EPIPHANY Issue 11- epiphmag.com, Creative Non-Fiction at Epiphany Magazine epiphmag.com Issue 11

Epiphany Magazine - epiphmag.com Issue 11

Epiphany Magazine - epiphmag.com

Cover Page Fiction Non-fiction Poetry Artist of the Month Photo Essay Odds and Ends Current Issue Comments Submission Guidelines

Eve Gaal Mary Everhart Christina Nugent David Berner G. David Schwartz Linda Robertson

The Smell of Dead Soldiers

by

David W. Berner

     There are many things one must think about when standing over a dead soldier. When you're 10 years old, however, there are only a few. The permanence of death is far too unreal, unimaginable to comprehend, the void too deep to understand. A boy's heart has not yet been damaged enough by life to know the finality of death.
     My cousin was the dead soldier and I was the boy.
     It was my first dead body. I had never been to a funeral home before. My mother said he'd look like he was sleeping, and he did. But his cheeks and forehead appeared stiff, unnaturally taut, and his hands looked like those of the wax figures we saw at the museum on Canada's side of Niagara Falls. He wore the Marine's blue dress uniform with the red piping and the sergeant's insignia on the right shoulder.
     "Just put your knees here and say a prayer," my mother said softly, pointing to the cushioned kneeler in front of the casket.
     "Okay," I said.
     I wondered how long my cousin had lived after the bullet hit him in the chest.
     I didn't understand why I wasn't crying like nearly everyone else.
     I wanted to touch him.
     Vietnam was a word I had heard many times. I knew it was a country, but I'm certain I wouldn't have been able to point it out on the plastic spinning globe in my bedroom. When grownups talked about Vietnam, they sounded sad or angry.
     My mother put her head in her hands as she knelt. I could hear her say something about the Virgin Mary and God, but I couldn't make it out exactly. It was one of the prayers we said in church, one of the many I only mouthed during mass because I couldn't remember the words. I silently asked God to send my cousin to heaven.

     A couple of years after the funeral, another cousin of mine came home after four years in the U.S. Air Force, three of those years stationed in Saigon. There was a big "Welcome Home" sign hanging from two trees in my aunt's yard. I saw my cousin step out of the car in front of his home. He had a big smile, a smile that stayed on his face for months. He kissed his mother, hugged his father. He patted me on the head.
     Nearly two decades later, that same cousin and I attended a movie theater together to see the film Platoon. In the opening scene, U.S. soldiers in Saigon drag body bags onto a plane bound for America. My cousin leaned into me and whispered, "You could smell them." I turned away from the screen and looked in his eyes. "The bodies," he said, "were rotting in the heat."
     There were so many things my cousin must have thought about while standing on that steamy tarmac at Saigon airbase among the dead soldiers. Years later, he was still thinking.

     BIO: I am a Chicago-area writer, author, broadcaster and professor at Columbia College Chicago. My first book, Accidental Lessons, won the Royal Dragonfly Grand Prize Award for Literature in 2010. I have had a number of pieces published in literary journals, and have worked as a broadcaster/producer/reporter for CBS Radio and produced documentaries that have aired on public radio stations across the country. I was recently awarded the Writer-in-Residence at the Jack Kerouac Project in Orlando. davidwberner.com davidwberner.com

Here Lies Charlie

by

Christina M. Nugent

     I didn't know Charlie. He was dead when I found him. But that didn't stop me from collecting his severed limbs in a fruitless effort to regain some of his dignity. Leg, leg, leg, a piece of torso, another leg. I collected them with just as much eagerness as I would have collected lightning bugs in August or forgotten pennies in a parking lot.
     "Christina, what are you doing?" A shadowy figure asked, looming above me, a mere silhouette against a canvas of tangerine, salmon, and gold. I didn't answer. I was too involved in the arduous task of properly placing Charlie's headstone to notice or care about my surroundings.
     The shadowed figure sat down on the cool sand beside me.
     "Chris...? You okay?"
     "I'm burying Charlie," I said, annoyed at the interruption. I refused to make eye contact, but instead, continued to fiddle with the stone in front of me. This was important.
     "Who's Charlie?" my father asked.
     "A crab."
     "And where did you find Charlie?"
     "Over there," I said, pointing to the ominous rock that jutted from an expanse of ocean, glittering and refracting the evening colors like a chandelier. It was dangerous. It was the only rock I wasn't allowed to play on. Too steep , my father would say. Too jagged , my mother would echo. That's a rock you could skin a knee or two on, my grandfather would chuckle. It had proved just as dangerous for Charlie. "How did he die?"
     "A seagull ate him," I replied with little emotion.
     I couldn't mourn for Charlie because I couldn't understand the finality of death. I buried things often. Mostly small animals though I had been known to bury broken toys as well. I named them all Charlie. In my childish mind, there were only two ways to be - alive or not alive. I believed everything had a soul and when that thing wasn't alive anymore, it was to be buried.
     If anyone had thought to excavate the ground in my fort, where my backyard met the woods, they would find, not only skeletons of birds and snakes, but beheaded Barbies, toy cars without wheels, and a smashed chunk of plastic and metal, which once was a portable tape player. All of them buried and all of them named Charlie.

     I wondered if this Charlie had a family. If he had a mother and a father with a mustache like my father's. Or if he had children of his own. I wondered if his family was eating dinner just then, the way my family was inside the house a few yards from the beach where my father and I sat. I wondered if they were waiting for him. I wondered if they knew he had become a seagull's dinner. I wondered if they knew he wasn't coming home.
     I had stumbled upon Charlie's lifeless remains about an hour earlier on my daily hunt for sea glass. He was just a shell. His insides taken by a seagull. I never liked seagulls. They were always taking things that didn't belong to them. Like your organs or your peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
     A few years passed and I found myself with a pet rock named Charlie. I named him after Charlie The Crab. He was the darkest shade of charcoal gray and smooth as velvet. Charlie was unlike any rock I had ever seen. Rocks were dirty. They were rough around the edges. But not Charlie. I found him in my driveway one summer morning, while building an ant castle. It was like an ant hill, but bigger and better. The ants didn't seem to think so. My mother didn't like Charlie in the house.
     "Mom, stop throwing Charlie into the yard!"
     "That's where he belongs," she would say, sliding the glass door closed in an attempt to prevent me from running outside to retrieve him, "He wants to be outside. That's where his friends are."
     Charlie sat on my dresser for years. First as an acquaintance, then as a best friend and confidant, then as a decoration, and then as a paper weight until I decided that I was too old for pet rocks. I tossed him outside one day, just the way my mother had tossed him out countless times in the past, without hesitation. I was too young then, at the age of fourteen, to realize I had thrown out, not only one of my oldest friends, but my childhood sense of wonder, like a bag of yesterday's trash.

     BIO: Christina Nugent is a college student studying film, theater and script writing. She has always loved writing fiction. This is her first stab at Creative Non-Fiction.

IRONIC BURIALS

by

Linda Robertson

I went to the cemetery office recently to find where my newly-purchased plot was physically located. While I was waiting to be helped, I looked at the funeral board on the wall behind the secretary, where she listed the funerals that were to be held each day. I burst out laughing when I read the two names listed for that particular day:
Gass
Oven

"Star"

Artwork by Dan Williams

JENNY'S MURDERING MOM

by

Linda Robertson

     When my daughter Jenny entered Junior High School, I had to accompany her to the Counselor's Office.
At least one parent or guardian had to sign the necessary forms so she could begin school.
     The counselor asked Jenny a few questions about school and her outside activities and interests.
Then she asked me what I did.
     My mind was completely preoccupied with a mystery book I was writing, and I answered abruptly,
"I'm right in the middle of planning a murder."
     The counselor leaned back in her chair and with a frightened look on her face,
scrambled to press the silent alarm button under her desk.
     My daughter immediately cleared up the situation by yelling, "Mom, tell her you're a writer!!"

     BIO: I have been writing since early childhood, and when asked why I write, my answer is always, "I write because I like breathing." It's something I do automatically, consistently, and enthusiastically, and find it an enjoyable daily task.
     My genres range from humor articles, inspirational pieces, parenting articles, poetry, music, and children's stories. Two of my poems have been sold to Blue Mountain Arts Greeting Card Company, and one to Gibson Greeting Card Company. Several poems are currently in market review with Blue Mountain Arts. Most of my recent work is in the humor and inspirational genre, and poetry of various themes. I have also completed my autobiography, a humorous parenting book preparing children to live a good life, a myriad of children's books, and several poetry collections, as well as a wide range of short articles of various subjects.
     Having been published over 180 times during the last 45 years, including my guide to preventing teen-age suicide, "Take Two Aspirin," which was published through the Clovis Unified School District in 1986. I have also been published in FATE Magazine, Atlanta Parent, Woman's World, The Good Old Days' Specials Magazine, The Fresno Bee, Family Circle, and Writer's Digest Online. The history of the Clovis Unified School District in Clovis, CA, entitled "50 UNIFIED YEARS" has just been published. I wrote six of the histories included in this book.
     I won the "Grand Prize Runner-Up" award from the 1988 Christian Writer's Guild for my children's story, "Evolution of Love."
     My poetry and greeting card business, "A Timeless Legacy" has been in existence since 2006, and I currently have a home-based business for mentoring writers.
     In the past five years, I have edited several books, including "Ski Tales of the High Sierra: The History of China Peak and Sierra Summit" by James A. Benelli.
     Aside from writing, my life consists of family and friends, children, music, travel, computers, scrapbooking, photography, movies, and theater. I lead a wonderful and fulfilling life, and consider myself very lucky - to live, to write, and to breathe.

An Extraordinary Moment

by

Mary A. Everhart

     I finally understand the enormity of being Mom. Yes, it's taken me a long long time and I often wonder if any of you have had a similar experience 'coming to.' I'm sure for those who have kids of their own, somewhere in the life of being a parent one realizes how difficult and unrewarding the Mom job can be. There are many rewards to savor of course but we all know those minuses often weigh us down for far greater lengths of time.

     My Mom had five kids, well six though sadly one died and we simply don't talk about him. She also fostered three teenage boys though they are long since gone so let me put it this way - My Mom HAS five kids, all of whom have careers, a few with kids of their own, a couple without, some with spouses, the extended families of in-laws, ex in-laws and step grandchildren. Family makeup is very complicated these days.

     My life wasn't complicated though. Life has always been easy for me. I say this in jest of course. Life isn't easy for anyone. Yet isn't it true the youngest have it easier? That's what I have often heard anyway. From infancy on I've heard it. I am the youngest in my family - the baby and I am spoiled rotten to the core. Currently I might also be the youngest in my neighborhood though I haven't done enough research to state that as a fact. I am certainly the youngest among my friends.

     It's infuriating at times because I have absolutely no hope of it ever changing. I will not grow older any faster than they will. On the other hand, being young by comparison does sometimes work in my favor. I'm afforded the occasional slight of character as in failing to properly return a favor or serving a doughy breaded dessert. "Oh she's still young." "She'll learn." Those are the words of the older and wiser.

     Well, maybe I will, maybe I won't learn those things. I can harbor childish desires to be 'grown up' while at the same time enjoying childish behavior. Whining, pouting and selfish acts, albeit thought or deed, are among my tendencies. I do make an effort to suppress these behaviors, even change them but some changes take longer than others. I have changed though.

     I have now grown up enough to know that it won't ever be like it used to be. Not Ever.

     And while I dream of being older and wiser, I have learned there is no backspace in life.

     Not too long ago I walked into my mother's home for a visit. I was greeted by my niece who said, "Grandma just fell in the shower." So there I am, the baby of the family, the youngest of five children, the one who has always looked up to everyone, there I am looking down at my struggling mother. At that moment I knew I had grown up and I lifted my mother off the shower floor, literally.

     Since that moment, everything has changed. Mom is okay and out of respect for her that's all I am going to share on that.

     In the ensuing days, I received a gift. A new perspective if you will. For me to understand, to feel deep in the depths of my soul, to truly know without question, unconditional love - a gift that crosses all natural boundaries. It allows a person to do more than they may ever think themselves capable both good and bad.

     Everything happens in its own time. It has taken time for me to grasp the unconditional love Mom always and without fail offered to me. It took me sitting with her on the shower floor reminding her to breathe so that we could both stand up.

     Sure, there was a lot she may not have shared over the years and much I disagreed with though there was plenty more I simply did not pay attention to.

     I know today however that she gave me everything I needed which is definitely not always what I have wanted, then or now. Truth be told, Mom gave me everything she had to give.

     For that I am grateful - grateful for the opportunity to 'grow up' and recently I may have done just that. I certainly know more than I did a couple years ago.

     More than some, less than others of course.

     This is true for us all you realize. We are all somewhere in the middle. Look hard enough and you'll be sure to find someone with more, someone with less, be it grief and pain or joy and happiness - regardless of wealth and status.

     Ordinary is a relative term.

     There are ordinary moments when one returns home and there are other than ordinary ones like the one when I was there for my Mom- just as she was once and often there for me.

     The way I see it -

     Out of the ordinary comes the extraordinary.

     Moms are EXTRAORDINARY.

     BIO: A version of this piece was previously published (2009) in the West Virginia website www.inthepanhandle.com.

"Farout"

Artwork by Dan Williams

Magical or Divine Coincidence? Survival of the Fittest versus Faith and Uncovering the Secrets to How I Met My Fairytale Prince

by

Eve Gaal

     I don't have to remind you that every passing day, meeting Mr. Right or that handsome Prince becomes more and more difficult. Slowly the options seem to narrow and you're left with some serious life choices. This story is about magic and faith but the skeptic reader might call it coincidence. I'll let you decide.
     The worst single's dance I ever went to was for people with graduate and doctorate degrees. Lonely, geeky people like me, who communicated with note cards or computers back before the internet and cell phones covered the planet in massive, social techno-speak. Back when folks spoke of hardware as something at the building supply store where people bought plants to talk to or lumber to build walls with. I remember most of the men at this particular dance wore short-sleeved plaid shirts under their dark suits, and some sported horn-rimmed glasses reminiscent of Henry Kissinger. Some of the men probably were secretly hiding their slide rules, and those that didn't wear a suit jacket wore a kind of beige-colored, wind resistant practical garment with zippered pockets that guaranteed they would be ready for anything, including the rare Southern California rain shower. Endearing, overthinking brainiacs who represented the paradigm shift of social life black holes.
     As a recent recipient of a graduate degree, I felt honored rubbing elbows with these desolate ivy leaguers, and forlorn, lovesick bookworms who knew about science and abstract medical or quantum theories but didn't feel comfortable holding a regular conversation about the weather. Whether or not these were the evolutionary descendants of Newton, Pythagoras perhaps Tesla, Edison, Oppenheimer and Salk, didn't matter --I was thirty years old and I didn't have time to watch an experiment bloom in a Petri-dish. While they certainly didn't look like a sexy group of men, they also didn't attempt to go near any one of the very approachable, business-like women waiting for their advances. They shied away, shuffling into dark corners where they probably contemplated various chess moves while gazing out onto the empty dance floor. It seemed as if someone had promised to let them have an extra hour playing their favorite computer game, if only they would spend a few dismal hours at that dance. Looking up at the burning cheeks, the intense shifting, restless twitching, the chukka boots tapping under grey slacks and the nervous gestures made me walk out. Sorry, gentlemen, but you really didn't want to be there anymore than I did.
     Running away always seemed like the easiest solution. Zebras do it. A Darwinian response kept me running like a gazelle, farther and farther into a wild savannah called 'dating in the eighties.' Since I had spent two years buried in books, my fun-loving, partying and drinking friends were even more determined to find me a suitable mate. A few miserable blind dates later, I decided to step away from some very sweet, but well-meaning friends who I can't even locate on Face book anymore.
     I even ran from my parents who whispered through my teens about what a great match I would make with their friend's son. When they finally made a lunch date for us however, it was too late. I had hastily married a friend from work. Hey, his name badge said, 'Robert the Magnificent'. How could anything go wrong? Occasionally, I got to be the assistant, wearing high heels and holding onto the linking rings, or the endless stream of silk scarves he pulled from some mysterious hole in his sleeve. When he shuffled cards he held the deck about three feet apart, and the cards magically found his other hand without falling on the ground. He pulled rabbits out of hats and made coins appear from behind your ear, until one fateful day, after two years of marriage, he finally made me disappear. Poof! Though very talented, his misplaced passion boiled into anger, frustration and domestic violence. His magnificence had turned rancid and I had to run away, back to the savannah.
     Who would catch me? Where was that Prince? Not the romantic dreamy notion from the castle that rescues the Princess, but perhaps the other one. The Prince who tamed his fox and kept his rose under a cloche. A moot point, because fairytale endings required faith that the whole happily ever after thing is even remotely possible. Did I know any happy people? Were the happy marriages something people didn't talk about because it attracted too much attention? Is that what the paparazzi were trying to capture on film--happiness? During this time, I stopped worrying about the whole situation. I flew to Europe by myself and cruised the Caribbean with my mom. Diving into work, I quickly lost track of time.
     Months turned into years of horrible dates, stupid agonizing one-sided relationships that kept me from appearing completely alone. I convinced everyone around me that the man I was dating for six years, (who was living with an alleged housekeeper), made me happy. Right. Six Valentine's days, I sat around with my sewing machine, my journal, a book of love poems and a yarn basket overflowing with crochet projects. His lies promised me a fantasy life hidden in the mist, somewhere in the haze of uncertainty, where his freedom and our dubious futures met. In hindsight, I suppose the whole experience kept me away from those weird dances and stupid bars, but meanwhile my foolish heart became as tangled as the knots in my yarn basket. Every weekend, I would wait for his call. Most nights I cried myself to sleep. Survival of the fittest wasn't working out very well and I had reached the edge of my savannah. I was at the aforementioned dance full of pocket protectors waiting to be discovered like the latest vaccine

     Finally, one sunny December day, a girlfriend dragged me to a very unusual little church above Los Angeles in a quiet neighborhood. Sunlight bounced off the onion-domed roof. The priest came out sporting a long beard that stopped in the middle of his chest and he asked us to kiss an icon during the service.
     Though I felt strange in the unfamiliar, tiny chapel, my friend Laura looked perfectly comfortable saying her prayers. Someone once told me that we should not ask for specific "gimme" type things while praying. Well, Christmas was around the corner and I thought long and hard about what I wanted Santa to bring me. I bowed my head, following Laura's lead and I will never forget what I asked for that day and how I worded my prayer.
     "Dear God," I said, looking up at an image of Jesus. "Please bring me a good man who will love me forever." After we left the church, and went to lunch, Laura excitedly explained about how she had been dying to show me that special chapel. She went on and on about the lovely stained glass, the colorful tiles and the inlaid mosaic altar above the rustic floors. This church was the magical place where she wanted to have her wedding ceremony. Maybe, I thought, I was out of the loop or something, but I certainly didn't know about any serious men in my friend's life. Surprised, I asked if she had any prospects and she didn't reveal anything new by saying, "Not yet." She simply wanted to show me, her good friend, the place where someday she would tie the knot. I reflected on her statements, and the clouds above my head parted, letting in a bold and fabulous idea. Poof!
     "I know someone, someone you'd really like," I stammered with enthusiasm. A picture flashed in my mind of a guy who asked me out once the previous summer. (At the time, I had a cheating boyfriend who kept seeing his ex-girlfriend, but he still wanted me to marry him in a big Chicago cathedral.) Though I had to turn Steve down at the time, he made a great impression on me as the type of man any woman would love. I knew Laura would like him. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed like the Prince from the castle. The one who actually saves the Princess! I proceeded to describe a friendly, but sad looking man I met in July. I even said I would have a Christmas party just so I could introduce them. Elated, she said she looked forward to my party. We were laughing over our dessert when she said, "I'll cheer your sad friend right up."
     Two weeks later, I had the party. I invited all my friends including Laura and the soulful, sad-eyed man I met in the summer. He was such a serious man that I wasn't sure he would even come to my holiday get-together, but he did. Laura had some sort of excuse that day and didn't make it, but Steve and I hit it off very, very well. He didn't look like a chess player, but he played chess and he conversed with everyone about everything, including the weather. He had been sad the day I met him because his mother had died the exact same day! A gentle soul, did she have to die so we could find each other? So we could live--happily ever after? Poof!
     There is a moral to this story. One we have heard repeatedly and sometimes we listened, and sometimes we tuned it out. Remember the one about how love will find you when you least expect it? Tears, like opalescent dew will float away and hearts do heal. Somehow, laughter replaces pain. Love is that illusive magic that binds souls together. I stepped from behind the cynical blinders into a different world where my faith slowly unzipped the fairytale ending. I stopped running. I have finally been tamed. Thank you God.
     Polar opposites fill our universe and they still click over a cocktail. Throw a party, and if your best friend doesn't show up, it might be the magical window of opportunity where you might want to take a serious look around.
     Steve and I have been happily married now for over nineteen years. We spend too much time together, but I'm not complaining. He likes gardening, I like cooking and we both like scrabble. We ride our bikes, go swimming, enjoy travelling and hiking. We read books, and share our family time with laughter, children and dogs. Sometimes we say a toast to Laura,--as in--thank you for missing my party. She also found someone, got married in that chapel and then moved to Europe.
     Most of all, I'm thankful to Steve's angel mother for putting in a good word up there in heaven, so that God could answer my miserable little 'gimme prayer' by sending me a Prince. One who rescued me from the savannah and 'loves me forever.'


     BIO: "I write many different types of stories that include inspirational, fiction, non-fiction, noir, humor and poetry. I am a creative writer and am working on a novel, while freelancing. " The Desert Rocks

So There You Have It

by

G. David Schwartz


     I do enjoy television. quite a number of television programs are interesting. personally I like the comedy but there is also great sci-fi. The one thing i do despise is is commercials, also ought to be called repetitious brain washers.
     Commercials are annoying. While it is true that you learn by repeating repetition also kills brain cells.
     This in your hands is a book. This book was written, edited, typed and proof read during commercials. Commercials were playing on the screen and while you had risen to go get a snack or relieve yourself you could have been doing something more interesting and educative.
     I believe that an empty slip of paper is at once a sin and a place to place thoughts.
     And so i say as some one, some great wit has said before, read on.
     And now back to our show, but we will be here in twelve minutes or so.

     Down In With Pagination
     1. Words are dull or words are due, and yet, and just yet, how are you?
     2. The flower express grows so that this flower soars as it pulls itself up with growth
     3. My puppy has a woolen scarf band its as his neck.
     4. Here laid a piece removed from a Marx Bothers movie. Feel free to
     laugh anyway.
     5. Variety is the spice of life. Try telling that to my wife."
     6. You are just so beautiful, so gorgeous and so kind. You are so
     admired buy why are you so far away.
     7. I am not a Buddhist and this is not a shrine
     but please please tell me
     Why are you always in my mind
     8. It is called a bee hive and I do know why: if you get stung there
     you must just cry.
     9. The dog barks as a peddler soaring in the sea
     10. He rote a poem about his daughter Gramtie and as he write he had a
     tear in his eye
     11. Its o k to go to the movies thats just how it goes, but take care
     finding a seat and not other peoples toes.
     12. You cannot shoot birds with binoculars
     13. PLease tell me more'
     I'm at the store
     In a very long line
     To talk would be just fine
     14. When at your with end
     I think you ought to know
     If you contrive to think
     Your wits will again begin to grow
     15. Even I can't read my writing
     I cannot invert what it is
     Its because I must think quick
     or else it all gets forgot
     16. I was born in a house facing the south
     Grew up in one facing east
     Had a family in a house facing west
     And now my last house is facing north
     17. I don't want to die
     I would miss you so
     So I wish not to died
     I just don't want to go
     18. I like strong coffee,
     I like a lot of it.
     But more so must is
     the taste of chocolate.
     19. Heaven has no halls
     For Heaven has no walls
     See its all quite here So not a soul calls
     20. Standing on a loose leaf folder
     I trust its on the floor
     For if its not and I do flop
     I'll not stand here any more
     21. Don't look into the lightbulb close
     or you may shear your nose
     and as long as were ion that
     never, never, lick a cat
     22. Never yell at bunnies
     And never holler at dogs
     And one more never
     never,. never, never eat frogs
     23. Dogs do not drunk coffee
     less you spoil it on the floor
     and even if they like it
     They will not ask for more.
     24. I want to touch your lips
     The world broke at in the spring
     And all the birds at wing
     And all the alligators just sing
     25, I made love
     with the most beautiful girl
     i made good love
     of that i am so sure

     Things Which Have Come To Thought (Count Two: Dracula)

     Thoughts Think While Tumbling Down The River


     BIO: : G. David Schwartz - the former president of Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue. Currently a volunteer at Drake Hospital in Cincinnati, Schwartz continues to write. His new book, Midrash and Working Out Of The Book is now in stores or can be ordered. Check out my book on Midrash: www.amazon.com/gp/product/1418489565/104-8454011-6722310?n=28315 Midrash

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Contributors this Issue:  Sande Boritz Berger GTimothy Gordon Mathieu Cailler   David W. Berner   Eve Gaal

   Mary Everhart   Christina Nugent   David Berner   G. David Schwartz    Linda Robertson    Lynda Bullerwell

Mark Goad   Dawnell Harrison   Terry McCarty   William Wright Harris   Jacob Erin-Cilberto   Sandra Branum

Geoffrey Holman   Peter L. Scacco   Dan Williams Eleanor Leonne Bennett

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