The attached letter from a new writer to Fine Lines (Shawnelle Alley, Fremont, NE) arrived just in time for the holidays. I could not have wished for a better present. Her wonderful expression of what a new writer feels like to be published is the reason we have continued to develop Fine Lines and reach out to “young writers of all ages” these past twenty years.

Dear David Martin,

I understand that I am now published twice by you; once online and once in print! Amazing!! Perhaps I am in shock, I don’t know if I should laugh, or cry, or both.

As Special Editors, I hope you know that what you do to help Fine Lines can change people’s lives. Let’s not become “bored members.” Monthly, I receive shorter messages, similar to this one. Not all of them are as well written as Shawnelle’s, but they mention that Fine Lines made a difference in their lives. I hope you look forward to our third decade of helping young writers get started, as wordsmiths, as authors who celebrate our language, as dreamers seeking for beauty and truth, line by line and page by page.

I cannot tell you how excited I am, and oddly humbled – and, in truth, I am shocked – yep, that is it; the BIGGY is shock!! I am sitting here at work processing that. I process on an ongoing basis, hence the art and word flow; when I am stunned, sometimes, there is silence. (Some people appreciate that). Thank you, David.

I am in the Academic Resource Center at Metropolitan Community College’s Fremont center this afternoon, and it is quiet. There is only one student working on research and not in need of my assistance, so I am off to clean computers in a few rooms and make some copies for the Writing Center.  Of course, I will also be pondering that you have just published me. WOW.

Shawnelle Alley

Our Special Editors are changing people’s lives through the written word. Fine Lines does make a difference.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Write on,

David Martin

Shawnelle Alley [Shawnelle@theAlleys.us]

It wasn’t a dream, but it repeated

Then

Blurred together like finger-paint memories
Cement gray floors of confinement, tears fall
Where chunks are missing, though time crawls forward
Hugging splotchy white cinderblock walls
Rays of anticipation peek through rotting windows
Their musty lover growing moldy black specs
Clinging, like little sisters to their solid love

Because dog collar necklaces leave choking bruises
Insecure small hands fumble to release secure anxiety
If blood promises are truth dripping off tiny finger tips
Then open space is the prize of dark secrets kept
Where understanding is deeper than dirt, or a basement
You can tell me anything, because we shared everything

Grimy cold feet tiptoe bare, past creaky boards
Climbing the ladder of hope called, “This is but a dream”
Maybe locks click free with rusty nails, or birthday wishes
Gobbled up early, and so be it if cake snacks heal fear
On the other side of deadbolt locks, and streaked cheeks
Or whispered promises of more pain if we tell stories

So we sing and rock

Repeatedly

Killing sleepy-time monsters for years to come
When nightmares plagued girls with fading steps
And demon tethers, strangling breath
They punch the lock to tear down the door, setting free what should be
Putting hate in solitary confinement, watching it grow moldy
Blurring the lines of what could have been with who they’ve become
Finger painters, filling in chunks with love on open space
Like rays of hope in shadowy places

Fine Lines Fall 2011

Grace Magisana

I wondered why I had suddenly gotten the urge to rush outside and stuff butternut squash in my ears and up my nose. I wondered why I had an hour before run outside and stuffed peas in my pants. I wondered where the can was. I had just gone to the bathroom and discovered peas in my underwear. I knew then that my craving had taken over.

I am a vegetable overeater! I sighed. I went back to my room and flicked on the light. I gasped!

The room was a disaster area! Broccoli was on my pillow. A bag of frozen lima beans was strewn on my lampshade. Carrots spelled “VEGGIEZ” on my keyboard. Corn was smeared on my window. I remembered opening a bottle of ranch dressing and glugging it down. Then, I painted my name on the walls with tomatoes.

I slapped my forehead. I had thrown myself a veggie party! I slumped into a chair. CRUNCH!! I got up. I just sat on a clump of zucchini.

It was time for an appointment with Dr. Turnipheart. The wimp.

“You are a sick, sick boy, Endive,” Dr. Turnipheart chortled. She tsk-tsked.

“A CURE, Doctor!” I pleaded. I’d do anything to help my ‘disease.’

She stopped whistling. She looked at me. She whispered, “Junk food.” I was sure I heard wrong, but old Turnipheart was nodding.

“The only cure, Endive, is to eat Yodels, lollipops, Doritos, Twinkies, Ring-Dings, and Ruffles. You need to get that veggie juice out of your blood, because you are too healthy. You have eaten too many vegetables. You have never even tasted sugar in your life!”

She looked sympathetic. “Sugar is splendid, Endie. Just one morsel can change your perspective on EVERYTHING!” I wasn’t so sure. Sugar did not look too promising. Give me a radish any day.

I went to the store and bought a box of powdered sugar doughnuts. Then I drove home and gingerly removed one. I took a bite. Ick! Soft white sprinkles of sugar were gently layered over a round, puffy cake. I found it disgusting! I closed my eyes and took another bite.

“EWWWWWWW!” I shrieked.

I dropped the horrible treat and jumped onto a chair. The doughnut lay on the ground, looking like a mutated albino cockroach, balled up. It was gross.

“Sugar is splendid,” I remembered Dr. Turnipheart’s words. I shuddered. Ugh!

That night, I curled up on the floor and twitched all night. Dr. Turnipheart explained my body was used to veggies and not sweets. I was allergic to junk food. Thank heavens. Now, I could eat vegetables to my heart’s content and never worry about having to eat sugar, since I couldn’t.

I drove straight to my VA meeting. There, in the room, were five others.

To be continued…

Buy the summer edition now!

Click on the cover to purchase the Summer 2011 edition and other great Fine Lines editions as well!

I would love to share information regarding Fine Lines with anyone and everyone who is interested. Let me tell you my story of the first time I was published in this publication.

I was divorced, alone, sad, and at the Southpointe Mall in Lincoln, Nebraska, shopping for a new shower curtain at Bed Bath and Beyond. It was rainy; the selection of shower curtains was overwhelming, and I really didn’t care anyway. So I went to Barnes and Noble and got a cup of coffee. I walked over to the magazine section, and Fine Lines was sitting there on the shelf, with my name (Dorothy Apley) on the front cover, listed with the other writers whose works were included in that issue.

That was back when the issues were white, and Fine Lines had the writers’ names listed down the front cover. It instantly made me feel happy and hopeful. I felt like skipping around the room, telling everyone in the bookstore that my name was on the cover of that issue.

This event really did change my outlook on the future. I was too poor to buy more than one copy of that issue and share it with anyone else. Now, I am happily remarried with six grandchildren, but I will never forget that moment. It was like the beginning of all good things.

Thank you for that.

Dorothy Apley Miller

by Jackie Byers

There is a certain shape in me
That dreads the sea,
so I go down to the shore.
Once more I stride the grit
study the wind tossed foam
taste cold salt sea spray
And try
To drive the demon away.

He retreats a bit
But lurks beneath
The awe of boundless beauty
The thrill of perfect power
Purifying
Peace instilling
But never still.
Potential for disaster
Life unbridled, rampant, raging.
A wet blue heaven wrapped around earth
Nourishing teeming life
Gnawing at the granite edges
beginning and ending of all.

Words

by Christine Janak

A violent hurricane of words
Shook the house.

They seeped through the cracks in the ceiling
And crawled under the doors.

They slithered up the staircase
And bled through the walls.

Thousands of fire-red ants
Seared pinholes into my flesh.

Words were thrown
Like crumpled tissues into a waste-bin.

I sat on my bedroom floor
With my knees crushed against my chest
As truth gobbled me up like a Sunday feast.