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!

From the Mouths of Doves
By: Kacy Thacker Lovelace

“Act to serve,” “romance
That stone,” girl. “No Excuses” from the mouths
Of birds, of Doves. “Pull
Meaning out” and “Be
Receptive:” to the words,
To the tones, to the subtle
Shift of mood.

“Use your pitfalls,” “your
Roadblocks,” Send “I”
To the shadows, though
It lurks, waits, to spring
Upon the mind,
Doors open wide to take
It all in: the words,
The tones, the shifting
Atmosphere of us.

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.