Table of Contents Gay and Lesbian Theme Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of This Is Not For You Review of Potato Queen Crossword (Solution Posted in March. Printable version in pdf format of journal.) Creative Nonfiction Tunis, Forever By John Champagne Bisexuality 101 By Evelyn McFarland Poetry Blackouts By Steve Rydman Self Loathing By Steve Rydman A Boy Reads YM By Steve Rydman I Finally Found Me By Lucretia Randle Acorn Boy Above the Conclave By James Penha Fiction As If In Time Of War (1985) By Christopher T. Leland General Works Creative Nonfiction Stone Musings #5 By Mike Munsil Ascent Into Being By Holly Mitchell Fiction Come Winter By Sandra M. McDow The End of Stories By Sonia Vora Coal Blood By Tom Bennitt About the Contributors © 2006, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Bill Mausteller Policy Director - vacant Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Sen. Fiction Editor - Patti Kurtz Sen. Poetry Editor - Neeldhara Misra Sen. Creative Nonfiction Editor - Brenda Coxe Contributing Editor - Robert Dittman Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/submission.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/volunteer.html.

Come Winter By Sandra M. McDow Mary opened the front door of her small bungalow and peered out at the day. Cold, icy. She turned slightly away from the sight, then back. Dragging a rickety kitchen chair with one hand, and juggling a rusted Calumet can and hammer with the other, she exited the house. She stepped off the tilted porch, her feet breaking the crust of frozen snow exemplifying "a crisp day"--or Rice Krispies! She smiled at the thought. Mary paused before rounding the corner of her house and gazed squint-eyed east, up the lane. Empty, not even a tire track. She continued, dragging the chair behind her, around the corner of the house looking for the loose plastic window covering that had awakened her from her nap. Damn thing. If Big Jack had done it, it would have held. "Chirp." Mary cocked her head. Listened. Too cold out for a bird. Tried to mentally catalog the sound. Nothing...then the sound stopped. Must be my imagination. Big Jack always said nothing is ever your imagination, so if you heard it, you heard it, he would'a said--God rest his soul. She stopped under the partially-exposed window, working the chair legs through the snow to the frozen ground below, and then climbing, one foot at a time onto the seat of the chair where she began tacking the torn plastic back over the window. Her movement destabilized her position on the rickety chair and she began to fall, catching herself at the last minute and readjusting her feet for balance. Damn it, Jack. Why'd you have to go and die on me? She resumed hammering tacks into the plastic sheeting while a tattered yellow cat watched from the ground below. Without warning it jumped onto the chair and began rubbing against her legs."Stop it, Tom, get down-you'll kill us both!" Her voice, rusty with disuse, funneled her shout into a loud whisper that the cat disregarded. He purred and rubbed against her, providing her legs some degree of warmth in the freezing cold. A last tack secured the plastic, overlapping the tear and making a kind of seal. Good. Her fingers were numb. Damn! Big Jack had promised--before winter he'd get all the windows covered so the house would be warmer. Well, he might have if he hadn't stroked out. No one will ever know for sure. Then there was young Jackie, stepping right up at the hospital. "Don't worry, Ma, I'll take care of everything-finish up the windows for you." And later, at the funeral, "Not to worry, Ma. Come winter you'll be OK." Delivered with a big hug. Such a good son-such a comfort--the envy of her friends. Bah! Piss-poor job he made of it. "There. That should hold it!" She turned, squinting her eyes and surveying the lane again before grabbing the back of the chair and easing herself off onto the frozen snow. Some one coming. Not Jackie, she could tell. Too slow. Jackie's always in a hurry. She attempted to move the chair toward the porch. The chair legs were partially frozen into the snow; her efforts further loosened the joints at the seat while the legs remain in place. "Hey there, Mrs. O'Brien, what're you doing out here?" Harry Greenberg crunched around the corner of the house toward her, mailbag flat now at the end of his route, boots frosted with ice, polar cap low on his forehead hiding his bald head and ears, mackinaw and snow pants completing his Pillsbury Doughboy winter holiday look. Only his eyebrows and eyes bore semblance to a human entity. "My God, Mrs. O., you're gonna' freeze. Here, let me help you." He grabbed the chair, gave it a hard yank dislodging it from the frozen snow and looked down at her. "Where does this go? Come on, I'll help you get back in the house." Carrying the chair with one hand, he took her arm. "Now you just wait, I've got to get my tools," she snapped, pulling away and stooping to retrieve her hammer and Calumet can full of recycled tacks. "Now I'm ready." She gave him a hard look and began walking to the front door leaving him to trail behind carrying the chair. Tom, her striped familiar, brought up the rear of this incongruous procession. Never much liked having foreigners in the neighborhood, let alone delivering her mail. Used to be everyone was Irish-good people, talked right-all moved away now. The neighborhood had changed. God! When had it come to this? "It's supposed to get colder tonight. Anything you need?" Harry set the chair on the porch. "Can I call anyone for you?" His words escaped the muffler loosely covering his nose and mouth on a warm cloud fragrant with the smell of stale coffee, onions and lox. He must have had a good lunch. Her stomach gave a lurch. She turned, just before opening the door and gave him another hard look. "Anything for me? If not, you'll have to excuse me, it's cold out here you know!" "No, ma'am. Nothing today-not even a travel brochure." A little chuckle at his little joke. "Are you sure you're ok? Are your pipes wrapped-heat on?" He wasn't going to be put off easily--Harry wasn't sure how to be a good Irish Catholic, but he could darn sure be a good Jew! She looked at him and sniffed. "Thank you very much, Mr. Greenberg, for your concern. Now you'd better be on your way-I have things to do, you know." She turned and stepped through the door, turned back to face him, "Goodbye, then." Mary closed the door, almost catching Tom's tail. Crusty old broad. Piteous, really. Harry turned and headed back up the lane away from the old house that stood like an isolated outpost at the end of the earth. If he hurried he could be home before the new storm arrived. Supposed to be a doozy! Lots of new snow. Hot toddy, dinner in front of the fireplace, wife and kids-the vision energized his tired feet. *** Mary's face was slack as she started in her sleep and then opened sleep-crusted eyes. What? There, there it was again. "Chirp." She shook her head, rearranging her unkempt halo of silver hair, and rubbed her eyes and the small bit of drool from the side of her mouth. She shoved Tom off her lap and slowly rose from her chair. The cat watched, curious, as she slowly surveyed the ceiling and corners and then padded to the murky window by the door. Using her fingers she wiped the moisture off the glass, creating a peephole to view the tiny, skewed porch and crusty patch of snow beyond. Heavy dark clouds, light snow beginning to thicken--no birds. Not there! Where, then? In the house? "Tom, did you hear it?" She gave a dry laugh when the cat mewled a questioning response. "The bird, dummy," Mary answered back. Oh! It stopped. Another raspy chuckle, "O.K., you're right. I'm just a crazy old woman." She shook her head and returned to the chair. The chair received her back with the familiarity of a lover, molding itself to her back, buttocks and legs as if she had never left. Pushing Tom aside she resettled herself into its comfort. She pulled an old afghan over her legs, leaned her head back and resumed her nap. The cat immediately returned, kneaded a nest in her lap and proceeded to groom himself. Her eyes twitched, then her body jerked as she uttered a phlegmy sleep-sigh, signaling her return to oblivion, chin on her chest, snorting an occasional sleep sound. Except for intermittent soft snores she might have been dead. *** "Chirp." The high-pitched sound resonated throughout the small cluttered rooms. Sleep-stunned, she groaned as she arose and moved from room to room, her rheumy eyes scanning the corners, ceilings, floors, and furniture. Tom trailed along with her, rubbing against her legs when she paused, sniffing corners and furniture when she looked at them, occasionally giving her inquiring looks. Nothing! And it had stopped. Returning to her chair, she eased back down, brushing the cat aside and contemplated the old black telephone on the side table. Finally she picked up the smudged receiver, liver-spotted hand shaking just a bit and dialed Jackie's number. "We're sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service." What? She replaced the receiver and fumbled with her dog-eared address book, tearing the page she was trying to peruse. "Damn it, clumsy old fool," she berated herself as she exchanged the receiver for the magnifying glass lying beside the telephone. Magnifier in hand, she studied the torn page and then voiced the ten-digit number aloud while carefully placing a knobby index finger into each numbered hole in the dial. "You have reached the O'Brien residence. Sorry, we can't come to the phone at the moment . . .." She began talking the moment the answering machine activated. No time for small talk. Young Jack didn't like to visit on the telephone-always had a yawn in his voice. "Jackie. Son! I have a bird in the house. I can't find it. It might be a bat--they carry rabies you know! Can you come" she shrilled. No answer-he must be busy. He was always busy. She replaced the receiver, disconnecting just as the machine signaled its readiness to record. Tom watched while Mary paced the worn linoleum floors, finally returning to the front window. Outside the early nightfall was deepened by the heavy low clouds and falling snow; there were no cars moving on the street and no sign of another living soul. Who would come out on a night like this anyway? Who needed anyone, anyway? Mr. Greenberg was probably home with his family-he wouldn't be back. Who did he think he was, anyway, thinking she couldn't manage! With a sigh Mary turned from the window, crossed her arms over her withered breasts, and while rubbing her upper arms with open palms, shook her head slowly and entered the bedroom. *** Cold! She lighted the open-faced gas heater and turned back the thick, stained feather comforter on the bed. She edged close to the heater as she pulled her raveled sweater over her head, awkwardly replacing it with a thin flannel nightgown. Then, with difficulty, she pulled the sweater back over her head and smoothed it over the top of the worn gown. Lastly, she slipped out of her snagged polyester pants, leaving them in a crumpled pile at her feet. Tom, sniffing, investigated the pile of clothing and then leaped onto the bed and curled into a feathery nest at the foot. Mary slipped into bed on the side nearest the heater. She turned on her side, reaching toward the pink, plastic box on the night-stand and patted it gently. "Night, Love. At least I have you." With a wry smile she rolled onto her back and snuggled under the comforter and lay wiggling her toes, seeking relief from its pressure on her bunions.Twitch-eared and vigilant, Tom watched the movement. Finally it ceased. She didn't hear the last, faint chirping sound as the smoke alarm battery finally died. The room grew warmer. In the silence she drifted off. Tom lost interest in watching for more movement from under the comforter. Lazy-eyed, he began to study the heater. The room was almost still; the only discernible movement was the dancing gas heater flame and the slow blistering of the rumpled polyester as it began to smolder. *** Mary shrugged out of Big Jack's arms, distracted. The damned bird was at it again. This time it was screeching, over and over, same irritating pitch, pulling her up and away from the chimera of Big Jack's overtures. Damnnation! Mary twisted under the thick comforter, sweating now, moving farther away from Big Jack, toward wakefulness. Tom had moved to the head of the bed, mewling, pleading, insistent! What in the world? Ah! No bird-it was the phone. Mary sat up, coughing, choking a bit, began rubbing her eyes, seeking to clear her vision. A sooty, black haze filled the bedroom. Smelled funny-sweetish, syrupy. What? The telephone stopped shrilling just as she struggled free of the comforter, out onto the floor. Thick, caustic air burned her eyes, obscured her vision. "My God! Tom! What's happening?" The heater flame was shrouded in a dark veil of smoke. Still coughing, Mary shuffled, unsteady, past the heater toward the door with Tom scuttling in and around her feet in concert with his frantic supplications. "Ahgh!" She jerked her foot away from the melted polyester ash gathering in front of the heater. "Ow, Ahgh," she screamed. She stooped, tried to rub it off, removed skin instead. "Dear God! Tom! We've got to get out-it's burning," she rasped and gagged out the words. The pain resonated through he body. She stumbled, hit the floor writhing, began reaching for anything to pull herself up. Tom danced just out of her reach, wary-eyed, inching sideways toward the door. Mary struggled to her hands and knees and began to crawl, following his lead. Tom darted back, away from her as she reached the door, and crouched, poised for an escape. With one hand Mary reached upward toward where the doorknob should be-it fell short. She crawled a little closer and pawed for it again. Ah! Got it. Her stiff fingers struggled, gained sufficient purchase to turn the knob. The door swung slightly inward, then stopped, blocked by her head and shoulder. "Ah, Mary, Mother of God, now what," she cried out. Terror-stricken she watched as Tom darted past her out of the room. Mary flattened against the floor, inched forward and grabbed the bottom of the door, then snaked back, one-handedly pulling the door open. Cold air and smoke mingled momentarily before the smoldering polyester erupted in flame, spreading and igniting the old linoleum floor. "Jesus, God, help me! Oh, somebody, please, Jack…Jackie, love, please, I need help. . . ." Hot, heavy smoke singed her lungs, skewed her brain. Mary closed her eyes--just for a minute--just to rest, gather strength, fight the pain--just for a minute. *** Big Jack stroked her hair off her face, smoothed her face with cool cloths, murmured reassurances. God love him! He did come. He was always there when she needed him. Could always count on him, no matter what. She smiled. "Sing to me, Love. Sing Danny Boy-like you used to." Silence. "Jack?" "Ma, I don't know the words." Since when had he begun calling her "Ma?" She was always "Darlin'." "You know, 'Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling, from glen to glen and down the mountain side…," she slurred the words, fracturing the melody. "Come on, Love, I want to hear you sing again." She opened her eyes to look at him. For just a moment he looked familiar-a caricature of her Jack, but not him. "Who the hell are you?" Oh, my God! "Jackie! You? Where's your Da? Where are you doing here-what's going on?" She wheezed, her strident words softened into a whisper. Then came the pain. Her foot hurt, lungs hurt, head hurt. "Oh, dear God! The fire!" Mary turned her face away, rubbing her tears against the sheet, then turned back to face him, breathing tube awry. "The house? Tom? Are they gone," She watched his eyes, "they're gone? Oh-they are." "I'm sorry, Ma. The house burned." Young Jack went on, "I saw your number on my caller ID, Ma. I called you back. You didn't answer. I got worried, called the cops. When they got there they had to break in. Got there just in time. Ma . . .?" Mary's chest constricted, she struggled to breath, to get her words out. "What about your Da-did they get him out-his ashes? "It's all gone, Ma. Everything. But," he couldn't resist adding, "that's OK, Ma, you shoulda' buried Da and gotten out of that rat trap a long time ago like I told you." He went on, "You shouldn't be worrying about that damned old cat, either. You just ought to be thankful you're alive." Tears stung Mary's eyes. Her throat closed around her words, "Why?" She closed her eyes, kept them closed. Lucky, thankful to be alive, eh? What life? What did he know? She just wanted Big Jack. Her house. Wanted things the way they were. Who asked him to butt in, anyway? "Don't worry, Ma, it'll be all right. I'll take care of you! Just wait and see. You're gonna get better, feel better. Everything will work out," Jackie's voice was diffident, attempting reassurance. She opened her eyes, locked eyes with him. "How?" His voice softened, took on a gentleness, became less tentative, "I promise, Ma. Everything's gonna' be OK--for sure." Just for an instant he sounded like Big Jack. Sincere, dependable. "Guess I don't have much choice, do I?" Mary squinted up at him, considering her options. He really did look a lot like Big Jack-couldn't sing worth a damn, though. But maybe, just maybe, this time he was right.