Chapter One
The Chain

Some say a memory is a gate way to the past… They say it’s an open door to all the happy moments you shared with your loved ones. To me a memory is a door way to hell in many ways. Like the memory I have when I was four and my mother met a man who would later become my step-father. I know what you’re thinking, how is that a door way to hell? Well let me continue with my “memories…” and you will see.
Here is a memory that I wake up to each and every morning and go to bed with every night if I choose to sleep that is. It is a memory of my older brother who at the time was 8 years old and I was around 5. Sitting at the kitchen table with my baby brothers who are twins. We are sitting at the kitchen table waiting for my step father to give us lunch. The house we lived in was built in the 60’s and nothing much had changed over 20 years later. The floors were a brown tile like the tiles in old schools. The kitchen was painted in a red and white with the cold metal cabinets and silver handles. My step father was a large heavy man with dark hair that hung past his ears and a reddish brown beard. For some reason that day my step father began to tease my older brother. Fag! He would say; you little faggot. Of course, we had no idea what that meant but we knew by his tone my older brother was going to “GET IT” at least that’s what we called it.
For about a half hour our step father continued to call him names. You stupid pussy, you’re a momma’s boy aren’t ya? You little pussy… (our mom was at work and would be for hours) my brother fought back the tears but by this time he had broke and started to cry and I can still remember my step father say you wanna cry you little pussy I’ll give you something to cry over. He pulls my brother up out of the old green vynal kitchen chair and carries him over to our screen door… I can see my step father taking the chain at the top of the aluminum door and wrapping it around my brother’s throat. Twice he wrapped it around his neck then just letting him go. The only thing holding him was that chain. It looked like the kind of chain from our swing set the kind with the links. I can still see my brother who was what my mom called scrawny grabbing at the chain around his little neck, clawing and gasping for air I watched his little feet struggled to find the floor. There was no floor under his feet. My step dad had swung the door out so that he hung over the hill side that our house was built on. I can remember sitting there crying begging for him to stop hurting my brother for what seemed like hours went by were only minutes I watched as my best friend, my big brother slowly stop moving. His panicky kicks were now small twitches I watched as his face turned blue and his arms dropped to his sides. My stepped dad pulled the door back in and my brothers bare feet grabbed the kitchen floor and as the life came back into his body he started to fight again. He fought so hard to try to get his throat out of the chain only to be kicked back out to hang over the hill side again. I live with the memory of hearing the man my mother married laugh as my brother fought to stay alive. He stood there mocking his cries and laughing at him for being so afraid. I can remember screaming STOP IT! YOU’RE HURTING HIM! over and over but we lived so far out and away from everyone that no one was going to hear either of us scream.
Four or five times I remember him swinging my brother out and letting him hang there and just as my brother would start to lose conousnous he would bring the door back in long enough for him to wake up and start fighting again. All day my brother hung in that chain. After a few hours my step father grew bored and just left him hang there in the door. His legs were just long enough to let his tip toes rake the kitchen floor.
I watched as my step father ate in front of him putting food in his face. He held his drink out and asks my brother I bet you would like a drink wouldn’t you? I watched him walk by him like he wasn’t even there. It was getting late and he started to bath my little brothers. The second he was out of my sight I drug a chair over to the door climbed up to him to give him a drink of kool aid. I was only five but I tried to loosen that chain before my step dad came back in there. I tried so hard but I just wasn’t strong enough. No matter how much I pushed and pulled they wouldn’t come loose. I have memories of seeing my brothers tiny neck bruised scratched and covered in dried blood that was now flaking off onto that chain and on his blue he-man t shirt.
I have memories of him raising up his head and telling me “sissy you better get out of here, hurry he is going to catch you” I cried, I had to go to bed knowing my brother was hanging in that chain. I laid there waiting for him to come to bed (we had always shared a room) I could see that our bedroom wasn’t so dark anymore and I knew that when it started getting day light it was time for my mom to come home. I heard my brother moaning so I look down and he was lying in our bedroom floor. Our step father had taken him down off that chain before our mom came home. I helped him to bed and we laid there and cried until we fell asleep.
I remember waking up to our brothers playing and our mom yelling, we went down stairs and she ask what happened to his neck and before either of us could say a word, he said they were horse playing and she tied a rope around his neck. I remember her getting onto me about doing something so stupid “he could had really been hurt don’t do that again” she said. That is what starts out my memories.

by Charity Chapman

Smooth gospel tunes flow from the screen,
my head perks, peach ears twitching as the
sounds flow in.  I pull up one white paw
from the couch, a claw escaping from
the material with a light pop. 

There isn't much to a cat's life,
but sleeping, eating, drinking and
the occasional outing with the lovely
Juliet, with tufts of gray and white,
which flow swiftly in the breeze. 

However, I would not change my life
for the world, for sometimes the simplest
of things are life's most precious gifts. 

Congratulations, Olivia, for completing your first novel! I call that a first year out of college well-spent! -- Hayley

by: Charity Chapman


As I lean upon the balcony
of this castle from long ago,
I watch the moon's light as
it shimmers down below.

I was just sitting here writing, or rather staring at the screen with a case of (fiction) writer's block, and decided to look through my notes from lit fest for inspiration. Instead of finding fiction inspiration, I wrote a poem about Rita Dove's lecture. Whatever works!

by Charity Chapman

Colonel Charming pranced proudly back and forth across the dew-kissed ground as morning broke over the Gettysburg fields, raising one paw every now and then as he stopped himself and supported himself with the other three, addressing his brave division of tabbies, persians and scottish folds.  "Yes, I know they are mice, but we should never forget that they have large numbers," he said, his expression rather serious now as he sat down on his haunches in front of the fierce feline warriors, who more than made up for their stature with their hearts full of might.

(Please tell me what you all think of this sample.)

Hi, Lit. Notes Pals --

I just want to share a link that I found online today for Writers' Colonies and Retreats. You'll find that you have to pay your own way for most of these, but there are also scholarship opportunities available. Space is competitive and limited, but I know real people who have gone to these, enjoyed them, and have gotten some real work done.

Hayley

http://www.poetryresourcepage.com/colonies.html

by Charity Chapman


Up the road that woods caress,
lies an old iron furnace, long at rest.
When people pass by, do they know
that it saw hard work but also sorrow?

There was a Civil War blunder there,
when a group of rebels so bravely dared
to make a raid, which ended in
the unexpected arrests of many men.

By Scott Alavezos
I'm considering.  Your thoughts are most welcome.

by Charity Chapman


In this dusty and forgotten tomb,

an air of the past is in full bloom.

The ibis, cat and jackal stare,

Their emerald eyes remain fully aware.

These animals are incapable of warning,

so a stranger's steps will bring great mourning.

by Charity Chapman

Let them tell you their stories,
how they fought and died for glory.
Shall Union Colonel Williams tell you his,
how the bullet in Gettysburg almost missed,
yet took him from his wife and kids?

Shall you look, beneath a shining moon,
up on a hill and see an ivory tomb,
ascend to it and see the flowers all strewn.
Within the depths of this grand case,
lies far too many an unfamiliar face.

Wander among pines that are very tall,
and up ahead, and not far at all,
you'll spot a mansion upon a grassy knoll.
Grand columns line the front and glow,
and, here, as  history books tell us so,
Robert E. Lee and his family lived long ago.

from Kacy

by Charity Chapman

In the stillness of the night, a shot
rings out and frantic cries of
'stop, we are your Rebel brothers' ignite.

Alas, the great stone wall has fell
and the confederacy has started
on a fateful trail.

Hi Bloggers! --

Here is another Label I have created for Lit. Notes. Use this space to talk about books you are reading, ones you have read, ones you have heard about and plan to read soon -- anything bookish.  Eventually, I would like to use this little space on our blog to hold a reading group. I am thinking A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving for us to read together this summer. It is one of my very favorites, and I would be happy to run a book group on it. I propose that whomever chooses a text for us to read can be the person to guide the discusssion. Any takers? -- Hayley

Hello, Creative People --

I have created this space on our blog where you can post creative writing projects that you would like to receive critiques on from your peers. Simply post up something you are working on, and perhaps note where you would like specific guidance. Short pieces will probably work best. Make sure that you label your work Virtual Workshop before you post it online. The Creative Writing label is just for those pieces you want to share, but are not seeking critique on.

Although my own time commitments may prevent me from chiming in on theses, I do encourage you all to get your own virtual workshop going in this manner. I'll try to comment here and there when I can.

Hayley

What did you think of this year's Spring Literary Festival? What did you learn? If you went last year, did you think this year's festival was more or less interesting? Who was your favorite writer? Who was your least favorite? Did you enjoy the lectures or the readings more? Do you feel inspired by the words that you heard? Have you written anything noteworthy since the festival? What about during the festival? Aside from hearing the speakers, did you experience anything that inspired you?

Did you find Rita Dove to be beautiful in every possible way? Did it feel like she spoke directly to your Spirit? Did it feel to you as if she reached into your body, picked you up by your Soul, and peeled back the multiple layers of who you thought you were? Did she leave you sitting there with an entirely new and radically redefined concept of your Self and your duties as a human being and/or writer? Did you gain a new perspective by hearing her words? Did you notice her fingernails?

What was your impression of Rosellen Brown? Were you thoroughly enthralled by her readings? Or did she bore you with her almost intangible elaborations of the grasp that the ego has on humans? Did it inspire you to free yourself from your own sense of dignity? Did she get you to question your own death and the things you will be leaving behind? Did she remind you of a school teacher?

Did you enjoy Debra Marquart's reading and lecture? Did you like her excerpt from The Horizontal World? What about her other reading about being "The Other Woman?" How much of that did you think was based on her actual experiences? Did it make you question her morals? Or were you amazed at how blunt and honest an author can be? Did it inspire you by her showing how accepting one can be about their previous decisions? Did it show you that self acceptance is one of the keys to Happiness? Did you speak to her? Did she charm you with her knowing eyes? Could you believe that she is 54 years old?

Did Tobias Wolff make you laugh? What did you learn from his lecture? What did you think of his short stories? Did it shock you when you found out that he faked his way into college? Did he impress you with his knowledge of brain anatomy and function? What about his understanding of the human psyche? Did you enjoy his Freudian discourse in his short story about the funeral planning? Did you Love his sweet mustache? If you asked him if you could touch it, do you think he would let you? Would you like to get lost in it? How many people do you think he has hiding in there at any given moment?

Did you like Padgett Powell? Did he make you question your concepts of what "writing" is? What would would you do if you suddenly found yourself standing in an empty room with him? Would you ask him questions? What would you ask? Would you be intimidated? What if he were to begin to ask you some questions of his own? Would you answer honestly? Would you at least be as honest with him as you are with yourself? What if he just didn't stop asking you questions? Would that make you feel uncomfortable? How long would you let that go on? At what point would you begin to search for an excuse to leave the room? Would there be any questions that you would be unable to answer? Would you just answer everything that he asks? Or would you just stand and stare at him in a complete and speechless bewilderment of the morbid and obscure corners that his Mind resides? Have I asked too many questions? Or was it just enough?

"Memory has its own story to tell".
I found this quote by Tobias Wolff tucked away in the pages of notes I took while at the literature festival. As I rediscovered this quote my own memories began to inspire me. They began to weave together into their own story.

I began to recall those times as a child that required bravery.



I was being brave.
That mournful, shadowy, oppressive day.
I was being brave
as I said goodbye.
I watched the never ending
parade of strangers
shuffle through the building.
I was being brave
as I was whisked away.
He was gone forever.

I was being brave
the afternoon I told them
my secret.
I was being brave
the evening every detail
spilled from my lips.
I told them,
I was being brave
those long and terrifying nights.

I was being brave
the day I saw her.
The old smell of
the hospital was overwhelming.
The heavy sadness suspended in the air.
I was being brave
as I watched her chest
rise and fall
at the will of the machines.
I was being brave as I
brushed her slat and pepper hair
from her cold forehead.

I was being brave.
Yes, brave that warm summer day.
I held him as he fell apart.
I was being brave as I whispered in his ear
"I love you, we'll figure this out".
I was being brave
as I silently watched him pack his truck,
back out of the driveway,
and out of my life.

-Hannah Travis

Certainly, all of the following encounters did not occur in a dimly lit bathroom on the second floor of the Baker Center (as two of the esteemed authors at this year’s Literary Festival were male), but one did. That benign, everyday women's room gab made me realize what was so special, and surreal, and perfect about this year’s festival: the authors were friendly, encouraging, enthusiastic… accessible. They were genuinely nice people; regular people, with shining talent and a wealth of personality.

Like Padgett Powell, who was so gracious to autograph my copy of his The Interrogative Mood for me, and when he asked for the dedication, peered at me, head cocked, and said, “Kacy? That’s not a name that I’m familiar with.” To which I was prompted to reply, “Yes, there were 30 babies per 1 million born in 1982 with the name Kacy; the only year that name is found in such fashion.” He cocked his head to the other side, gave me a bemused look and said, “Well, good luck with that.”

Or Debra Marquart, who was both interested in telling Olivia and I about the M.F.A. program at Iowa State and in learning about what we were writing. She graciously posed for pictures with us, and exclaimed “Wow, your tall!” when she looked at the shot, worried that she had not taken a good photo. She asked us to tag her in the pictures when we posted them and was quite excited to check in on our literary blog. What wowed me the most was when she spoke of a new, short piece that she had shared in her reading the night before. She told us how nerve-wracking it was to share a new piece, to know when it was ready to present to the world; she said eventually, “You just have to go for it.”

We encountered Tobias Wolff near the book sale, and he enthusiastically dropped his belongings on the nearest table and took our books to sign. “What graduate programs are you interested in?” he asked while he wrote, and he talked about the merits of the program that I mentioned and complimented several of the professors there that he was friends with. “Just keep writing” was his advice. He too was more than happy to pose for pictures, but asked that we not post them on the internet, because he hated “seeing his mug everywhere.”

Rita Dove patted the seat next to her and her husband when I asked for her autograph, and the first thing that I noticed were her beautiful finger nails as she signed my book. Each was half gilded accompanied by teal, fuchsia, or royal purple. She told us how much she had enjoyed the literary festival: the theater, the audience, and the English department who put the festival together. She was warm and receptive and so approachable.

Which brings me to the bathroom conversation that occurred before the final readings: The second floor bathroom in Baker is decidedly cramped: three stalls and two sinks that create an assembly-line effect for the patrons as the soap and paper towels mirror one another on opposite sides of the sink, and woman are constantly reaching over each other in an attempt to wash and dry. All three stalls opened at once, and there were three women in line, until Debra Marquart and another woman walked in, and Rita Dove stood at the sink, forced to reach over the girl next to her for soap as the other girl tangled her arms over to grab paper towels.

Dove announced that she would move to the corner of the bathroom to apply her lipstick, as more patrons filtered in and it struck me just how selfless the offer was as she was about to read in front of hundreds. She attempted to balance her purse to keep it from falling in the trash can, apply her lipstick, and keep the door from hitting her back each time a new woman entered the restroom, rushed because it was almost time for the night’s readings and the theater (and bathroom) was teeming with bodies. Dove said, “This is excessive. Someone didn’t think this bathroom through.” Marquart replied, “A man must have planned it.”

We all laughed, and the tension broke, and the conversation turned to the mundane, but I realized right then that this year’s lit fest was different; each author was down-to-earth and accessible. They were inspiring and genuine. They were humorous and engaging. They were all willing to autograph, to share, and to advise, but most importantly, they were interested in interacting in a positive, meaningful way.

By: Olivia Picklesimer
I recently attended my second Spring Literature Festival at Ohio University and, just like last time, I was motivated to say the least. With the variety of authors that come to share their wisdom and talent with us, I’ve always found at least two that inspire me or that I just really connect with their work. This year it was the authors Rita Dove and Debra Marquart.
I most enjoyed Rita Dove’s lecture on her craft, the way that she works. She titled her lecture “Romancing the Stone” and gave several different analogies for interpreting it. She felt that it most reminded her of the Arthurian legend, advising us that if the fit isn’t right, it’s just not going to work. Instead, she told us to find the right stone, and then find the right way to romance it. Other pieces of advice that she had to offer were to write during your peak time, when you felt more energetic and inspired, and to find a way to work with your pitfalls or flaws. Finally, she insisted that we must believe that writing is so important that nothing else matters.
As for Debra Marquart, I most enjoyed her reading. Her first piece was an excerpt from her memoir The Horizontal World: Growing Up Wild in the Middle of Nowhere. Very detailed and descriptive, it was easy to envision the scenes of her life on the family farm. She also treated us to a more recent piece that hadn’t been published yet in which she describes her life as the other woman and how the tables eventually turned and she was cheated on herself. This was one of those pieces that I really connected with.
As I mused on what I had taken away from this year’s Lit Fest, I realized that, while admire both of these ladies as well as a host of many other authors, an emerging writer ultimately must find their own way. The way that one author works, for example Rita Dove working through the night and sleeping when the sun comes up, may not work for all writers. As she said in her lecture, write when it feels good to you.
This is definitely not to say that we can’t learn from them. Why else would we attend literature festivals and conferences? These people are older, wiser, and have been doing this a lot longer than we have; however, we shouldn’t take their advice and set it in stone, otherwise we’ll end up trying to romance the unromanceable stone. Use the knowledge and experiences that they have shared to find your own writing style and hone your own special craft for writing. Who knows, maybe in the future we’ll be returning to Ohio University’s Literature Festival, not as part of the audience, but as a revered author who has been asked to share their knowledge with a new crop of emerging writers.

by Charity Chapman


Red brick buildings of old
peeked out from beneath sprawling
limbs, whose lush and lively
leaves swayed about gently.
Countless emeralds riding
the wind as it caressed
them with it’s carefree waltz
through the atmosphere.

It was as if some spectacular
and beautifully preserved
colonial town was surrounding
me on all sides. One could get
lost in the moment and imagine
men, women and children
in period clothing walking about.

Then the voices of students
going on about there last class
could be heard, reminding me
that I was standing at the center
of Ohio University.

Strolling onward, the look of
age would begin to dwindle,
except for a few magnificently
preserved chapels. They stood
out from amongst more modern
structures, such as bookstores
and the plentiful abundance
of restaurants that lined
Court Street.

Each author that had descended
upon this scenic college town
seemed to have their own
unique personalities. One thing
they had in common was
that they all breathed life into
their written works.

George Saunders,
I thought and still think
topped them all,
delivering his readings
with amazing energy.
Not only could he write,
but he proved he could act.
He’d give each and every
person that spoke within
the words their own special voice.

In the ballroom, where he spoke,
the white glow cast itself
upon a trinity of yellows, whites
and purples. Clear glass enveloped
their long emerald legs.

How lovely it would have been if, within
them, souls could have bloomed. If there were
a beautiful mass waltz occurring
there that night, some wondrous magic
might have rained down upon them and
allowed them to leap forth and join in.

High upon the hill, grand works
of art within the sprawling castle
could not disguise it’s wretched
past. It gazed down upon the lovely
town, intimidating those who stared back.

Lit Fest 2011, one of the BEST experiences of my life :)

 

The OHIO University Inn has the MOST comfortable beds EVER!!!!

Katie Owens and Brittany McFarland

Katie Owens (Me), Rita Dove, Brittany McFarland

Brittany McFarland and Rosellen Brown

Brittany McFarland and Me :)

Inspirational Quote :)

Tobias Wolff

Debra Marquart and Me :)

Padgett Powell

The Old Tuberculosis Ward

The Kennedy Museum (Old Insane Asylum)

The Kennedy Museum (Old Insane Asylum)

by Charity Chapman

You'll never clip this eagle's wings.
She knows her heart, what makes
it sing.  These are not your dreams,
they are her dreams.  We do not
live our lives for other people, but
for us.  Maybe you do not always
understand her, but perhaps
you should try.  Let her flee
to her daydreams, for they are
her personal sanctuary and where
she plans a fruitful life.
She knows we can only can truly live,
if we live a life free of fear.

by Charity Chapman

Above the grief stricken land,
as dawn signals the arrival of another day,
silence is shattered by a powerful Rebel cannonade.

"Soon, my sweet Sally, all will know my name,
He exclaims, holding his bride's photo tenderly,
"..and I'll return to your warm embrace, joyfully."

He rides past nervous soldiers in waiting,
easing the sweet reminder into the safety of his pocket,
then sees their eyes trembling nervously in their sockets.

The adrenaline rushes through his veins,
an excited fire in his eyes, as his voice rings aloud,
"...rise up, old Virginia, go forward, steadfast and proud!"

by Charity Chapman

In her book of poetry Sonata Mulattica, Rita Dove says that "we are props of a sort, let's not forget it". This became almost prophetic for me this weekend. I have lived in Ironton my whole life, so imagine my surprise when I walked up the stairs in the Kennedy Museum of Art at The Ridges in Athens and came Face to Face with faces from Ironton. I was shocked to see my hometown on the walls of the museum. Lloyd Moore lived in Ironton for fifty years where he worked as a lawyer. As we wandered the room looking at the pictures, we saw things and places we recognized. One man's shirt read "Lawrence County Regatta 1984" while a collage advertised a local church. It was surreal to see my life on the walls of The Ridges. Moore even has a book called Face to Face of pictures from around Lawrence County, OH. The museum had his book of display. While leafing through it I saw a picture of four little girls dressed as angels. Upon closer inspection, I realized that I grew up across the street two of the little girls pictured and graduated high school with another. It was even more eery to see people I knew and not just places or things. Seeing Ironton Face to Face in The Ridges may have been my favorite part of my trip to the Spring Literary Festival this year.