Walking the Woods at Picklegate Crossing by Laura Lovic-Lindsay

On the far side of Picklegate Crossing is an abandoned farm-and-woods

where the last frogs of the season mount a series of root-steps, tree fingers

squeezing their drink from soil. My son chunks off the burial shrouds of dead 

oaks we pass, their bits scattered at the base, like the sloughed-off throat skin

of forest dragons. Dried leaves windskitter across our path like summer crabs.

Plum-bombs drop, roll across the pine needles at our feet. Shades of ketchup,

mustard, relish: these woods from top to bottom. It is October and so much time 

is running out. We pass crows on stone walls, crows over corn-stubble. They pick

through the dirt for gleanings. A distant harvester reaps, casting dried corn in one

direction, flayed stalks in another. My son, his hair as dark as roasted winter wheat,

still walks with me and I know this cannot last forever. I smell the end of our evening

path: fallen apples, melting into vinegar in the grass. First frost tonight, they say.  

END

Laura Lovic-Lindsay lives on an enchanted patch of fae land, complete with firepit around which she freely sings and dances. It is possible mead will be served if you stop over. But don't wear pink. The faeries hate pink.

Drum by Laura Lovic-Lindsay

There is one bright dancer among them. Her hands trace the music onto air. The “U” of her hips sways, telling bedroom stories. Melodies float her toward the youngest doumbek player, barely bearded. 

She bends to him, smiling, flirting even, to the ululating tongues of all her watching sisters but as the hafla pauses to draw a collective breath, I see the truth: her focus is not the drummer. She shines for the pulled-skin drum. 

An elderly man leans near me. “It is all that remains of her husband.” 

“He played?” I am confused. 

He shrugs. “He had enemies.”

* First published in April of 2016 at Entropy2.com

Laura Lovic-Lindsay left Penn State University with a literature degree in hand in 1993, having written no more than a few poems at that point. She has won poetry and fiction contests (PennWriters Poetry Contest, writerstype.com, writersweekly.com, Writing Success writers' conferences), and had pieces accepted for publication (Fireside Fiction, Fine Linen Magazine, Boston Literary Magazine).

Laura lives and writes in an old farmhouse in a small Western Pennsylvania town, but her heart roams realms both real and imaginary.

Post-Valentine's Day Roses by Laura Lovic-Lindsay

They contrive to twist backwards 

on stems that lost all flex, try to face 

the wall instead made to suffer indignity—

stand unchosen, in shame, they huddle 

together in their crime. A bright red 

70%-off sign hangs around their necks. 

Some bow, tucking their chins. Scarred 

petals draw in on themselves, like an arthritic 

gnarl. Some crust under in a curl, browning 

over whatever color they must once have flaunted. 

I wipe the shelf free of fallen bits, turn them 

face-front. "You are all beautiful," I whisper.

* Original version appeared in Boston Literary Magazine, October 2014

Laura Lovic-Lindsay left Penn State University with a literature degree in hand in 1993, having written no more than a few poems at that point. She has won poetry and fiction contests (PennWriters Poetry Contest, writerstype.com, writersweekly.com, Writing Success writers' conferences), and had pieces accepted for publication (Fireside Fiction, Fine Linen Magazine, Boston Literary Magazine).

Laura lives and writes in an old farmhouse in a small Western Pennsylvania town, but her heart roams realms both real and imaginary.

Candyhouse to Gretl by Laura Lovic-Lindsay

Not quite sixteen when she cursed me. I cannot remember 
my offense. She called to me in the husked voice of my love, lured 
me into forests of evergreen and bone, woods with no paths.

There her fury kindled. She trembled and grew me, stretched 
and caverned me into cracked timbers: a house that must shelter her. 
A house she would watch consumed by birds, beasts, and wanderers, 

slowly eaten, ripped and chunked. "Let them shred and peel you," she intoned,
scratching at my walls with her cane as she passed, room to room. I 
saw the two of you walking and I let the winds shift me, enough to catch 

sunlight, to glint your way. Your brother caught the flash, brought you 
to me, the only children I ever carried within. I nursed you on lemon panes 
and honey-wheat door, bricks of molasses cake, ginger cane-mortar,

sugared cherry wattle and peppermint crunch daub. Take and eat.  I 
watched her bundle you into beds. I blew warm apple blossom breezes 
over you through my windows, a patter of rain like a heart beat, 

the dance of a plank swing on an old oak limb. Tiny Gretl, you hid 
under the table as she dragged and caged Hansel, but you were never in 
danger. I alone controlled my fires and when you pushed her 

to me, I breathed deep as a bellows and we scorched her, top and tail. 
She shriveled to no more than a walnut. I cracked open my floor slats
to bestow her gold, the only inheritance I could offer my children.





* Previously published in Young Ravens Literary Review, Spring 2015

Laura Lovic-Lindsay left Penn State University with a literature degree in hand in 1993, having written no more than a few poems at that point. She has won poetry and fiction contests (PennWriters Poetry Contest, writerstype.com, writersweekly.com, Writing Success writers' conferences), and had pieces accepted for publication (Fireside Fiction, Fine Linen Magazine, Boston Literary Magazine).

Laura lives and writes in an old farmhouse in a small Western Pennsylvania town, but her heart roams realms both real and imaginary.

Laura Lovic-Lindsay - Traveler

It was her sister Maisie who noticed him first. 

She double patted Annie's shoulder just after the bells rang over the door of Father's General Store. It was their silent signal for, "Look now but don't say anything." And no wonder her older sister tapped her, Annie smiled. 

A city man, to be sure, by his suit. Well-off city man, or she was no judge of a cut of cloth. Probably traveling out West, as they all seemed to be these days. There was money out there, and certainly none to be had here in an old trading post in Missouri. 

Annie glanced in the glasspane behind the counter, smoothed a few curls, and turned back to watch him. She tried not to linger her gaze, careful not to let the few other townspeople in the shop notice her watching him. She needn't have worried. Mrs. Hadley, the undertaker's wife, held up two choices of cloth to her distracted husband. Jimmy Bailey was almost drooling over the jars of candy that lined the shelves. No one bothered to look at her. 

The man was thin and lanky, his movements stiff, a shuffling walk; but that was to be expected when traveling distances by coach. His hair must have been a gentle brown, but was slicked and oiled in the city-style of the day. His hands lingered over canned foods, bottled goods, as though he meant to pick them up, but he did not. 

Maisie pulled their shared school-slate and chalk closer, wrote, and passed to Annie: "ASK IF HE'S PASSING THROUGH OR STAYING." 

Annie reddened and shook her head. She was never so bold as Maisie. She giggled and tittered at the thought of such presumption. 

"A good evening to you, sir. Is there something special we can help you find?" Maisie hailed him as Annie quietly pressed her own shoe onto her sister's foot. 

Maisie pushed her hard away, sending Annie into the suspended scales. Annie righted herself, bit her tongue to avoid speaking the words she'd have liked to have said to Maisie, and watched the man's reaction from the corners of her eyes. There was none. 

She moved toward the board, erased it with the dusty slate-rag and wrote, "FOREIGN? OLD COUNTRY?" 

Maisie shrugged and tossed her head. Annie choked back a laugh. She knew Maisie's spurned look. There weren't many young men in town who would ignore Maisie Anderson's attention. She sulked when she found one who would. 

Annie turned her attention back to the inventory books, pausing occasionally to watch the man. His skin was pale as clotted cream, almost a grey. He was probably a scholar. Or a clerk. Perhaps a banker. Yes, a banker. That would explain the fine fabrics he wore. 

At last, the silent man approached, set a small pair of thread snippers on the counter and placed two coins into Annie's hands, pennies. "Thank you," she said, still too shy to look in his face until just as she handed him his purchase. She looked up at him and stopped breathing.

The man's eyes held no color. They were cloud-white. He held Annie's gaze a few moments, then stretched the tightest grin full across his face. A brown thread hung from the corner of his lips. Her insides iced over. He took the snippers, opened them slightly, and ran their twin blades between his lips, brown threads dropping to the counter before her. He turned and left the store as wordlessly as he'd arrived. 

Maisie spoke over her shoulder, still petulant. "Cat got his tongue, I s'pose. Too good for town girls." She sniffed and went back to straightening cans. 

In the back corner of the shop, Mr. Hadley cleared his throat. Annie jumped, realizing he had been studying the scene. "May I see those coins, Miss Annie?" he asked her. 

She pulled them off the shelf of the till and held them out to him. He pulled them closer, examined them.

"That's what I thought," he told her. "Same ones I placed on his eyes late last night." He handed back the coins and moved to the front window, looking up the road where the traveler had walked. "Mebby you girls want to lock up shop and head home for the night."

Laura Lovic-Lindsay left Penn State University with a literature degree in hand in 1993, having written no more than a few poems at that point. She has won poetry and fiction contests (PennWriters Poetry Contest, writerstype.com, writersweekly.com, Writing Success writers' conferences), had pieces accepted for publication (Fireside Fiction, Fine Linen Magazine, Boston Literary Magazine).

Laura lives and writes in an old farmhouse in a small Western Pennsylvania town, but her heart roams realms both real and imaginary.

Laura Lovic-Lindsay - Barking Town

If I can budge up the tiniest bit, I'll be able to see them again. Ah, better.

Now, I think that's the MacEwan boy jumping. I remember his mother. Couldn't punctuate to save her life, but a whiz with her math. Can't imagine she'd be pleased to see her own boy jumping off those useless old bridge supports. Same ones where her own brother drowned, the lot of them whooping and hollering same as these boys. Smacked his head on the cement when he flipped, as I recall. But it wasn't what killed him. No.

Mark, that's this one's name. Mark MacEwan. Hmm. He must be about done with school now. Maybe this past year.

I could ask Mrs. Sherman if I could wake her up. She remembers these things. But it wouldn't be fair. She does so much for me, useless old lady that I am. Look at the sweet peace on her face, bless her. She does surely deserve a bit of a nap, if anyone does. Must be close to supper time, though, if I'm reading that lowered sun right. My, but I am hungry.

Someone ought to put a stop to it, all this river-swimming. I can't anymore, but someone ought to. Though I suppose kids these days need something to do around here, with the town as good as shut down. Keeps them out of trouble. My Thom always said I worried too much. I suppose he was right.

Old Barking Town. Hmph. Never was much of a town. Not even when the mines were open. A few houses here and there, and those all but empty.

Mrs. Sherman told me that the population of Barking was once as high as 502. It's on the sign when she drives in. But that must have been in its heyday. I don't think Barking can have seen so many people in years.

Let's see. We lost the Morrissons year before last. Off to grab Florida sunshine, they were. It was the Kelsoes the year before. Or was that three years ago? Oh, dear. Muddle-headed me. The Kelsoes are still here, I think. It's the Kesslers that left.

I can't get those boys out of my mind. Now, let me think. What year was it, when the four boys drowned? '81 or '82, I should think. Reagan was in the White House, then. Early days, still, for him. My, that was a sad summer around here.

Do you remember the terrible summer, Mrs. Sherman? Mrs. Sherman?

There I am again. I do forget myself. I'm so sorry. You sleep, dear.

Bit cold for these boys to be swimming in the Allegheny, I should think. September, is it already? October? I think it might just be October. Some of the leaves are starting to change. Must be an Indian Summer. Maybe Mrs. Sherman will prop a window for me when she's up.

It's a pity we never signed on for that Meals On Wheels. I do so hate the idea of disturbing poor Mrs. Sherman for supper. I didn't plan to get old. Funny to watch it happening.

Dear Mrs. Sherman's not much better off. I'm the only family she has left now, too. Just us two in the world. Bless her heart, she brings herself every day to sit here by me. The only one who does, now. I don't think she even went home last night.

In truth, I think it's as good for her as it is for me. Her own young ones left for the city, oh, years ago. Years ago. All these memories just start swirling again like the leaves there on the hillside. Windy it must be out there.

Well, my mind might not be much, but my eyes are as sharp as ever. And those boys are still jumping. Now, why would they do that? Why won't that MacEwan boy stay away from those cement pillars? You would think his mother would have told him... but maybe she didn't. I never did hear them talk about the thing behind the pillars. The thing that bobbed and floated. The thing that watched. Now why was that?

I held my tongue. Figured the sheriff held information back sometimes. I know they do that in their investigations and I thought maybe I'd just keep it quiet for him, too. One of my best students, and there he was protecting us all. He was a good boy. College. Married. Two little girls of his own.

Oh, it's slipping away. I'm losing it again. I've got to try to hold onto it this time. The boys. It was something to do with those boys down there. Mark MacEwan. He's one of them. It was his uncle got taken under after he jumped. That was it.

Mrs. Sherman? Do you remember when that MacEwan boy's uncle drowned? Mrs. Sherman?

He drowned. No, he didn't drown. He didn't drown, but everyone thought he did. He hit his head when he jumped. I saw it from here. But it wasn't what killed him. It was the thing hid behind those pillars.

It was floating, like driftwood, maybe it even hung to a piece of driftwood. I can't recall. But it ducked under the water just as that boy hit the water, all bloodied. I wasn't sure what it was, though my eyes are good as ever. I never had cataracts like Mrs. Sherman or my Thom. No.

Now, that looks like the MacEwan boy down there. I wonder why someone doesn't stop those boys jumping off there. Don't they know the danger? Don't they know how those boys were taken all those years ago? My, but it was hungry. I never told anyone. It was the sheriff's right to hold back what he wanted.

Took them all: One, two, three, four, as they jumped. Oh, why did they keep jumping? That was it-- they were looking for him. Looking for the first boy. The other MacEwan boy. They saw him hit his head and then they were in the water, too, looking for him. Not a one of them ever came up again.

Sheriff found their clothes, shoes. I think the story in the papers said it was the undercurrent pulled them all under and they never found a body. Not a bone. Because it had been hungry.

Hungry. Did we have breakfast? I can't remember.

I don't think Mrs. Sherman is getting up again, and it's a shame. It's a shame. Because he is down there again.

I think he's been there all afternoon, hiding there behind those rocks, watching them. Watching those boys jump.

It's moving now. Oh, it's moving.

Oh, someone needs to warn those boys there's something in that water.

Laura Lovic-Lindsay left Penn State University with a literature degree in hand in 1993, having written no more than a few poems at that point. She has won poetry and fiction contests (PennWriters Poetry Contest, writerstype.com, writersweekly.com, Writing Success writers' conferences), had pieces accepted for publication (Fireside Fiction, Fine Linen Magazine, Boston Literary Magazine).

Laura lives and writes in an old farmhouse in a small Western Pennsylvania town, but her heart roams realms both real and imaginary.

Laura Lovic-Lindsay - Brothers Three

     This stone bench is cold and Brother-beside-me and I, we shift uncomfortably. We cannot see Brother-behind-us, but he speaks and we do as he says.

     "Nearer the door," he commands, and we shuffle our feet until we have moved us closer to their door.

     From inside, I hear a whisper ask what is to be done with us three, now the Abbess has been Gathered Unto God so tragically.

     "Sister Claire is asking the others about us," I tell them, as my ears are now closest.    
     "And there is fear in her voice."

     "We put them OUT," Sister Mary Agnes spits, and though we cannot see her, we know that her face is red, her eyes angry and tight. The flab of her neck shakes when she speaks. 
     "They should have been dropped in the towns ages ago."

     Because she thinks we cannot hear her, she adds, "Or in the well." Some Sisters snicker at this.

     Sister Mary Agnes told us many times she had counseled the Abbess to leave us in the snows that surrounded this mountain monastery at our birth nine years ago.

     "Oh, but perhaps they were meant to teach us. How like the Holy Trinity they are -- three boys in one body," timid Sister Margaret dares. "The third just showing forth behind the other two, so spirit-like."

     "And yet," snaps Sister Mary Agnes, "Not a one of us can bear the sight of them, yourself included, Sister Margaret. It is a pity the Abbess wasted so much of her strength caring for them."

     Sister Mary Agnes will meet her end easily out the tallest tower in a fortnight, we decide. She is even older and lighter than the Abbess was.

     We smile holy smiles as the Sisters file from the room.

Laura Lovic-Lindsay left Penn State University with a literature degree in hand in 1993, having written no more than a few poems at that point. She has won poetry and fiction contests (PennWriters Poetry Contest, writerstype.com, writersweekly.com, Writing Success writers' conferences), had pieces accepted for publication (Fireside Fiction, Fine Linen Magazine, Boston Literary Magazine).

Laura lives and writes in an old farmhouse in a small Western Pennsylvania town, but her heart roams realms both real and imaginary.