LITTERATURA MAGAZINE J. Dolsen, Litteratura Magazine PO Box 18092 Chicago IL 60618 WE WELCOME YOU TO THE ONLINE VERSION OF LITTERATURA MAGAZINE. Litteratura is simply a place where lovers of literature can find and enjoy good writing - the stories and poems that our contributors have created. The reader will have the opportunity of meeting new authors and poets and of enjoying new writings - literary gems by unpublished and new authors and poets - the literary stars of the future. Litteratura Magazine is the place where authors, poets, cartoonists and artists have a forum for their creative efforts. ------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------ ATTENTION: AUTHORS, POETS, CARTOONISTS AND ARTISTS Are you interested in submitting your work for possible publication in Litteratura Magazine? We suggest that you send SASE (#10 please) to the above address and ask for the Litteratura Magazine Newsletter 1, which contains guidelines and rules for submitting literary works to the magazine. There are also some helpful hints. (if no SASE, send a buck). You may request the Free Newsletter no. 1 by EMail to Litteratur@aol.com ------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------- Litteratura Magazine is published in Chicago, Illinois by J. Dolsen, PO Box 18092, Chicago, IL 60618, USA. All contents of Litteratura Magazine are copyright (c) 1995 by J. Dolsen and the authors, poets, cartoonists, artists etc. All rights are reserved by the authors. WE DO NEED POEMS AND SHORT STORIES TO EXPAND OUR PRINTED AND ONLINE VERSIONS OF LITTERATURA MAGAZINE. YOU MAY BECOME A PUBLISHED AUTHOR OR POET. SEND FOR THE FREE NEWSLETTER NO. 1 (MENTIONED ABOVE) FOR PUBLISHING GUIDELINES AND OTHER HELPFUL INFO. ACT NOW. --------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------- TABLE OF CONTENTS Poem Our Children, Our Future by Karen Goetz, Poem Mary by Elizabeth Smaha Reminiscing Life in Kentwood by Mildred Klyce Poem Rainbows are Real Things by kimberly Short Story Amelia: Fantastic Lady by Adeline Rafferty Poem Roll Back the Sky by Robert Klein Engler Short Story The Letter by Ximen Wolf Poem Patterns by kimberly Poem Happiness by Howard Wolk Poem The Snowflake by Valerie J. Franch (The Aug-Sept 1995 printed, complete version of Litteratura Magazine contains the following: 2 articles, 7 short stories, and 16 poems, and is 24 pages long). SUBSCRIPTION INFORMATION Sample copies available, as well as subscription. See info at end of this file. -------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------- Our Children, Our Future Every child should be loved. No child shall be turned away. They can reach up and Touch a rainbow in the sky, They can soar with the birds in the sky They can make their dreams come true They are our children, They are, our future. Drugs and gangs turn our Dreams into nightmares, The future becomes the present. Our children become criminals. Just say No ! Thats what we tell them. They can climb the highest mountain, They can sail the biggest oceans. They can make their dreams come true, They are, Our children, They are, Our future. Karen Goetz -------------------------------------- -------------------------- ---------- -------------------------- -------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------- MARY Mary had a hidden life. One that she kept in a box locked away. Words written when no one else was around. Thoughts no one else could possibly conceive. No one had to understand No one had to approve. Experiences and wants Transformed into words only she cared about. One day someone else opened the box, read the words, tried to interpret the meanings. It didn't work because only Mary knew and she was gone. by Elizabeth Smaha -------------------------------------------------- --------------------------- ---------- --------------------------- --------------------------------------------------- LIFE IN KENTWOOD (originally titled "I Never Liked Shirley Temple") by Mildred Klyce With each passing year comes the realization that time is passing much too quickly. It really is true that the older we get, the more the past looks more wonderful than the present. Things always look better when viewed through memory's rose-colored glasses. So please forgive us if we write our little poems and stories about things stored up in our memories of the past. I'm not sure if things were really better then, or if it just seemed that way. I played with my Shirley Temple doll like all the other little girls of my day. To be honest, I have to tell you that I never really liked Shirley Temple. She has those bouncy curls all over her cute little head and dimples to die for. She could sing and dance and cry on cue. She was Rebecca of Sunny Brook Farms, she was every little girl's fantasy. Personally, I would have liked very much to sink her Good Ship Lolly Pop ! I could have done all of that. All I needed was a few curls instead of my cotton top, straight, short hair that wouldn't hold a ribbon or a bobby pin. Well.... maybe I couldn't sing very well, but my sister and I had this great "sister" act. We could dance up a storm in the kitchen while doing the dishes. I came to accept the fact that I'd never be another Shirley Temple. However, I never did like the dimpled darling and I often considered taking the scissors to my Shirley Temple doll just to see what she'd look like with hair like mine. Except for my dislike for Shirley, I was able to leave behind other disappointments. Looking back, things did seem better then. No doubt it was a gentler, kinder time. As children, we wrote our poems and stories about "how I spent my summer vacation. As teen agers, we went swimming in the river. The water was clean and clear. We wore our sweaters buttoned up the back. A full skirt and petticoat to make it stand out was a must, and saddle oxfords topped off the well dressed girl of the late and early fifties. Prom night was a dance in the school gym with music provided by a local band. Fruit Punch was the accepted drink. When they played "Good Night Ladies," everyone went home, tired and happy. I gasp when I see what this school event has become. The children of today write poems and stories about their fear of the future. They write about today's problems with the ozone, rain forests, polluted streams and gangs. They don't know about drive-in movies, but are well aware of drive-by shootings. How sad. No matter the decade, each generation does seem to have its own personality. As I selectively look back through my rose colored bifocals, I'll settle for memories of the "Jitter Bug" guys in khaki pants and brown leather jackets, cherry cokes, and poems you could understand. Rap was something you got across the mouth for speaking with disrespect to your elders. I enjoy telling my ten grandchildren about "the good old days" in my poems and stories. They like to hear about how Maw Maw met this tall dark haired young man at a school dance in a gymnasium at Southeastern Louisiana College in 1948. He was wearing khaki pants and a brown leather jacket. Our two year old granddaughter, Katie, calls him "Poppa." Incidentally, she dances on cue and has curls and dimples to die for. Shirley Temple, eat your heart out. The end. THE END The piece of literature, originally titled "I Never Liked Shirley Temple" was first published in THE POET'S VOICE, a publication of the Southern Poetry Assn. It appeared in the Issue number 14, 1994. It is published here with the kind permission of the author, Mildred Klyce. ----------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------- --------------------- RAINBOWS ARE REAL THINGS When things aren't right in life and there's a rainbow in the sky, Maybe make a simple wish, It doesn't hurt to try. And when things go wrong Just wish for happy times, That the clouds would go away And the sun would start to shine. Cause rainbows are real things, Appearing so very high, Colors of every description Vibrating high in the sky, Life's like seeing a rainbow There's cloudy days of woe, But even when the sky is dark, A rainbow will start to show. So when you see a rainbow And the rain is coming down Remember that somewhere else, The sun will be coming around. A rainbow is a real thing, Made up of wishes and dreams, Keep on believing in rainbows, Remember, rainbows can be seen. by kimberly ----------------------------- ----------------------- -------------------------------------- --------------- AMELIA : FANTASTIC LADY by Adeline Rafferty It was a subdued group of old folks sitting on the porch of the Colby Convalescent Home that morning. It always made them sad to lose one of their members. Their number was dwindling all of the time. Now they had lost Amelia. Mrs. Colby had gone up to call her for breakfast, and found her, just as if she were sound asleep. Amelia, she didn't like to be called Amy, had been the darling of the people at the home. She was admired by the men, and liked by the women, although sometimes they were envious of her. What an exciting life Amelia had lived; the friends she had made, and the wonderful memories she had shared with them. They could still see her; her grey head bobbing excitedly as she rocked and talked. No one could quite bring themselves to sit in her favorite rocker. To the women, Amelia's life was the life they would like to have lived. Not always easy maybe, but not the dull, drab life most of them had known. They had worked hard in their day; most of them on farms. There was many a sigh over the gown Amelial wore to the opera house in Central City. It was a beautiful red velvet, and she had some scraps in her sewing box to this day. Amelia told them about the dress one afternoon when Emmie, looking for a thimble, found the scraps of red velvet. Amelia had told them she was very young when she wore the red velvet dress. It was in those days she had met the wealthy Chinese family, and had become the companion to their young daughters. They had developed a lasting friendship. To this day, some member of the family sent her a box of rare Chinese tea. The folks at the home would miss the delicate tea that Amelia received at Christmas. Adventurous Amelia, the old men were fond of her. What a different life they could have had if their own mates had been like her. Someone to work side by side with a man, and willing to take a chance. They would never forget her telling of hardships she endured when she and her husband went West in the 1880's. She told them of her husband's poor luck prospecting, and how she thought of the idea of running a small cafe. She fed the miners the same thing every day, but they liked the food, - woman's cooking. She made money in that town out West; made it all in that cafe. Her husband never made it rich. After he died, she came back to the Midwest that she left years before to live her years out in the private home of the Colby's. Mrs. Colby, a nurse, started the convalescent home years ago, but as her elderly charges often needed to stay on, and she too was growing older with them, she let it stay that way. Every person at the home had some money, as meager as it was. Although Mrs. Colby never made much money, they were all cared for and comfortable. The Great Depression was soon to sweep through the nation, but wasn't evident as yet. Often when Amelia wasn't within hearing, some folks would express the opinion that she had been the wife of some famous person, or maybe the sweetheart of one. Probably there was more that she didn't want to reveal. They felt a bit flattered that she had chosen to spend her last years with them, and shared her stories. Mrs. Colby had notified Amelia's daughter of her Mother's death. The folks at the home knew she had a daughter. No one knew much but her, but they thought that she must be a very prominent lady. Every year for the first few years after Amelia arrived at Colby's, she spent two weeks in the late summer with her daughter. That was long ago; she preferred to stay at the home these last years. Come to think of it - it was difficult for the old folks to remember much that Amelia had told about her daughter. They did remember her mentioning the good schools that her daughter attended. The girl must have everything. Amelia didn't like her daughter's husband, so maybe that was reason enough for not visiting them. There was hope, by the people at the home, that the daughter would come to claim her mother's remains. They were disappointed when they learned that Mrs. Colby had orders to ship Amelia's remains to the daughter. How sad that children were so busy these days. Through the long days to come, the old folks would retell Amelia's stories and miss her presence. After the funeral, in a neighboring state, the small party of mourners returned to their farms from the church cemetery. Hank never dreamed his wife would carry on so about her mother's passing. Goodness knows they hadn't been very close. They never saw each other these last years. Time was, when Amy came home at harvest to help out, but it must have been too much for her these last years. She was very tired of farm work. Amy didn't want visitors out there at the old folks home either. It wasn't natural for a woman not to want visitors, especially her own kin. Hank figured she just never got over her girl marrying a farmer. Amy sure wanted her girl to be somebody; even sent her to all those fancy boarding schools. Hank had been told that farm life was too hard for her daughter. Funny how Amy hated the farm. Darn funny, the way she had taken the insurance money after her husband died, and went off that home she had heard about. It was peculiar, so Hank thought, Amy's picking up and going to another state to an old folk's home. Especially peculiar for a farm woman who lived all her life on the farm where she was born. Hank reminded himself to tell the grocer, the next time he went to town, that they wouldn't be needing that fancy Chinese tea for Amy next Christmas. The end ****** ************ *************************** ******************************************* ****************************************************** ******************************************************- Roll Back the Sky Hawk, scarab, generations to trace the outline of a stone. Turn the steeples over. Let them point down to the dark matter of things. How to read this? Brush, quill, paper, the blush of cathode rays? What is new, letters? Father laughing his leather hands to dust, mother, the petals of her eyelashes floating, while her bones unfold? Come pyramids, stupor of days without refrain. The store house of souls is filled. by Robert Klein Engler ------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------- The Letter by Ximen Wolf The old, fading woman sat in front of her ivory writing desk holding a picture frame. The writing table was Victorian and fit in perfectly with the rest of the house - the upright piano that was polished once a year, the heavy-patterned drapes, aching lace doilies, the mirror in a slightly tarnished frame. The picture that Grace held was an anomaly in that it's golden frame shone brightly, almost harshly, around a depiction of two young girls playing by a weeping willow. It was really greeting card from Yvette that Grace had put in a frame. The beautiful scrawl inside chatted so eloquently as Yvette always had in real life. The card was obviously thoughtfully chosen; Yvette and Grace had often played with dolls together when re children. they had remained close, even with the many years that had passed, until Yvette moved away to be nearer to her grandchildren. At first they wrote frequently, eagerly. But as the letters became chores, they did not beg so loudly to d or answered. It was Grace's turn to write. It had been for nearly three months. When Yvette's thoughtful card arrived, Grace had gone the very next day to pick out an equally wonderful one - out of a genuine longing for her friend, a desire not to be outdon ense of duty, she didn't know. The card Grace chose was the same one that she now held in her hand, three months later. On heavy, grainy paper was printed a muted watercolor bouquet in a copper urn. It was blank inside, like Yvette's had been and Grace really had intended to mmediately with vibrant, charming prose. But, as she had sat, fountain pen in hand, the words just did not come. Some days, Grace had found herself wandering over to the desk and pulling out her pen from the top drawer. But, it was somehow thr when she held it, as if it would ruin the beautiful card by writing words that would undoubtedly be hollow and lonely. Eventually, she stopped leaving the card on her desk where it looked at her remonstratively and tucked it carefully in the des drawer. Occasionally, she would pull the card out, along with a plain white sheet of paper. Grace would practice on the blank page, scribbling and scratching out until it seemed the ink would envelop the paper altogether. Over time, the thin white sheet appeared less frequently, then not at all. But today, Grace finally had something to write about. Even though her handwriting was burdened, her sentences simple, she finally had something to say. Yesterday she had bought a dog. A little white poodle, yet unnamed. She had wandered into op, absentmindedly thinking it was the corner grocery, and she saw the poodle. It was sitting quietly off in it's cage, unlike the other wildly barking dogs. She imagined how sad it was among the endless noise as it waited, needing a friend. T keep each other company, protect each otherr, she thought. After holding the dog near her, in her arms, Grace brought the poodle home. It startled her at first to see something alive among her faded pillows, and her tables laden with heavy pape and clocks with hands that never moved. But the poodle mostly slept or wandered quietly, fitting in nicely with the surroundings, as if it was a person, a weary wanderer who had finally found home. Grace began to write. She started to say how good the dog was, make a joke about buying a dog at her age. She pretended that it was a small, unimportant incident, and that her life wass so full that she only had room to describe the littlest ev t it all sounded so trite and untrue. She scratched out the words. Perhaps she would be honest and say how long it had been since she had touched or talked to something that was alive. It made her remember the cafes wehre they began gossiping a yone else, but would end up revealing themselves. She pictured her wedding, when Yvette had squeezed her hand, giving her the courage to walk down the unknown aisle. And when they went shopping, and Grace put on a dress, and the elegant Yvette aid, "You really are beautiful." It was all so long ago. Grace slowly wrote down seven words, put her card in it's envelope, addressed it, and walked out immediately to the mailbox down the block and dropped the message inside. "Yvette, I do miss you so, love, Grace." Every day, Grace walked the dog, and upon returning home, would take off it's leash, let it inside, and would then check her letterbox. Not that she expected a reply so soon, but she wanted to be in the habit when a letter did come. Not a week en Grace reached her hand in the box, her wrinkled fingers closed around an envelope. She pulled it out, knowing it was from Yvette, and smiled a tiny, soft smile. But, as she looked at the envelope, her face withered, and the letter fell to th On it was written the words, "Deceased. Return to Sender." Grace's hands touched her sunken cheeks and she looked frantically around, as if maybe someone could help her. But the street was empty, and she closed her eyes and leaned against the mb, shaking. "I've done everything wrong," was the only thought she could pull from her muddled mind. And, as if in affirmation, the nameless dog walked out the half-open door and down the street, very quietly, almost as if it was a spirit, loving but forgotten. The End ---------------------------------- --------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------- PATTERNS It was hot and dry, No rain for quite a while, And there wasn't much green In many many a mile. But still we held on, And always wondered why, Why didn't it ever rain Didn't God control the sky. Then the winds had come, From the Rio Grande, Cutting many patterns In the movin' shiftin' sand. The wind was strong and gusty, As it moved across our land, And all we had were patterns In the movin' shiftin' sand. We thought the rains might come, To our land that was so dry, And we even saw the clouds Comin' high in the sky. We prayed for the rains to come, That's wash away the fears, The fear that we wouldn't last That our lives would disappear. But all they were were clouds, Just clouds high in the sky, There wasn't any rain An' we asked our Lord why. Then the clouds had gone, Hot sun was in the sky, It seemed to bore right through Our land that was so dry. The wind was strong and gusty, As it moved across our land, And all we had were patterns, In the movin, shiftin, sand. by kimberly -------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------- HAPPINESS Happiness is not in having things and seeing places. It's not living in a mansion or being dressed in lovely laces, and dainty silks. High on a hill Or having anxious parents answer at your every will Happiness is just knowing someone Actually cares for you. It is found in doing things for all mankind, It is found in liking all the work. You have to do Having love and strength to give to the weak and the blind. Happiness is having your strong hand reach for mine This is divine contentment So slender and so fine Happiness is in the valley or high upon a hill Happiness is for me to be with you forever, my dear. by Howard Wolk ------------------------------------------------------ ---------------------------------------- ----------------------- The Snowflake So soft, delicate, unique. I reach out to catch this snowflake, I want to witness its intricacies. Ever so gently it falls into my palm. My warm touch melts away its shell. Much too quick I never knew every bit of this wonderous treasure. It has disappeared, vanished He has gone. My hands are empty. by Valerie J. 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