Issue #10

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Rind Literary Magazine
Issue 10
November 2017
rindliterarymagazine.com
All Works © Respective Authors, 2016
Cover Art By:
Sherry carter
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Editor in Chief:
Dylan gascon
Fiction Editors:
Johnathan Etchart
Jenny Lin
Melinda Smith
Stephen williams
Shaymaa Mahmoud
Nonfiction Editors:
Collette Curran
Owen Torres
William Ellars
Anastasia Zamora
Poetry Editors:
Shaymaa Mahmoud
Sean hisaka
Lisa Tate
Webmaster:
Omar Masri
Blog Manager:
Dylan Gascon
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Contents
Acknowledgements 5
Contributors 43
Fiction:
reparations/Tracy Roberts 6
Mistakes/david macpherson 11
Ma was a hard woman/William ade 39
Non-Fiction:
The lion of Pondicherry
vs. the silver yogi/Roberto loiederman 12
Poetry:
Gag reflex/lamont palmer 10
Toys in a box/ Valerie Ruberto 18
The choice/linda gantt 43
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Acknowledgements
Thank you to all of our contributors, past and present, for
helping us get this thing moving. Thank you to the creative writing
faculty of the University of California-Riverside, Mount San Antonio
College, Rio Hondo College and Riverside Community College for your
continued support of this magazine.
Rind is on the look out for original artwork and photography for
our upcoming issues. If you or someone you know might be interested in
contributing, send us an inquiry for more details.
Please support the San Gabriel Valley Literary Festival; find
them at http://www.sgvlitfest.com. We’ll be there, and so should you.
Check out our listing on Duotrope. We’re also on Facebook and
Twitter. Regular updates on RLM and other fun and interesting things
can be found at our affiliated blog site:
http://www.thegrovebyrind.wordpress.com. If you would like to contribute to
Rind, send your manuscript to rindliterarymagazine@gmail.com.
Cheers!
–The Rind Staff
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Reparations
By Tracy Roberts
Green, with subtle gold highlights, the vase looked ancient, possibly Egyptian. It had a square
base, and was approximately two feet tall, with two loops at the top, like the outline of shapely human
ears. The clay had been carved, and fired in a gold and copper glaze, then a green glaze had been poured
over it, the drips not completely obscuring the carvings and only reaching two thirds of the way down.
My sister loved that vase. She’d found it at a moving sale. One of those great sales, where the
wife had died and the family of the husband couldn’t get rid of stuff fast enough. Lydia had talked of
having the vase appraised, but had never bothered.
The Scene of the Crime:
It was a Wednesday afternoon, an eye doctor’s appointment allowed me to leave work early.
For months I’d suspected that my vision had lessened in my left eye, but no, I wasn’t creeping towards
blindness, so celebratory shopping was in order.
Mid-April, certainly the spring clothes would be on sale. I was on the hunt for an ivory cotton
sweater, but I ended up with two skirts and a sleeveless blouse. That’s the problem with sales, what I
don’t really need can be irresistible if the price is right, while when everything is full price I only buy
what I really truly want, which included one of the skirts( a splurge ).
That’s what needs to be clear about how my sister and I were raised. I was in my late twenties
before it ever occurred to me that some people pay full retail, fashionable people, or people cool
enough to own the latest gadget. My mom marched us straight to the clearance rack. We never tried
on anything else. Shopping was an ordeal, not a pastime.
“They’re not that short. You’re exaggerating.” My mother would say as our pants got further
and further from the tops of our shoes.
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It took until we couldn’t button them for her to relent. Then she’d always want to buy us a
size larger than we needed. Most of the time my mother got her way, because it was better to have
something too big, than nothing at all.
Until about age 12, I assumed we were poor, that’s when my girlfriend, Karen, pointed out
that her family didn’t go on vacations, and that my dad’s car was nicer than anything her mother had
ever driven. Karen’s mom was divorced, a waitress. They used food stamps, but Karen, her sister and
her mother always dressed stylishly, and the presents extended four feet from beneath their Christmas
tree. In our house, the gifts were beneath the tree – go find them.
Our mom wasn’t exactly cheap, because she gave to a bunch of charities, which was part of
her getting into heaven plan. She had grown up poor – walk the two miles home rather than take the
bus in order to have money for a candy bar, poor. Every cent mattered. She drilled it into us.
Lydia and I both lived in the same small city, and we each had keys to the other’s apartment.
Her place was downtown, so I would often stop by. On the given day, I had one of her books
to return, as well as her huge roasting pan that I’d borrowed for a dinner party two months before.
While driving over to Lydia’s I was questioning the full price purchase I’d made, and thought I’d try
the print skirt on at her place, so that I could return it right away rather than risk laziness deciding the
deal.
So, I parked on the street, put money in the meter, then went back to get the book, the roaster,
my large purse, and the bag holding the skirt. The roasting pan was going to hold everything, but my
purse was so heavy, and I didn’t want the skirt to get wrinkled. As Klutzerella stepped into the
elevator, she almost tripped as the purse swung down, and the skirt bag fell to the floor, she barely
held onto the the pan and book, but luckily there were no witnesses.
Not taking any risks, I put everything down outside her door, to get out my keys. Then I
carried everything in and placed it on the dining room table.
The roaster went behind all of her baking goods. I considered putting it in the oven, but I was
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afraid I’d hear about it for the rest of my life, so I placed the flour, sugar, cup cake cups, decorating
kit,
sifter and all of her spices on the counter, put the pan away and everything else away. The book I
slipped into the bookcase in the living room. Then I tried on the skirt, and went to check myself out
in
the full-length mirror in Lydia’s bedroom – frontal, smile, side, suck it in, then twirl, seems to have
good
flare. The skirt would be staying. In the reflection, I noticed a pretty card by her bed stand. I picked it
up and read it. We were very close.
I changed out of the skirt, and went to the kitchen for a glass of water.
The skirt was back in its bag, I grabbed my handbag along with the keys. Walking out, the
green
and gold vase on the table by the door caught my eye. Instinctively, I swung my leaden purse at my
beloved sibling’s ceramic treasure. It crashed to full, unrepairable, unsalvageable brokenness.
I got out the broom and swept all the pieces into a bowl, which I left on the console table. I
wrote a note.
“Lydia, I’m so, so sorry. I was carrying a ton of stuff, then my bag fell off my arm…
Please forgive me. Love W
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Perusing the Pier
By Jessi Dawn Cowan
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Gag Reflex
By Lamont Palmer
There are depths I wanted to plumb,
on evenings when there was not a lot to do
but think of the rain and wonder about
its natural force,
and how loving it is to lose oneself, mind
and history, in its crashing sound
and its fragrance, fresher than the art of moaning.
Your mouth says it all, and then says nothing;
your mouth is the entrance of disbelief; no
one could believe the soft magic there,
or the strong pushback on
its complexity.
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Mistakes
By David Macpherson
Jason dragged the canoe, its aluminum keel screaming, down the concrete boat ramp and into
the darkening waters of the Susquehanna. Beyond the breakwater that protected the bay, white caps
sparked the river’s surface. In his small pack, he carried the bottle of the self-prescribed medicine he
started after his less than honorable discharge from the Army.
He pushed off and paddled hard into the bay, alternating sides every twenty strokes. From
where he sat in the stern, the raised bow blocked his view. He would drink when he reached the
breakwater, a place where any screams would be carried away by the wind.
He stopped, breathless from the sprint and fished the bottle from the wet pack and drank a long
swig. He shook his head in satisfaction. A dull gray sunset lit the wide river. He paddled on and
steered upriver into the growing waves. The canoe’s bow bobbed in the rhythm of the waves.
The body in the river startled him. Naked, pale white and face down in the black water, the
corpse advanced on the canoe. As it passed, he grabbed a swollen, mushy arm. The boat listed and he
tumbled in the water. Another mistake. He grabbed the dead arm again and covered the Marine
tattoo with his grip. The Marine did not keep him afloat. He kicked hard and dragged the body to the
canoe. Leave no soldier behind.
Death welcomed Jason. He need only let go. It might even be judged accidental.

He first had met Tyrone’s mother as he exited a bus in Harrisburg, where Tyrone grew up. He
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knew her always as Ms. Sanders. Her stature, like a senior teacher, did not allow him to address
her by her first name. He and Tyrone had four days unscheduled time, too short to return to Jason’s
home, Ogden, but long enough to get to Harrisburg.
She wore a gray flowing dress and stood on a hard corner of a sinking neighborhood in sight of
the capital. Her broad forehead, smooth black skin, and elegant gray hair defined her. She hugged
Tyrone after he stepped down from the bus. Her only son had inherited his mother’s face and pride.
Jason retrieved their duffels from the bus’s storage compartment. Mother and son stilled hugged and
rocked after the bus left.
Tears on her cheeks, she looked at Jason over her son’s shoulder. “Who’s this, may I ask?”
Tyrone released her. “Sorry, Mom, this is Jason. He needed a place to stay during leave. I
tried to call you but you didn’t pick up.” Ms. Sanders inspected him, a white Army private from
Utah with a crew cut. Tyrone had forewarned him of the inspection. Jason held still except for his
eyes. On the nearby sidewalks, all the faces were black.
He slept in Tyrone’s room on a blow-up mattress she bought later that day. They played video
games and stayed out of the neighborhood. She had taken time off from her work, managing a
cleaning service, to be with her son. She cooked foods with flavors Jason never had tasted-heady
spices in pork and chicken and collards. Tyrone grinned at him during the rare times he looked up
from inhaling the meals. She told him to slow down and savor the food. “Yes, ma’am.” But, he
could not pace himself.
On the third night, they whispered so as not to wake her in the next room.
“What happened to your dad?” Jason said.
“Don’t know. Never met him. Mom says he bailed as soon as she told him she was pregnant.”
“Sucks.”
“Maybe so. Likely an asshole. Better he left us alone.”
“Your mom ever date anyone else?”
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him to the river’s faster flowing center. No way to hold the corpse and reenter the canoe.
Jason struggled to tread water using a mangled right foot. He tried to pry off his boots but they were
too tight. He reached down to untie the laces but sank below the surface. When his head regained air,
the canoe had drifted almost out of reach. He dragged the body and regained the canoe. The
corpse’s head bobbed above the surface. Jason saw the small, clean, bullet hole in the temple. No
exit wound. Tired of choices, he turned towards the shore where headlights crept in the distance, the
cars’ passengers unaware of his peril.

The third night of leave, restlessness overtook them. They took a bus to Paxtang. Tyrone knew
of a bar that served discounted drinks to veterans. The wooden floor, covered with years of grease,
tobacco and spilled beer slithered under their loafers. Most seats on the bar were open. Tyrone sat
near the middle. Jason sat next to him. Three men, hunched over, watched TV at the far end of the
bar. Two men talked among themselves a few seats down. Dark caps with “Vietnam Veteran” rested
next to their beer glasses.
The bartender, a tall man with a square, acne-scarred face asked for IDs. They pulled out their
military IDs. Both had turned twenty-one in the past year.
The bartender returned their cards. “Hooah,” he said.
They both echoed the Army greeting.
“On leave?”
Tyrone took the lead as usual. “Yeah, just finished basic.”
The duo from the end of the bar held up glasses to them. One of them pulled a cigar from his
mouth. “Even though they’re fucking Army, buy them both a beer.”
Tyrone grinned at the man. “You serve?”
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“Everybody in this bar served, soldier. Marines. 65-67.”
“Shit. Some stories to tell I bet.”
The old soldier’s words slurred. “Maybe, but nothing that would make you happy. Fuck,
anybody happy.”
The bartender stepped in. “Easy Tommy.”
Tommy got up to leave. He walked and stood between them and put both arms around their
shoulders. Jason smelled the beer and cigar.
“The whole thing’s a fucking mistake, Nam, Iraq. Anytime anyone shoots at each other. Just
one big fucked-up misery.”
The bartender leaned in. “Come on Tommy, leave them alone.”
“Yeah, yeah. One last thing. Just keep your fucking head down. Don’t be a hero. Heroes are
just dead mistakes.” He hoisted his pants as he walked out.

Six more possible IED’s that day turned out to be false alarms. Later that afternoon, a mile from
base, the smartest eyes in the vehicle had closed –Tyrone’s head drifted in sleep. Jason thought of
waking him but they were close to home. He had seen the sign but failed to recognize the danger. A
mistake. Shrapnel exploded through Tyrone’s torso, his vest like tissue paper. A piece of Tyrone’s
spine had lodged in Jason’s ankle. The surgeons removed as much as they could—some of Tyrone’s
DNA would stay forever in Jason.

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Jason sat in a metal folding chair next to Ms. Sanders at the interment. His crutches leaned
against the back of the chair. Sun filtered through full green maples. Robins chirped their random
melodies. Tyrone’s face, a distorted wax figure in the open casket at the funeral, now hid behind the
closed coffin lid.
The pastor said words Jason didn’t hear. Five soldiers fired three volleys: duty, honor, country.
The guns silenced the robins. Ms. Sanders flinched on the first volley. Jason took her hand. It didn’t
help – she flinched at the two final volleys.
The honor guard removed the flag from Tyrone’s coffin. Soldiers’ hands snapped the fabric
into the precise triangle, never to be unfolded again. The lead soldier leaned over and presented it to
her. “This flag is presented on behalf of a grateful nation and the United States Army as a token of
appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.”
Jason stared at Tyrone’s coffin. What’s left of her son, her lifetime project, is a fucking token.
He stayed with her until his leave ended three days later. On the last night, they drank cold
coffee in the kitchen and picked at the remains of a cookie tray. He had hoped he would learn words
that would comfort her. But, no words worked.
She surprised him. “I want to thank you for staying with me. I know you don’t like to talk
much – that’s fine by me. You just being here helped. I feel Tyrone is closer somehow.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.”
She asked what Jason had expected her to ask. “How did he die?”
“The Humvee hit an IED, ma’am. I’m sure he didn’t feel a thing.”
“You must not have seen the IED.”
“Ma’am, thinking back I did see something. But, it just didn’t register until later. It was a
mistake ma’am. I’ll live with it forever.” He paused. His head fell. “I’m so sorry.”
They were quiet for a minute. The coffee pot signaled its automatic turn off.
She put a hand on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t feel badly. Tyrone must have missed it too.”
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“I don’t know, ma’am.” He hoped this was enough – no reason she should know.
She placed dishes in the sink and hummed a few bars of a spiritual Jason did not recognize.
But, she could not sustain it.
“I don’t mean to be pitiful but I’m all alone now. Tyrone was all I had.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It was a mistake letting him sign up. He told me he would become a man in the army. He told
me he would come back. Just another mistake.”
“Ma’am, he did become a man – the best sergeant around. And, ma’am, it wasn’t the Army that
trained him. I think you did more.”
She hugged him. “You’ve been kind. I know you’re suffering too. I need to ask a favor.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t ever stop visiting me.” She pulled out of the hug and rested her arms on his shoulders.
“Promise?”
“Yes, ma’am. I promise.”

Six months later, they sent him back. Jason spent most days guarding the base’s main gate.
Without Tyrone, no banter, and no one to ask about what comes next – no one to prevent mistakes.
And underneath, a constant rage – fantasies of violent retribution and torture snaked through his head.
A week before they sent him home forever, a white Mercedes crept toward the gate. The sergeant
used the bullhorn. “Stop” he blared in English. He repeated the message in Arabic. The car
continued to move forward. Jason would not allow another soldier near him to die. He would not
fuck up again. His sergeant fired a warning round over the car’s roof. The car may have sped up.
Jason saw a sand fly
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on the nozzle of his M14A4. A weapon fired. His? He fired at the windshield. He fired again.
His shots hit.
The sergeant screamed. “No, no, no”.
Jason continued firing.
“Hold your fire, soldier.” After two more rounds, Jason stopped.
The sergeant barked at him. “Jesus, soldier. I never told you to fire.”
They watched the smoking car for five minutes before they approached. Jason stayed toward
the back. Blood painted the windshield and back windows. Five rifles pointed at the car. The
sergeant opened the driver’s door. The mother’s Hejab dripped her blood onto the lifeless toddler in
her protective embrace.
“God damn it. God damn it.” The sergeant had tears in his eyes.

The sun had set. The wind calmed and the river blackened. Jason shivered. He held the
corpse’s arm and the gunwale. His own death would end further mistakes. Or was death a mistake?
From the Marine’s expression, it didn’t seem so bad. Just let go. He wouldn’t last long.
He heard his promise to Ms. Sander’s, the only human alive who still needed him.
Not now, not yet.
The Marine floated away. His hand free, Jason saluted and moved to the canoe’s stern and
retrieved the paddle. The makeshift rudder turned them toward the lights on shore.
END
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Toys in a Box By Valerie Ruberto
A kiss from your eyes is all I crave in the recent past, present.
Desperate suggestions from a tremulous brain scavenge for a future with you.
I balk with each surge of cool metal on my fingertips,
Hesitant to send each sentence of extenuation and reclamation.
Such a facile fashion of redemption for most;
How they slither with grace into the inboxes of their former loves
While I’m rendered unable to put words to your screen.
A relationship having seen no dawn, now starved of an end.
Twin souls who’ve never shared a kiss, just imagined its taste more than once or twice.
A closure preceding any commencement;
If I persist to refuse it, does it merely go away?
The past is as ephemeral and permanent as possible.
It’s an empty vapor; it’s a hailed statue.
It’s as confident and veiled, it doesn’t compromise.
A structured contradiction that raises the tides from me to you,
My boat won’t go past a whisper out of shore sight,
So I wade in the waves in sight of where I wish to be.
But you’re a toy in a box that I left in the basement.
You’re tape and dust, cricket-smothered, corner hugging;
A box in the basement I can’t pick up,
So a pen in my pocket will have to be strong enough.
I can lift you with words alone, and bring parts of you to me:
The snow from your eyes, the dying skin on your hands,
Your square root face that’s parabolic with every breath of me.
And my penchant for audacity and hypomania and pluck
Inspired a desire to speak through tin cans and string to you now.
Please accept this as a daunting challenge;
My impediment to your increasingly pleasurable life.
If you feel yourself in these words I write
And taste of your cologne in each cadenced phrase,
Mirror my audacity and take up arms.
Place metal to fingertips, graze glass with a swift flick,
Address to me messages of pleasantries full and empty.
Be ready and willing to whisper away days with me.
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THE LION OF PONDICHERRY vs. THE SILVER YOGI
By Roberto Loiederman
My Brit friends talk about a pub-crawl: going from one watering-hole to another, drinking pints of ale
until, half-blind and fully-brined, you stagger home. In 1969, in India, I did an ashram-crawl,
wandering from one spiritual institution to another until I was half-brined with budding
enlightenment — at least I thought I was.
A nonstop blur, but none of this scratched the deep itch I had: learning how to use natural means to
reach the same heights I’d been on when high on psychedelics. After exchanging information with
others on the same quest, I arrived at Pondicherry, in southeastern India, and became a resident at
Ananda Ashram, a small yoga and meditation center headed by Swami Gitananda — a bearded yoga
teacher in his early 60s. Gitananda, whose birth name was Anand Bhavanani, was burly, barrel-
chested, and had an imposing physical presence.
Swami — as we always called him — was half-Indian on his father’s side but didn’t look Indian: it’s
probable that he inherited his pug nose, pale skin, ruddy complexion, and beefy body-type from his
Irish mother. He didn’t speak like an Indian either; he’d spent most of his life in Vancouver, so his
accent was pure Canadian. He said he’d been a physician, and though none of us doubted he really
was a doctor, we never saw proof of it.
There were about 40 of us at the ashram, half from India, the other half from all over: New Zealand,
U.S., Israel, Switzerland, Canada, Great Britain, France, Ireland. We practiced yoga day and night in
order to raise the shakti, the core spiritual energy that lies dormant, like a snake, until it’s aroused;
and to open up the chakras, energy centers located in nodes from the base of the spine to the top of
the head.
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Our day began at 6:00 am sharp (Swami: “That’s punctual Western time, not Indian eternal time”)
with asanas — yoga postures — followed by meditation. Then breakfast.
Twice a week we’d traipse down to the beach to do our asanas and deep breathing. We’d arrive
before sunrise and see townspeople having furtive, alfresco bowel movements. The beach was a giant
cat-box, and stepping on the sand was always a bit chancy.
While at the ashram, especially during meals, it was a good idea not to look out the western window,
where there was a crude open-air butcher shop which usually had gobs of blood and guts all around,
and fresh goat carcasses hanging, surrounded by flies.
Swami had an odd assortment of assistants, employees, sycophants and volunteers. There was
Srinivas, who wrote English well and typed, so he took care of travel, finances, record-keeping and
correspondence; Crazy Krishna, a 19-year-old flunky who was as lithe and graceful as a cougar, and
could do any yoga posture, but who — like Narcissus — couldn’t pass a mirror without admiring
himself; and the woman, whose name I forget, who took care of the children — because of the rings
on her toes, we called her Twinkle-toes.
I remained at the ashram because swami’s method didn’t require belief. It was like pushing buttons.
We used physical movements, visualization and breath control to arrive at a state of self-hypnosis. No
belief. No dogma, no higher power: perfect for a non-believer like me.
Still, there were events that defied rational explanation. For example:
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With ice-blue eyes and hair so blonde it was white, Zigrid arrived at the ashram with a fully-formed
gift for deep meditation. When she went into a trance, all those near her were affected. This is not
hearsay. One night several of us slept in the same room, and when she meditated, I felt pulled into her
orbit, as if I were levitating. It was scary, and I forced myself out of it.
The first month of the Ananda Ashram yoga course was aimed at breaking down old patterns. This
might take an aggressive form, like exercises that pushed body and mind to their limit, or meditations
during which we might relive toxic experiences, like having been the victim of violence. Someone’s
buried demons might escape and you’d hear screams, or pleas for help.
One night at satsangh, the evening session, while we were chanting “jay-jay-jay-a-ram” over and
over until it became a hypnotic meditation, Kathy, a young British woman who’d grown up in
colonial Africa, started writhing and screaming: “Get off! Get off me!” she ripped off her wig — I
hadn’t known she wore one — and kept on screaming. Swami rushed over, pressed her carotid artery
and gently prodded her: “Where are you? Where are you? Tell me where you are.” This calmed her
down. The next night Kathy told us that two years earlier she’d been hit by a bus in Rhodesia and the
chanting meditation had led her to relive the trauma.
At the ashram we learned more than yoga and meditation. One of swami’s techniques was lengthy
fasts — up to nine days — during which we only drank water. A fast would begin with a thorough
intestinal and colon cleanse: drinking heavily-salted water and twisting your body into yogic
positions, so that eventually what came out your anus had (nearly) the color and texture of a
mountain spring — well, a muddy mountain spring. Once we were that clean inside, we were ready to
begin a fast. There were ideas about what kinds of foods cause illness, and an emphasis on practices
which sounded crazy, like drinking your own urine. I don’t recall what that was supposed to do for
you, but swami swore by it.
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Swami was not someone who scattered wisdom or whose words held us in thrall. In fact, we tended
to make fun of his more outlandish ideas: for example, that the biblical Abraham was from India. Ur
of the Chaldees, he said, is the Indus River area, and Abraham’s name is derived from “A Brahmin.”
His wife Sarah’s name comes from the saree she wore.
There were many tales like this, which most of us didn’t take seriously and therefore enjoyed. What
some at the ashram didn’t like, especially the more pious men and women, was swami’s macho
swagger. He was in excellent physical condition and often implied he was full of sexual energy;
every woman in the ashram was keenly aware of this.
Swami often confronted us with what he called our “Western prejudices”: our reliance on
medications to treat all problems and our skepticism about the curative power of yoga. Much of
swami’s bluster seemed to come out of a constant need to validate himself. He regularly rebuffed all
other swamis or any other form of spiritual liberation. He boasted relentlessly and used the college
degrees of his students as a mark of his own worth.
Swami would say things to be provocative. Since cows in India are not eaten and they’re generally
left to wander as they please, they cause enormous pollution. Swami proposed that all cows be
slaughtered — on his next birthday. About human overpopulation in India he had an equally drastic
solution: since billboards urging people to stop at two children had had little effect, swami suggested
that all men in India be sterilized. We smiled when swami said this, knowing he was using satire to
make a point.
It never occurred to us that these comments would destroy an International Yoga Convention.
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*
Sometime during our second month at Ananda Ashram, swami told us that Srinivas, his right-hand
man, had arranged a trip for us to Bangalore. Even Eliezer, a paraplegic Israeli, would go. We’d stay
there for a week, at a place which one of swami’s devotees had found for us: enough rooms for us to
sleep in, as well as a large room where we could do yoga.
Swami told us that in Bangalore he’d give a speech about yoga at a public gathering, and so would
another holy man, an American-born guru whose birth name was Robert (Bob) Hansen. Hansen had
spent the late 1940s in South Asia and become a Hindu adept whose teacher gave him the name
Subramuniya. Back in the Bay Area, where he was from, Guru Subramuniya founded a yoga center
called the Himalayan Foundation and his devotees called him “Guruji.”
Subramuniya, swami said, was going to make a three-week spiritual tour of India with his followers,
the climax being the International Yoga Convention to be held in Madras. In the photos,
Subramuniya looked slim, handsome in a WASPy way, long silver hair slicked back, a diamond in
his left ear.
Called India Odyssey InnerSearch, Subramuniya’s tour would visit holy spots and ashrams where his
acolytes would share their meditation practices as well as learn and experience what they could.
There were going to be twenty-five people on the tour, five of whom were full-time monks who’d
been with Subramuniya for years. The others were spiritual seekers, mostly from the Bay Area.
At the prices being charged, we felt, they were probably well-to-do spiritual seekers. Participants
were charged close to $3,000 for lodging, food and travel within India. To put this in perspective, I
was paying $25 per month to stay at Ananda Ashram, and that included lodging, food and instruction.
Some
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were paying more, some less. One young Brit arrived at our ashram wearing a potato sack and his
only possession was a guitar missing a string. He stayed for a month and then left his guitar as
payment.
The flyer pointed out that someone named Dick Ford was managing the nuts and bolts of the tour and
that Guru Subramuniya would lead the group in its spiritual practices in the tour’s different locations.
We started calling those on this tour “Subramaniacs.”
When swami talked to us about Guru Subramuniya, he told us that some years back he’d been at a
yoga conference in Colorado, and that Subramuniya had been there as well. Swami let us know that
he was unimpressed with Subramuniya; he dismissed the guru’s practices as “less advanced” than
what we were learning in Pondy.
“His method will only take you this far and no farther,” swami said, holding his right hand, palm
down, at the height of his own massive chest. “With the methods and techniques we use here, you
can get much higher.” He held his hand way over his head, palm down.
To some of us at the ashram, the competition between our swami and Subramuniya sounded like a
comic book struggle: The Lion of Pondicherry vs. The Silver Yogi.
*
25
Anada Ashram 1969
Swami Gitananda in
Center left; author in center
26
On a bright day in late November 1969 we took off from Pondicherry in several old and slow vans,
which was just as well, since the drivers had to maneuver their way around cows, carts, people,
tractors, hay wagons, road damage, wandering holy men, pilgrims and all sorts of other obstacles. We
made stops at temples along the way, where we ate, drank tea, and met men and women dedicated to
the spiritual life. Finally, late at night, we arrived in Bangalore and settled into our rooms in what
looked like a school or a social center, just in time to go to sleep.
Crazy Krishna woke us up at 5:30 am — swami was determined that during our week in Bangalore
we’d keep up our usual schedule. At 6:00 sharp we were doing asanas and deep breathing. The room
we were in was five or six times the size of Ananda Ashram’s, and it gave us a chance to stretch out
and move our arms and legs in a way we couldn’t in Pondy.
All of us, that is, except for Eliezer, the 40-year-old Israeli. Eliezer was paraplegic, except that he
claimed it was psychological and not physical. He had survived World War II in Poland by hiding in
attics and cellars, which had atrophied his legs: after liberation, he could no longer use them. He
moved to Israel in 1949 and tests showed there was nothing physiologically wrong with his spine, but
the fact remained that he couldn’t move his legs. A year earlier, in one of his world tours, swami had
visited Israel. He met Eliezer and promised that if he came to Pondy, swami would have him using
his legs again. Eliezer was skeptical, but he came anyway, and now he was in Bangalore with the rest
of us.
“Today’s meditation is yoga nidra, the sleep of the yogis,” swami said after our asanas and deep
breathing exercises. “This is a very powerful dhyana, a meditation that will dig way down, far deeper
27
than any we’ve done so far.” The meditation involved relaxation, breath control, and finally a series
of visualizations that put us “inside the golden egg.”
After deep, rhythmic breathing, swami led us on a guided visualization in which we imagined a spiral
which got bigger and bigger, constantly encompassing more and more of our bodies. After spiraling
back in, he had us imagine ourselves floating inside a golden egg of warm, comforting lava. I felt my
body floating. Rising. Levitating. It was wonderful! This was what I had come to India for: to
experience a psychedelic-like state without the use of drugs. I was weightless, lying inside a bubble. I
wanted to stay there for as long as possible. I could have stayed there for hours, days, maybe the rest
of my life.
But suddenly I was jarred out of it by swami calling out: “Everyone! Look at Eliezer!”
At first I resisted, but swami insisted, and Eliezer also shouted out. In his Polish-Israeli accent, he
yelled: “Look at me! Look at me! Look at me!” I moved my fingers and toes, forcing myself out of
the trance. I took a few deep breaths, then twisted my head so I could look toward Eliezer: My god,
he was moving his legs! His legs were bicycling! This wasn’t an illusion. I actually saw it! Eliezer
was laughing and crying and yelling at the same time.
One by one, we all shook ourselves out of the golden egg and stared at Eliezer. As soon as Eliezer
realized we were all looking at him, his legs dropped suddenly, like dead weight.
The room went quiet. The miraculous moment had passed, leaving a hush in its wake. Things went
back to the way they had been, and Eliezer’s legs were now without movement.
28
Eliezer remained in the ashram for months, doing yoga, including yoga nidra several more times; but
he never moved his legs again after that mysterious incident in Bangalore.
*
That afternoon, our vans took us to a large auditorium where there were many people already sitting
inside. Our group sat together, and nearby were the Subramaniacs, some of whom had tonsured hair –

were they the ones in the monk program? All the Subramaniacs, men and women, wore black and
sat ramrod straight, as if someone had placed a pole in their backs.
An Indian man who said he headed “the Bangalore yoga society” introduced Swami Gitananda, who
went up to the microphone. Swami was no more than five feet six inches tall, probably weighed well
over 200 pounds, but he had a certain grace when he walked. He wore a saffron robe and around his
neck was a Tibetan rosewood mala bead necklace that he used for special occasions. During the last
few months he’d let his white hair grow long, both his mane and his beard — The Lion of Pondicherry
looked very lion-like.
He smiled broadly and proceeded to bore everyone with platitudes about yoga: its growing popularity
and how important it was that it be taught everywhere. When he finished, there was polite applause.
Could there have been smug glances from the Subramaniacs, as if they were saying: “Is that it? Is that
all your swami can do?”
Then the host of this gathering introduced Guru Subramuniya, who may have been spiritually
evolved but looked like a Hollywood version of a guru, which was disconcerting. Tall and thin,
twenty years younger than our swami, Subramuniya was the opposite of Gitananda. Though both had
athletic grace, Subramuniya’s movements were those of a ballet dancer, while swami’s were those of
a football player. Swami, in bright saffron, exuded macho virility, while Subramuniya, the Silver
Yogi, in virginal white, gave off an androgynous air.
29
At the beginning, Subramuniya’s voice was gentle. He talked about how he’d spent three years in this
part of the world, traveling between India and Ceylon at the crucial period just before and after
independence from Great Britain. With nostalgia, he talked about the “beautiful South Asia” that he
remembered from twenty years earlier. Now, after having been away for two decades, he was back…
and what he found was not to his liking. No indeed.
“What this part of the world has become is a joke,” Subramuniya said. “A stupid, nasty joke.” His
voice rose slightly and took on an edge of accusatory anger. “For weeks I’ve gone around this
country and I have yet to find any real holy men. Instead, what have I found? Tricksters. Charlatans.
Conmen. People pretending they’re holy men while all they do is defraud the gullible. Instead of holy
men, I’ve found impostors who make believe they know Hinduism and yoga, but all they know is
how to lie and cheat. They promise the moon and deliver moonshine. And it isn’t just those who
pretend to be holy men. It’s everyone! India has become a disgraceful place. Since the British left,
this country has regressed.
“Everywhere we go we’re treated with disrespect. With outright malice. It’s gotten to the point where
I’ve told my people not to trust anything an Indian tells them. And it’s not only us who are treated
this way. It’s you as well. You treat one another with no respect at all. You push one another, you
make life as miserable as possible for yourselves. Life is difficult enough in a country this poor, but
you people make it much worse by the way you treat one another.
30
“And the society you’ve built! When I left this part of the world, things were still in decent shape.
Now look around you. Your houses are in disrepair, your public buildings are falling apart, your
infrastructure is failing. This country is a mess! You have to take care of your own space if you want
to maintain it! Have any of you ever heard of paint? Do you know that you need to clean in and
around your homes if you want to prevent diseases? You chew betel nut, you spit everywhere, you
eat food that burns your insides, you contaminate the public space. You turn the water mains off so
the water becomes toxic. You’ve created a toxic mess here!
“And none of you seem to care about it. Your lives are in shambles and you don’t care! You don’t
take care of your bodies or your health — look at how you eat. You don’t take care of your spiritual
lives. You go to temple, but you don’t follow any of the tenets of Hinduism. When I left, the country
was poor but it had backbone, it had dignity. Now it has neither, neither backbone nor dignity. You
can’t even sit up straight! Look at you. Look around you. What do you see? You’re slouching, like
children who have no respect for themselves.”
Subramuniya now seemed to have the audience’s full attention.
“Sit up!” Subramuniya shouted into the microphone. “Sit up straight for once in your lives!”
All of us from Ananda Ashram sat up, by god. We sat up straight, just like the Subramaniacs were
doing, though they needed no prodding from their guru. The Indians in the audience, however,
seemed unmoved: a few sat up straight, but the majority remained slouched.
For those of us who’d been in India long enough to feel resentment about people who’d given us
wrong directions out of malice or stupidity, long enough to be sick of people spitting everywhere, of
filthy beggars clutching at us, of people fawning over us because we were Westerners; for those of us
who’d been seething with frustration at every act of incivility at bus stops or train stations, at every
government flunky who gleefully exercised power over us, Subramuniya’s tirade hit us like a jolt of
long-needed self-righteous confirmation.
31
Subramuniya took a breath, then tamped down his rhetoric as he spoke about the upcoming
International Yoga Convention, scheduled to be held the coming week in Madras.
“I’m looking forward to the convention,” Subramuniya said. “I’d like to hear interesting ideas and
new suggestions that have to do with yoga as it will be practiced in the future. Think about all the
amazing changes taking place in our world! Just a few months ago, Americans landed on the moon.
Our explorations will take us further and further into the unknown. But what about our inner
explorations? What will yoga be like on the moon? What will meditating in outer space be like?
These are the kinds of questions that need to be asked.”
Once Subramuniya finished, we all filed out of the auditorium, and it seemed that the Indians in the
audience hadn’t taken seriously what Subramuniya had said. Or maybe they hadn’t really understood.
Totally ignoring that he had trashed them, they came up to us and asked where we were from and
what we thought of India. But now we felt empowered by Subramuniya, so while in the past we
would have smiled pleasantly, we were now angry.
“India is a terrible place,” one of my friends snorted, “where people come up to you and ask you a lot
of asinine questions, and stare at you. Can’t wait to get out of the country.”
As my friends piled into the bus to go back to where we were quartered, I decided to walk — I needed
to think about what I’d heard. On the way I passed an empty lot where men were yelling and
whistling. I came closer and saw they’d formed a circle around a pit dug to a depth of three feet. At
each end of the pit a man was holding a rooster. Both men blew air into the roosters’ ears, then, at a
signal from a third party, tossed the roosters into the middle of the pit.
32
The two men scrambled out of the pit while the roosters fought a furious battle: a flurry of claws,
screeching, blood, shouting, and, finally, the loser jumping into the pit to grab his defeated rooster,
wailing for the injured creature, followed by money changing hands.
After the cockfight was over, the men in the circle noticed me watching. They glared at me, and I
backed away, heading back to the main street.
*
That night, inside the building where the Subramaniacs were housed, we — the residents of Ananda
Ashram — were guided to the dining area, where tables had been set up for us to sit together with the
participants of the India Odyssey InnerSearch.
While eating, I was flanked by two Subramaniacs, one of whom was in the monk program — his hair
was tonsured and he too had an androgynous air. The meal was lovely. Brown rice, several kinds of
lightly-spiced vegetables, sweets, dates, yogurt and tea. I was sitting across from swami and
Subramuniya, who were chatting. At one point, I heard swami say that Subramuniya was right, India
is a mess, but he had a couple of practical suggestions.
“On my next birthday,” swami said, “I propose they kill all the cows in India. Think about it. It’ll
reduce pollution, it’ll clean up the country.” Subramuniya smiled — he’d obviously been exposed to
swami’s sense of humor before. “I have another suggestion,” swami said. “I propose we solve the
population crisis by sterilizing all the men in India.”
“Also on your next birthday?” Subramuniya asked.
33
Swami laughed genially and Subramuniya smiled, showing that he — again — got the joke.
After the meal we all went outside and the Subramaniacs chanted their mantras. They didn’t use
traditional Indian words: no Hare Krishna or Jay-Jay-Jay-Ram. Instead, Subramuniya had developed
his own system of resonant sounds, the most evocative of which was “Shoom!”
According to a monkish Subramaniac near me, “This sound, shoom, just dropped from Guruji’s brain
one day, in a dream, and we’ve been using it ever since. It has a sweetness that works better for us
than the traditional Sanskrit.”
After the chanting was over and we were ready to go back to our quarters, Crazy Krishna, who had
flexible knees, bowed down and kissed the hem of swami’s saffron robe and also kissed
Subramuniya’s white robe. Then swami chanted “Shiva” over and over again for a few minutes. A
little more shoom-ing, a little shiva-ing and we all shook hands warmly, planning to get together
again the following week in Madras, at the International Yoga Conference.
*
Several days later, after we returned to Pondy, swami posted a telegram on the bulletin board:
TO: DR. ANAND BHAVANANI — ANANDA ASHRAM — PONDICHERRY 1 INDIA
DUE TO YOUR WANTING TO KILL ALL THE COWS IN INDIA ON YOUR NEXT
BIRTHDAY AND DUE TO YOUR WANTING TO STERILIZE ALL THE MEN IN INDIA AND
DUE TO YOUR STAND ON DRUGS, YOU ARE HEREBY DISINVITED TO THE
INTERNATIONAL YOGA CONVENTION STOP PLEASE DO NOT COME
DICK FORD — SECRETARY — HIMALAYAN FOUNDATION
34
We were stunned. Surely, Subramuniya had understood that what swami had said about cows and
sterilization were jokes, provocations meant to trigger a reaction. Hadn’t he? And what was that
business about swami’s “stand on drugs?” Almost any subject would trigger a diatribe by swami
against the use of drugs. Swami got high by talking against drugs. For him, drugs were the
competition.
Perhaps it had something to do with our hairy, spaced-out appearance as compared to the crisp, stay-
pressed image of the Guru’s group. Perhaps Subramuniya feared that Indians at the yoga convention
would lump all Westerners into the same basket, and he didn’t want our ragged look to pollute his
group’s image.
Swami asked us all to consider an appropriate response to the telegram, and that night at satsangh I
suggested: DEAR BOB HANSEN: SHOOM YOU.
Swami couldn’t leave it that simple, so instead sent the following: DEAR BOB HANSEN: YOU
ARE ACTING CHILDISH STOP THOSE ATTITUDES ABOUT COWS AND STERILIZATION
WERE METAPHORS STOP IF CONVENTION IS AN OPEN ONE WE WILL COME ANYWAY
STOP SHOOM YOU — SWAMI GITANANDA
Two days later, the following telegram arrived: DR ANAND BHAVANANI: IT IS A CLOSED
CONVENTION STOP IF YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE COME YOU WILL BE ARRESTED
— DICK FORD
35
For the next few days Srinivas was missing and swami was very busy typing away. It was clear, from
what swami said, from the phone calls with Srinivas that we overheard, that Srinivas and swami were
involved in a war to shut down the International Yoga Convention. Was swami’s mojo strong enough
to shut down the convention? Was the guru’s mojo strong enough to keep the convention open and
bar swami and his students from going?
The following day, about midday, swami met with us and — with a twinkling, triumphant smile —
waved a telegram he’d just received from Srinivas in Madras. Swami happily read it aloud and then
posted it on the bulletin board: SWAMI GITANANDA — YOGA CONVENTION CANCELLED
STOP COMING HOME TOMORROW — SRINIVAS
Swami laughed heartily and did a little dance, much like an athlete scoring a hard-fought goal.
*
The day after swami’s great triumph, I walked to the ashram, as always, before 6:00 am.
The area where I lived, about 100 yards from the main ashram building, was teeming with the poorest
of the poor, people who lived in small shacks divided by a dirt path. Every morning, in front of every
house, there was a woman, or maybe a girl, carrying out a particular ritual.
First, using a whisk broom on the dirt road in front of her house, each woman would clear a space of
about five feet square. Then, using finely ground white rice powder held at the tips of her fingers,
each would bend down at a precarious angle and put dots on the road. Then, with the same white
36
powder, she’d connect the dots and form a delicate, symmetrical pattern. The entire ceremony would
take about an hour, and it was performed every day without fail.
Each house had its own unique design, different from that of its neighbors. And each house replicated
its own particular pattern every day. In that part of South India, this mandala-like drawing is called a
kolam, which comes from the Dravidian word for “beauty.”
Perhaps it would have been more accurate to have used a word that means “fleeting beauty,” because
within seconds after a kolam was drawn, its destruction began: by bullocks, people walking to work,
old women selling dung patties that are used for fuel, carts delivering vegetables, cows ambling down
the road. From the moment each drawing was ceremoniously laid down, the whole noisy, chaotic
scene of South India trampled on top of it and pulverized it back to dust. Within minutes, there wasn’t
a trace left.
Unless there was a monsoon, the process was repeated every day, without fail.
Every morning I asked myself: Why would someone do that? Why would someone create a work of
art that she knows will be destroyed almost immediately? Yes, I understood there was magical
thinking at the root of this: my neighbors believed that by creating a kolam every day, they connected
with powers that would protect the house and its inhabitants.
But there must have been other reasons for that daily ritual. Indians know as well as anybody that the
world can turn ugly and senseless in an instant. So maybe they felt it was important to create a little
bit of order and beauty every day, even if it lasted for only a few seconds.
37
I suspect, though, that there was something else to this ritual. I think my neighbors instinctively
understood that the daily kolam was a confirmation of the ephemeral nature of things. Nothing lasts.
Everything passes. By spending an hour every day making a drawing that was destroyed as soon as it
was finished, my neighbors acknowledged that the human being, and all human endeavors, could be
destroyed in the blink of an eye. Like a snap of the fingers.
In the face of unimaginable poverty, disaster and tragedy, of forces that seem totally indifferent to our
fate, a daily reminder that anything and everything can disappear in a heartbeat must have been
strangely comforting.
There was real holiness in this innocent ritual, real devotion, real humility. This was where I should
have been looking for spiritual guidance, not in self-appointed, competitive “holy men” like
Gitananda and Subramuniya, whose cosmic battle resembled the cockfight I’d seen in Bangalore: two
roosters fighting to see which one is tougher and more powerful.
And I thought about the International Yoga Convention, which never took place. How would the two
holy men have behaved? Would they have faced one another at high noon? Would Subramuniya have
pulled a shoom out of his holster? Would Gitananda have outdrawn him with a yoga nidra and laid
him out cold?
I’m grateful I never got to witness that epic spiritual battle… though I would have liked to learn
about meditating in outer space. Who knows? That might be useful someday.
#
38
Guru Subramuniya
39
Ma was a Hard Woman
By William Ade
I knew right then it’d be the last time I’d ever speak with her. She was curled up on her death
bed, a gasping bundle beneath a sheet. Her lungs wrecked by cigarettes and needless arguments. She
was done, going nowhere but six feet into the ground.
“Ma, it’s me, Nelson.”
Her eyelids fluttered like butterflies made of onion skin.
“What you doing here?” she said.
“I came to comfort you.”
She spat out her words. “Why now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Just leave me the hell alone, will you?”
I was a bit surprised this husk of a woman could still generate such high-octane vitriol. I
instinctively came back at her. “You’re going to die hating me, aren’t you?”
Not unexpectedly, she didn’t answer me. In our family feelings and words were strangled
before they got out of hand. It helped keep everyone confused and off-kilter.
I stared down at her, hoping to make some sense of why I came. A blue knitted cap covered
her head, filaments of white hair sneaking out to mock her vanity. Her knees were pulled up toward
her stomach. She reminded me of that bog man they found in Ireland, except she was the color of
milk.
I took several deep breaths before I was able to squeeze out my words. “I thought you might
want to have someone here with you.”
That was the best I could do. Probably been more magnanimous if I told Ma I cared about her,
but I wasn’t sure about that sentiment. I certainly didn’t expect her to respond warmly
40
towards me. That was the nature of our relationship, nothing more than two scorpions tangled
in a deadly knot, each blindly stinging the other.
Of course, truth be told, she had the better reason to hate me. After all, I did kill Dee Dee.
Ma’s mouth opened, stutter-stepping before the words came. “Where am I?”
“You’re in hospice.”
“What the hell am I’m doing there?”
“The doctors can’t do any more for you.”
Her face twisted in consternation. I figured no one had told her. But then again, maybe
someone had, and she refused to listen. It’d be no surprise to me. Ma always found the truth to be an
unwelcome stranger.
“What are you doing to me? Hospice is death.”
My mother’s face pinched real hard in anger. It was an expression I’d seen all my life. Her
snarling caused her to start hacking. Her chest shook with a wave of wet coughs, turning her pale face
pink, then almost plum-colored. I thought that was it. She’d die right there, infuriated with me.
I’d been in LA when hospice called me. They said my mother was sleeping most of the time,
but soon it’d be never-ending. As her only child, they just wanted me to know. Maybe they thought
me and her had unfinished business. I was unsure myself. Part of me felt obligated. You know, honor
thy father and thy mother and all that bullshit. Whatever my motivation, I scrambled and caught the
last flight to Raleigh.
“Now Ma, let me make you comfortable,” I said, reaching over to reinsert the oxygen tubing
that had slipped from her nostrils.
She slapped my hand away. “I can do it.”
As she rolled away from me, I swore I could see the contempt emanating from her ravaged
body. “Just leave me the damn alone,” she said.
41
I knew it was best to comply. Ma was like a rabid dog if you touched her. She’d get crazy,
wildly attacking without mercy. If I’d learned anything in the last forty some years, the woman was
impervious to my caring.
“Okay. I’ll leave you alone.” I said.
I didn’t know those would be the last words she would ever hear.
Ma never regained consciousness. She spent the night restless, caught up in some emotional
agitation. I sat by her bedside, dozing off and on. I woke once when my right arm got bent and went
numb. Another time my head dropped to my chest and startled me awake. I woke for good when I
heard Ma’s crying.
“The waters too deep, it’s too deep,” she said.
I moved closer to her bed. The light above the headboard illuminated her face and the anguish
that had taken hold. I guessed she was in the final throes of negotiating with the Angel of Death. I
figured I had to say something before she passed, if not for her at least for me.
“I’m sorry, Ma. Can you forgive me?”
She let out a tiny cry, sort of like a kitten mewling for its mother.
“I was just a little kid myself when Dee Dee died,” I said.
I was surprised by the wet hitch in my voice. I thought I’d drained that sea of labored emotion
years ago. I guess not. Maybe knowing you were careless and your baby sister drowned never leaves
you.
Some folks with troubled relationships hope for reconciliation as they stand witness to their
parent’s dying. They trust the specter of death will soothe the anger and cure the hurt that festered for
decades. But I knew that was nonsense. Ma taught me that bitterness reigned mightily over
forgiveness.
Then she died, her soul hitch-hiking on her last exhalation.
42
I had her buried the next afternoon, early enough for me to catch the last flight out of Raleigh.
I’d done my duty. That’s all I got out of the experience. There was no ceasefire, no understanding,
not even a breeze of reconciliation. I left feeling the same way I arrived, remorseful and abandoned.
43
The Choice
By Linda Gantt
My werewolf spirit controls,
steering me towards wholesome
traditional peace; yet a wester, it
is, too, oddly roaring and sustaining.
Like Jane in a ‘Tarzan’ movie—needing
a protected home and the suspenseful
energy of lions, tigers, and apes.
Maybe I’ll dribble-dot paint.
(A pale blue whale might appear
with a few double drops of water.)
Or should I stir fry frog legs
with snow peas and sprouts?
(I have a new recipe for oyster sauce.)
Looking out the tall tinted solarium
windows. . . an easy choice suddenly.
I remember my aunt’s savorless fried
chicken and watery-thin blackened-banana
pudding on a sprightly Sunday noon.
And I know my future!
44
45
contributors
Tracy Roberts is Assistant Professor of Mathematics at Santa Fe Community
College. She earned a BS in Mathematics and an MEd from the University of
Massachusetts in Amherst, as well as an MFA from Goddard College. She
lived five years in France, nine years near Burlington, Vermont, and almost
as many on the Connecticut shoreline. Santa Fe is where she now teaches,
writes, hikes, dances to a lot of live music, and lives with her partner.
Lamont Palmer lives in Maryland and has been writing since he was a teen. In
addition to poetry, he writes fiction and essays and is currently in the
process of publishing his first novel. In his spare time he enjoys reading, day
trips, and staring into space in deep thought.
David Macpherson is a retired physician who cared for US veterans during
his medical career. He lives on a farm in Western Pennsylvania and spends
much of his time working to improve his writing.
Valerie Ruberto is a student at Tufts University. She has had three poems
published in Yellow Chair Review and one published in Halcyon Days. To read
more of her poems, go to http://www.valerierubertopoetry.weebly.com/.
Roberto Loiederman has been a journalist, merchant seaman, and TV
scriptwriter, has published in the L.A. Times, Washington Post, Baltimore
Sun, Penthouse, Serving House Journal, Santa Fe Writers Project, Rum
Punch Press, Thread, etc., has been nominated for Pushcart Prize in 2014 &
amp; 2015, and is co-author of The Eagle Mutiny, a nonfiction account of the
only mutiny on an American ship in modern times. His essay, Roadblock,
published in Fifth Wednesday Journal, was named a Notable Essay in The Best
American Essays 2016.
46
William Ade lives in Burke, Virginia with his wife and the customary writer’s
pet, Rudy the Cat. He’s a newly emerging writer working the craft since

His evolving voice is self-describedas “Midwestern Old Man” which is
appropriate since he grew up in Indiana during the fifties andsixties. His work
has appeared in the Crimson Leaf Review and will be featured in the Spring
2018 issue of Broken Plate.
Linda Gantt, a native Texan and former college English instructor, writes
essays, fiction and poetry. Her publishing credits include ‘Red River
Review’ and on-line literary group sites.She describes her poetic style
as eclectic: a blending of the traditional with the more modern
conversational and/or narrative. Favorite subjects are eroticism and
familial/social commentary.
47