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Cover
Table of Contents
Editor's Notes
Donations
Submission Guidelines
Website

Stories & Essays
'57 Chevy
_
By Gary Moshimer
A Visit to India From America...
_ By Shubha Venugopal
Calista Flockhart and the MySpace Hoax
_ By Michael Frissore
Recollections and Revelations
_ By Elizabeth Harbaugh
Springtime Visits
_ By Phyllis Link
Stupendous Stew
_ By Malerie Yolen-Cohen
The Genius
_ By Ray Templeton
The Stranger Below
_ By Sam Vargo
Truant
_ By Louise Norlie
Vacation
_ By Dan Devine
Vegetarian Rage
_ By John A. Ward
What Might Pass Between Them
_ By Alexandra Leake

Poetry
A Glutton For Truth
_ By Richard Fein
A Question of Proper Form
_ By Richard Fein
Boiler Man
_ By Leland Jamieson
Horizons
_ By Davide Trame
Lioness In Miniature
_ By Grace M. Murray
Outdone
_ By Pete Lee
Real Life Elocution
_ By Richard Fein
Rewriting An Ending
_ By Rumit Pancholi
September
_ By Tim Shell
Seven Ways of Looking at a Full Moon
_ By Naiya Wright
Shalom
_ By Jeanne Hugoe-Matthews
Sideways
_ By Kristine Ong Muslim
Spirit
_ By Patrick Frank
The Empty Spaces After You
_ By Rumit Pancholi
Thesaurus
_ By Ed Higgins
Uncle Zebulon
_ By J.R. Salling

Art & Photography
Dora Calo
Robert Carter
Noah Erkes
Andrew Patsalou
Saulius
Filip Wierzbicki

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The Genius
By Ray Templeton


One day last spring, when the weather was just beginning to turn to warm, a man come to the door as I was cooking supper. It was late in the afternoon and there wasn't nobody in the house but me, but that didn't worry me. There's nothing here to steal - a couple of sacks of cornmeal, some potatoes and a few onions would be the most anybody'd be able to take away from our house. I knew he was a stranger before I even opened the door, because nobody from round here taps all polite and stands about outside - they usually just lift the latch, step in and holler. I sure don't mind.

He stood there in an expensive suit and pants, shiny new shoes, looking like the city boy he was, a stranger in the mountains, no mistake. He looked kind of nervous, as if he didn't really know what to say to me, but then he says,

"Uh... hi. Hello. I'm sorry to bother you, but is your name Chandler?"

"Hello yourself," I says, "My name is Barton, but I was a Chandler before I was married, if that's any good to you."

He seemed real pleased at this. I could see his hands was trembling almost and he looked in closer at me.

"Your father was Harry Chandler? Harry Chandler the fiddler?"

I nearly dropped the bowl I was holding in my hands. It was thirty-five years since anybody had even mentioned my Daddy's name to me.

"Harry Chandler was my father, all right. What the heck do you want, asking about him?"

"I'm so pleased to have found you, Mrs. Barton," he says with a big broad smile on his face. "You see, I'm a great lover of your father's old records. I've been collecting them for years and I'd like to find out more about the man that made them. I wonder if I could talk to you for a while, maybe ask you a few questions, if you don't mind?"

"I mind all right, son. I got too much work to do right now. I'm sorry, but maybe you could come back some other day. What the heck do you want to know, anyway?"

"Just simple things, really - when he was born, about his music, what kind of man he was, that type of thing..."

I was thinking about supper, more than anything else.

"Come back Sunday, maybe. Could you do that?"

He looked kind of disappointed, like he thought he could just walk in here and I'd drop what I was doing just to talk about my Daddy's old tunes or something. But he says yes, he can come back Sunday - which was only the day after tomorrow - and he leaves a card with me and he smiles real nice and says goodbye. I stood watching him heading down the path to the road. There was a smart new car there waiting for him - one of those ones with a roof that folds back. And a pretty young girl with long blonde hair and make-up all over her face was sitting in the driver's seat.

Nobody spoke my Daddy's name to me for thirty-five years. He died when I was ten years old, but I hadn't seen so much of him even then. He was always off somewhere with his fiddle, months at a time. Sometimes we'd hear him on the radio, playing sweet and fine and when he did come home he'd kiss me and hug me and call me "Daddy's girl" and give me a couple of shiny new records that he'd made. Nobody spoke his name to me in thirty-five years. My Ma died not long after him and I moved out here to my uncle's place and then I met Cal Barton when I was sixteen and we got married the next year. Nobody round here knew Harry Chandler.

The card the man gave me had fancy writing on it, but I never have been so good at reading so I just stuck it in the pocket of my overalls. When Cal come home that night I told him about it and he read the card for me:

"George Feldman - Journalist," it said, with an address in New York City.

"Like I said, Cal, he was a city boy sure enough."

Cal don't usually have much to say. He just sat there smoking his pipe.

"He's coming back, Sunday. I said I'd tell him about my daddy then."

He looked at me and he smiled and nodded his head, but I could tell he didn't know what it was all about either, some city newspaper man coming to talk to me about a fiddle player who had been dead for as long as either of us could remember, nearly.

(Turn the page)