lynn
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from "Consolamentum" (poem)
...when Zoë dreams, birds grow
quiet they hop, they venture near
they listen to Zoë's wearied
breathing they watch her
chest move up and down
when Zoë dreams she patiently debates philosophy
with a smallish friend,
the excitable son of consolation,
stone deaf, late of bad heart
the one she sometimes visits
and soon shall see again
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Nicole Walton Schultheis
http://www.rolandparker.blogspot.com_________________________________ from "I Hate Google" (blog)
Not as much as the Bush Administration. Actually, the challenge with the current folks in power is finding who is the worst. Is it the incurious, empty suit who has allows others to dictate policy? Or the malevolent former CEO, whose eye is always on his bottom line? The Rasputin-like advisor? The honored military man who sold his soul? When Google starts an ill-fated war based on lies, then my antipathy will turn to odium. (And about the Google war connection. You read it here first.) Their motto is "do no evil." What kind of mantra is that? Techno geek clever? Seriously. But it is meaningless. Yo Google, capitulating to the Chinese government. That amounts to evil. If Chinese officials want to know what people are searching for on the Internet, they could label them as dissidents or worse. The punishment might be prison, torture or death. Let us remember what this company actually does. Google helps Internet users find the websites that they are looking for. Period. And by the way, Yahoo and MSN, along with some smaller and specialized search engines, perform this task as well. So if, God forbid, something happened to Google, you could still locate porn, the latest on Britney Spears, and the soccer shorts that you need.
Barbara Friedland
www.adtractive.net |
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from "Salvation is Coming" (essay)
I want to get married, and today I had a revelation that I better fight my heart out for that right. I’m going to become Equality Maryland’s newest volunteer and a single-issue voter on every election day. I’m even taking my revolution right out to the streets. From here on out, I’ll be giving the much deserved finger to all drivers I see with marriage = 1 man + 1 woman bumper stickers on their cars. I know these measures may seem radical. It’s just that I’m now convinced, somewhat preposterously I admit, that legalizing gay marriage is my salvation from a lifetime of recurring and merciless heartbreak and loss. Yeah, there’s the matter of equality and discrimination and basic human rights. But right now my overriding concern is that one day soon I might be constitutionally condemned to a lifetime of unregulated serial monogamy. I’m virtually scared straight.
Lisa F. Orenstein
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from "Safe Haven"
(romance novel)
Frozen in disbelief, Sarah Davis shuddered, afraid to blink. She felt her mouth move frantically with silent words, but none passed through her quivering lips. Clothespins dropped from her lifeless fingers. She watched in horror as a black specter, riding a monster of the night, bore down on her. The bike and the rider missed her by mere inches, and then plowed into the pole. At first she thought she was having a nightmare, but it was broad daylight and she was standing outside in the warm sun. Sheets billowed in the aftermath and settled to the ground.
Judy Turner
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from "Revolvers"
(10-min play)
(A sendup of both local television news and the foibles of would-be revolutionaries at a local discount store, where characters buy in or sell out in a high-speed marketplace for love and politics.)
ANITA: Makeshift weapons abound in any Sprawl-Mart store. The hardware section alone is a paramilitary’s dream. Throw in home & garden and you’ve got real trouble. I can picture angry workers toting pitch forks, trowels, weed whackers, flatware …..
CHET: I don’t want to picture it, Anita.
JORGE: But I work in women’s apparel.
ANITA: Plenty of strangulation devices there.
CHET: Ouch! Death by thong doesn’t sound pretty. All the more reason for the Eye Team to keep an eye on this story, Anita. Thanks for that report.
Leo Horrigan
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from "Our Last Night
Together" (non-fiction)
Tonight would be the last night I would sleep with his unclaimed shirts surrounding me. I loved his personal scent. It was a blend of fabric softener and male sophistication. It had taken two months, but my mind now had my heart thinking that maybe, just maybe, it was the scent that I missed more than the man. Did I really love him? Was he really funny and clever? Or was he merely another relationship that started off at that level of perfection that, when the spark fizzles, your memory of the perfection keeps you together months longer than necessary.
Holly Myers
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"Held the Ice" (poem)
Have you ever held
a piece of ice, so cold
that your fingers could hold
only so long,
until you had to let go,
and drop it,
so it could melt away?
Have you ever then tried
to pick it up and hold
it longer, until the numbness
stilled in the palm of your hand,
and there was no feeling --
is this that barren place called
loneliness? Does holding ice
ever eventually
bring warmth?
Mare Cromwell
www.pamoonpress.com
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from "In Pictures"
(non-fiction)Most days, we bought beer and snacks at the nearest grocery store and took them along on our walks. We’d sit down on the concrete steps of some grand building and I’d snap pictures in every direction, carelessly, wanting now just to capture, not needing to interpret. By eight, the city was in its serene mood. The sun shone low on limestone and glass, illuminating the coalescence of old and new that, in the end, always favored the old. The dome of the Berlin cathedral looked over Mitte like a grandparent, admitting the height and energy of younger occupants, but dominant still. The streets and sidewalks took on a heaven-like glow, an unlikely reverence; all elements of the city’s wilder personality seemed to fall for the sunset and yield, temporarily. Even the graffiti looked classical.
Tracy Byrnes http://newmoonhazel.blogspot.com
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from "Tracks" (novel in short stories)
Jay gazed out the train’s window. Off in the middle of a distant field, a little boy flew a kite alongside his mom and dad. Jay’s first impulse was to remember the joy of flying a kite on a blustery afternoon with his family. But as he dissected his feeling, he realized he’d never flown a kite with his family. His best family memories were not really his; they were scenes from the movies and television shows of his childhood, scenes so vivid that when he didn’t try to pin them down, he almost believed the moments were his. Jay thought back to one of his earliest memories, one he was sure was his. He was five when he and his father had crossed over the railroad tracks that afternoon. “Want to see how strong the train is?” Dad had asked. He took a penny from his pocket and put it on the iron rail. They waited in the nearby bushes. The locomotive sped by. After the train passed, Dad took Jay’s hand and walked him back to the rails. The solid penny had flattened into an oblong piece of copper. That souvenir had always represented his relationship with Dad. As Jay grew older, the penny on his dresser seemed to get smaller and smaller. It reminded him that things of value could go flat.
Eric D. Goodman
www.writeful.blogspot.com
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from "Chango Crying"
(novel)
On the bus headed to Baltimore, I pull the picture out of its manila envelope and stare at it. It doesn’t even look like her, face bloated like a fish left out in the hot sun too long. I trace the scars on each of her shoulders with a finger. Perhaps it’s a trick of the camera, but they seem to glow. Why wouldn’t they? The scar on each shoulder, along with the one on each foot, the one on each palm and the one over her heart represent the power she once believed she wielded. Las Siete Potencias, The Seven African Powers, which her scars represent, are supposed to be our connection to the energy of our ancestors which anyone is supposed to have access to. Los Siete Rayos, The Seven Slashes, two of which seem to glow more as I stare at my mother’s bare shoulders, mean that she was Palo Mayombe, Keeper of the Mysteries of the Spirits, a high priestess in using the power of the ancestors to aid those in need. I reach under my shirt collar to feel one of the scars on my own shoulder. It seems inert, dead. Mine never seem to glow.
Fernando Quijano III
http://blog.myspace.com/fernandoquijanoiii
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