WRITING HAVEN
Get ready for some flavorful Fiction!

We have some new fiction this month from Lisette R. Jean-Marie and Derek Kittle. Derek is one of many new submissions  in the Poet's Haven, so drop in and relax for a bit.

        ~New~   Lost in the Shadows by Lisette R. Jean-Marie

~New~  How Straight The Line by Derek Kittle

~New Non-Fiction~

On Poets and Writing: Joan Fiset's Now the Day is Over by Esther Altshul Helfgott

~~New Articles~~ Write 2 Live, Kat's writing column pakced with writing tips is here from the ashes of Themestream.

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More Fiction:

The Coalman by Victor Buhagair

The Night Watchman by Victor Buhagair

The Clairvoyant by Victor Buhagair

Below you will various works from Katherine West. We need some new fiction from new or established authors. Please send the editor your stories here:
editor@writershaven.net or ohiobar@sssnet.com
 

I Dream of a Special Quiet Place
by Katherine West

Have you ever wished that you could escape to a retreat from the hustle and bustle of everyday life, to a place where you could leave every worry and care at the doorstep? I'm not the first writer to have thought of this, and I will not be the last. Emerson had the right idea in "Innesfry". I have often dreamt of a place where the only sounds are that of the bubbling brook flowing in the distance and the bantering of the birds that call to one another. This magical place is charmed with stillness. The only sounds are the soft ones of nature, just enough to remind us that we are not alone in the world.

We listen to the twitters and tweets from boastful sparrows that strut and swagger about singing their endless songs of self-love and pride. Writers are much like these exquisite creatures of flight, as they float upon the winds. Scribes too float upon the breeze, but these are the fickle puffs fueled by whims of our imagination and creativity, not the capricious atmosphere. Yes, we writers are creatures of bravado.

We charm our way through words and emotions much like fledglings float above their kingdom of clouds magically, inspiring in flight what we scrawl in mere words- words for the entire world to see. Writers paint beautiful landscapes upon the pages of life with their pens just as birds design their own masterpieces traced with a sharp-edged wing. Primal human emotions are just as tumultuous and as forceful as nature herself. We too must spread our feathers, trusting them to cradle us high above the world, and we must train our voices and sharpen our sails, so that all may hear our most beautiful song.

Listen, can you hear it? A serenade quietly accompanies the steamy spray that swirls from the natural springs- trickling water trails over the jagged rocks that have supported the aging slope for countless years. Shaded by the willow branches that have protected these hills for centuries from the harsh light of day and other harmful elements, we realize that the wise old willows know the secret.

As we follow the brook down the hillside, and into another thicket of maple trees, we come upon a clearing in the distance where a cabin is tucked beneath the hilly grove, protectively among the dogwoods and cherry blossoms. The cabin is a toasty shade of brown much like the color of the earth, peaceful and somehow comforting. This haven calls out for us to enter just as if its creaking walnut floorboards had spoken the words, welcoming us into the quiet arms of solace.

For us writers, a place of such elemental beauty and solitude is a soothing vision. Imagine the joy that we would feel at the possibility of spending hour upon hour bent over, scrawling that secret sonnet or penning those winding words that whisper to us upon the breath of angels. Gazing upon nature, we could write poetry filled with beautiful imagery that could evoke countless emotions, inspiring the world to song. We could create the most spectacular landscapes to enthrall our readers. The quiet ambience alone would help us to be alone with our thoughts, honing the craft that we love. The possibilities of such a place are profound and limitless. Just imagine that special quiet place.

Copyright Katherine West 2001

The Lone Fisherman

by Katherine West

It was a rather humid and sticky July day, which is normal here in the heart of the Louisiana bayou. The sunlight shimmered, streaming through the lush greenery of the large trees that shaded us. Every year our family gathered here on this grassy bank to enjoy each other's company.

We would barbecue chicken and ribs. A bubbling pot of Granny's jambalaya was always simmering, tempting us with its spicy smell. The zydeco music seemed to float on the waves lapping at the shore, but the laughter of the children playing could be heard above the rhythmic music.

The occasional flash from a camera and the CD player were the only reminders of civilization and modern conveniences. Otherwise, it would look like any number of days that our Cajun ancestors had spent here on this very bank, celebrating the magic of summer.

Perhaps that is why it happened on this particular day. Looking back on that summer day, I now realize that the love we felt for each other could be seen plainly on our faces. Could that explain why we were visited that afternoon?

All of a sudden, the breeze kicked up. Paper plates, tablecloths, and napkins lay strewn all over the grassy bank. The air grew cold almost immediately. The children stopped running and playing. Adults quieted down, and raised their heads in question.

I grew very still for a moment, wondering what had caused such a sudden gust of wind. A chill went up my spine, and soon I was covered from head to toe with goosebumps. Since there were no storms in the forecast, it was rather odd to have such a forceful gale-force wind. The sudden burst of cool air chilled the hot, muggy air almost instantly. It did seem strange that the sun suddenly sought protection beneath a cloud.

There was a peculiar odor that accompanied this strange wind also. It was the smell of fish. A few of us walked over to the shoreline yet couldn't see a reason for the sudden pungent smell of fish. Some of us even leaned close to the water, sniffing the air. No, the smell was definitely much stronger near the grassy area directly behind the shore, where the picnic tables were sitting.

I could tell that many of us were getting worried. Everyone looked as if they had seen a ghost. Chatter could be heard of legends and folklore, many stories of creatures and goblins that were rumored to walk the banks of the bayou. A few people thought that perhaps the lone fisherman was visiting us.

The lone fisherman is rumored to be the ghost of a fisherman who disappeared near this very spot back in the forties. The grassy area was very close to the last place that he had been seen- the dock that jutted out from the grassy landscape.

One sailor reported that he passed by just as the missing fisherman held his catch up in the air, saluting his fellow fisherman. His remains were never found. Although the disappearance was investigated, it had never been solved. The incident was never ruled a murder or a suicide, because the police never found a body.

Some of the local residents thought that he was simply eaten by an alligator or some other swamp beast. Other local folks thought that he may have killed himself, since his pregnant wife was killed a year earlier by an alligator that came calling. A few townsfolk even thought that it was possible that he was murdered for the gold that he kept buried beneath the planks in his shanty in the heart the swamp.

The legend of the lone fisherman is notorious in this part of the bayou. Ever since the fisherman's disappearance, there have been many sightings of him reported. None of these eyewitness accounts could ever be verified. The lone fisherman had become just another spooky story of the bayou.

All of this commotion was enough to dampen the spirit of any picnic. Soon things were being packed away. Various family members began hugging, bidding their loved ones farewell. It seemed that they couldn't leave the picnic fast enough. They hopped on their boats, vanishing into the murky bog.

A few days later, I was going through the pictures from the picnic. I came across one in particular that interested me. It was the photograph of an older gentleman on the dock, near the grassy spot on which we had picnicked. The strange thing about the photograph was that no one else who was at the picnic seemed to be in the picture. Instead, there was a house or cabin behind him.

There were no tables covered with food. There were no people except the lone man holding his catch. My mind was whirling with questions. Who was this man? Where is everyone from the picnic? How could this happen? Why was there a cabin in the photo?

Suddenly it dawned on me. No, it simply couldn't be. Could this be an actual photo of the infamous lone fisherman? Is it possible that somehow we captured his image on film? What else could explain this strange photo?

I held the photograph gingerly, as if it might actually bite me. I noticed the foggy quality near the fisherman's feet. The image gave me such an eerie feeling. I tried to shake the spooky feeling, but it gnawed at me.

When my husband came home, I showed him the photo. He couldn't explain it either. He told me that he would bring it to work the next day. There was an old-timer that he thought knew the fisherman before he had disappeared.

When my husband came home from work the next day, he looked as if he had seen a ghost. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he brought out a photocopy of a photo. When he handed it to me, and I noticed his hands shaking. His fingers were trembling so much that he nearly dropped it to the floor.

As the image came into focus, I realized that it was a picture of the same man in my photograph. He looked nearly the same age, but in this photo he was wearing dressy clothes. I noticed that he was standing next to a pretty young girl.

My husband told me that this was his wedding photo from the local paper's archives. After talking to the old man that he worked with, his curiosity was piqued. He headed down to the local newspaper office on his lunch hour, and came across this photo.

How was it possible that I held in my hand a picture of the same man, nearly sixty years after he was reported missing? I felt my blood run cold. There could be only one explanation. The lonely fisherman paid our picnic a visit on that fateful July afternoon.

Copyright Katherine T. West 2000-2001
 

The Smoke-colored Stranger
      by Katherine West

      The dark, foreboding storm clouds seem to loom
      Like an angry beast holding its fury
      Contemplating an attack from above
      The scene is strangely beautiful- eerie

      This pompous, smoke-colored stranger hovers
      Just overhead, filling the humid air
      With a heaviness felt deep in our lungs
      The tingly air alive with electric

      The boom of thunder, the beast's battle cry
      Growls of pure evil permeate the soul
      Flashes of light from an angry ogre
      Light up the now dimming horizon

      Damp droplets spew from his slobbery sneer
      The unruly monster of mayhem stills
      The calm, cooling rainfall quiets the beast
      After a quick temper tantrum, he flees

     Copyright Katherine West 2000-2001

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