Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of Language and Mind Review of This Is My Best Review of Lost in the Void Crossword (Solution Posted in September. Printable version in pdf format of journal.) May/Jun Crossword Solution Creative Nonfiction Puttin' on My Pearls By Cathryn Braswell My Dinner with Gacy By Andy Martello Mysteries of the Shenandoah Valley By Casey Clabough Getting Lucky By Dale Purvis Poetry Your Mind and You Are Our Sargasso Sea By Lita Sorensen Midsummer By Lita Sorensen Windows By Lita Sorensen Simple Man By B.K. Birch The View from Here By Mary Hudock The Dinner Party By Ruth Mark Fiction It's in the Stars By Linda Gallant Potts An Intimate Evening with Papa By Lance Garrison Ballard The Prank By Terri L. Knight A Pocketful of Starflakes By Leslie Wolter Cover Art Photography by Seth Brown 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 - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs 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.volunteermatch.org/results/org_detail.jsp?orgid=58479. |
An Intimate Evening with Papa By Lance Garrison Ballard Fatigue swarmed his brain. Two days had passed since locking himself away in his study; but still, no words donned the page. He opened the desk's top right drawer and reached for the silver flask, hoping the scotch would lift the "black ass" cloud of writer's block in his weary head and help flesh out the story of the great fish which had come to him while he cast hooks and lines in the gulf stream. A healthy swig, and the burn of scotch warmed Papa. But that's all. The dark cloud remained where it always had - on his shoulder, taunting him with cackles only Papa knew the meaning to. The flask was put next to the Royal, that if the scotch beckoned again, Papa could snuff the plea. Calloused fingers touched the keys. Bloodshot eyes stared. Then, prayers for anything that could be deemed publishable material. But the great fish that swam the channels of Papa's consciousness passed rod without setting hook. He paced the study, retracing story, plot, and characters - the ever dependable flask, now clutched in his withered hand, as if to aid him in his literary task. "It's all in my head," he said, taking another swig. "The old man, the boy, and that damn marlin!" The burn calmed frazzled nerves. "Should the boy accompany the old man on the boat?" A swaggering pace, wall to wall. "No. This is a test for the old man and him coming to terms with adversity. If the boy helps the old man, all integrity will be lost - just like that damn fish!" Papa's pace stopped as his bloodshot eyes fell upon The Sun Also Rises, nestled safely between Pound and Fitzgerald. Memories of Paris and late evenings spent with Stein. Her famous quote surfaced again. You are all a lost generation. The flask was put to quivering lips. Scotch coursed through Papa's veins, numbing him even more as he returned to the desk, flipping through aged pages of text, the novel's cover, frayed and worn. It was thrown to the floor, sounding like a gun going off. A sturdy knock shook the study. Yet another swig. The flask then found its hiding place and the desk drawer was shut. Papa staggered to the door and opened it and found Mary, his fourth wife, standing in the archway. Her hair smelled freshly washed. "Is everything ok, Papa?" she asked, worried. It had been two days since she had seen him - two days since the fever for writing once again summoned and held him captive within the confines of his study. If writer's block were "black ass" days to Papa, then these moments were just as black, if not blacker, for Mary. Last time she left Papa alone, the shotgun and ammo in the downstairs den had been taken, and after the sound of the novel hitting the floor, Mary couldn't help but think that the ammo had been put to use. Dark use. Papa staggered and picked up the novel. "I'm fine, Mary," he said behind his desk. "Just having trouble getting started." The strong smell of scotch filled Mary's nose. She knew why Papa was compelled to posion his liver. Mary's own depression had forced her to seek the solace of the bottle. But not like Papa. And not for the same reasons. "Can't get what's in my head out on paper," he said. "I've been called a genius with words, but - " "You've been through this before," Mary said, guiding Papa over to the couch. "This time it's different," he said, sitting. Mary looked at the notebook, clean and unmarked. "Papa," she said. "Wasn't it you who told me a writer must rewrite, rewrite, rewrite before a piece is suitable for publication?" Papa nodded. "Well," Mary continued. "Can't rewrite a page that is blank." She moved closer, took his hand, and scratched his beard, in dire need of a good trim. "Leave the study and get some sleep, Papa." "I'll sleep here," Papa said as Mary's soothing touch relaxed him. "Then when I wake, I'll get back to the essence of the idea." He smiled. "You'll see." "But a man mustn't sleep where he works," Mary said. "Writing isn't work," Papa said. "It's a way of life - a lonely life." He stood. "Besides, if I leave the study, my story might up and leave with me. And I can't have that." Mary went to the closet by the bookshelf and returned with an afghan. "Here," she offered, laying it on the desk. "Don't want you sick with the flu." Papa gazed out the study window. "Heat of summer has begun." And night had crept up. "Just in case," Mary said. "You never know." After hugging Papa, she left the study and shut the door. The smell of her hair wafted through the air like soft petals from freshly picked flowers, reminding Papa of a false spring and how it felt before the freezing rains came. He moved behind his desk again and cleared it off. He had had enough for the night. But tomorrow, with his thoughts clear and sharp, he would return to his craft and hone it down to a seamless form of art. The need for sleep drove Papa to the couch. He drifted off into a tranquil dream of a young boy on a lion infested beach bringing an old man, who had seen his share of failures, sardines. The lions roared as the moon's reflection shimmed off the ocean's glassy surface. |