Get a Free Copy of my New Fantasy Novella!

I’ve had a few people ask me what I’ve been up to these past couple of years. If you’re a regular here, you’ve likely noticed that the steady stream of poetry and creative nonfiction slowed to a trickle in 2020, and hasn’t picked up since. This wasn’t by accident; I decided to devote two full years to the act of writing prose. Toward that end, I’m self-publishing five separate books that I’ve written over the course of these two years. The first is a middle-grade/young adult fantasy, and the next four are all part of a sci-fi/speculative fiction series.

On June 30th, The Last Sage of Selvus will hit Amazon’s (proverbial) shelves. I wrote this slim little fantasy novella a couple of years back as a prose version to The Sylphid and the Sage.

This version tells the same story as its immersive, novel-length poem companion, which is written in heroic quatrain.

So what’s this novella all about? Check out the blurb below:

Matteo isn’t strong or fast or tough.
He isn’t particularly popular among his peers.
His grades are middling, at best.

In fact, the only thing he’s very good at is idling.

Out of all the 12-year-olds he knows, he’s memorized the most nursery rhymes, childhood superstitions, and fairy tales.
‘Til now, that skill has never won him favor in life.

But when a mysterious, fairy-like stranger appears, he finally sees a chance to make good on all his latent talents.

Her name is Vera.
She offers a gift: sugar cubes of a magical variety.
Vera promises that if the citizens of Matteo’s hometown eat them, all evil and malfeasance will be gone for good.

But are her intentions for the city good or evil?
And even if he did know, can a little boy convince his town of the truth?


To jumpstart my foray into the world of prose, I’ve decided to give out free electronic versions of this first book to anyone willing to keep up with my journey as an author. All you have to do is tell me where to send it! Click this link to check it out. I appreciate your support!

Bez & Co- April 2022 Issue

Table of Contents:

Introduction • Daniel R. Jones

Poetry-

What It Takes• Linda McCullough Moore
Temptation: The Story • Linda McCullough Moore
Seen Unseen • Linda McCullough Moore
The Blessing of Being • Kathryn Sadakierski
On Sanctification• Daniel R. Jones


Introduction

Springtime often reminds me of a famous Charles Dickens quotation from Great Expectations: “It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.”

While it’s April now, it’s pretty remarkable that those words hold up over 150 years later, and in a different continent! The weather here in Central Indiana has been prone to its ups and downs, as is common for this cranny of the world. We’ve had 70 degree (Fahrenheit) temperatures and snowfall within the same week.

Even still, spring has been my favorite season for as long as I can remember. Because after the cold, wintry months, it holds the promise of new life and better weather. I’ve always felt it made perfect sense to celebrate Resurrection Sunday in the spring time for this very reason. Christ’s death and resurrection are His followers’ clarion call to hope. And while Jesus reigns supreme, the “summer in the light” has rendered the “winter in the shade” meaningless.

This issue, by and large, centers along the theme of victory: from sin, death, and suffering. In Him, we are a new creation, and I hope that the writing herein reminds you of that.

-DRJ


What It Takes
He made the never sighted, 
birth-blight blinded 
share the seeing. 
But some doubted.  

He stood still, not tippy, 
on the curly waves that made 
the sober sailor dizzy; 
that sure footed on the sea. 
But some did not believe.

And crucified, he hung
by spikes on cruciform,
gave death three days, 
then let five hundred
see him back alive. 
Of that number
some did not believe.

However, he met Nathaniel 
(a.k.a. Bartholomew) and said, 
“I saw you sitting by the fig tree earlier.” 
And Nathaniel/Bartholomew said, 
“You are the Christ, the Son of God,” 
and fell down on his face in worship.

He met an often-married woman 
at the well of Jacob and told her 
common-law not quite the same 
as marriage with the first five men, 
and she goes off to bring salvation 
to the town, “Is this not the Christ. 
He told me everything I ever did.”

On the morning of the Resurrection
before she will be sent to tell the news,
before the angels know, he speaks 
one word, “Mary,” 
and the world is reinvented.

That’s how much we want 
someone to know us. 
That’s how sure we were
it couldn’t be.

Linda McCullough Moore


Temptation: The Story

The enemy appears just past
the six weeks fast, just when you,
gentle reader, have come to like 
the hero or begun to think you might. 

In the story one is called the devil,
angels are not named, 
(I don’t believe they care) and
God goes by the name of Jesus. 

The devil says, “Come here, I want 
to show you something.” He curls 
his finger, squints one eye. “Turn 
the stones to bread,” he says, and tries 
a smile. (A big mistake.)“Throw yourself 
off this cliff here.” “Fall down and worship
me.”(Decidedly no poet, he.)

And Jesus answers, No, and No, and No,
and adds a tad of Jesuit elaboration –
not his first temptation. 

“But I will give you bread and honey, 
wine and dancing girls, protection plans, 
and all the kingdoms of the world. 
Oh yes, and adulation.”
It’s not his first temptation either,
though the sell could still use work. 

“Get thee hence, dog,” the Lord says,
the canine reference mine. Jesus calls him 
Satan. Not a stranger by a long shot, having 
seen him fall from Heaven. (Think skydiving 
from space stations with no parachute,
no atmosphere.) 

And now the sweet part. Angels traipsing 
up the mountain in the wilderness, loaded 
down with food enough for fifty, fasted men, 
and power in the flutter of a single wing 
to drive off every harm on offer, and there 
they worship as the Lord Almighty first 
designed the thing to be. You see. It’s they 
who give him Satan’s offerings,
his proffered three: food/rescue/adoration.

You turn the devil down, 
God cues the angels.
That’s how it works.

Linda McCullough Moore



Seen Unseen

“But God is everywhere,” he says,
a line most often sung by people
who do not have a clue where God is
or might be,

by women who have not tracked him,
laid traps, tricked and pleaded, by men 
who have not hammered at the gates 
of heaven, just to get a glimpse of grace,
much less His face.

“God is everywhere,” says he,
who has not once gone looking for him
in the pagan hours of the night,
in fright so fierce guards quake;
the room tilts round,
your separate parts go flying off
in wild trajectory.
He’s right of course.

God is everywhere.
But he like me

– for variations on the reason –
will miss the sightings. His God fluff,
mine solid stuff. Same difference.

He, his eyes on other prizes,
will mistake Him for a vapor,
(see: everywhere above). A notion.
Not a bad idea, if perhaps
an airy one, wraith insubstantial.

Me, I doubt that I could
pick him out of a line-up,
inasmuch as He refuses 
to resemble such a god 
as I design.

Linda McCullough Moore

Linda McCullough Moore

Linda McCullough Moore is the author of two story collections, a novel, an essay collection and more than 350 shorter published works. She is the winner of the Pushcart Prize, as well as winner and finalist for numerous national awards. Her first story collection was endorsed by Alice Munro, and equally as joyous, she frequently hears from readers who write to say her work makes a difference in their lives. For many years she has mentored award-winning writers of fiction, poetry, and memoir. She is currently completing a novel, Time Out of Mind, and a collection of her poetry. www.lindamcculloughmoore.com


The Blessing of Being

Snowflakes weightlessly fall
Past a cardinal, waiting, unnoticing
On a white-laced branch of tree,
A ruby set on a staff of light.

The snow, laid out gently
As a baby’s cotton blanket
Cradling this land,
Wiped clean like the white clapboard churches,
Festooned with their evergreen wreaths,
Lining the town commons
Still under the soft string-light glow
Of early winter,
Faint dove-gray skies
Touched by a copper necklace of sun,
Cozily warm as though shining from a tin lantern.

Everything is filled with a quiet importance,
As though, just by being,
Each part of this scene 
Is blessed with beauty,
A holiness of humble spirit,
A benediction of inborn serenity
Encircling all that breathes, and returns
To the heart’s center
Where the power to lead is sparked,
Where the hope burns that draws the stars
Back from the evening’s vestment of dark.

Night sweeps in from the dust of sunset
Like a song fading out on the radio,
Ushering in another tune
Without introduction.
A bunching of pink in the sky
Is still extended earnestly,
Like a rose bouquet
Offered to you
To light your way home,
To the soul of hope where you long to go,
Where dreams and love
Will always belong.

-Kathryn Sadakierski

Kathryn Sadakierski

Kathryn Sadakierski’s writing has appeared in anthologies, magazines, and literary journals around the world, including Agape ReviewCritical ReadEdge of FaithEkstasis MagazineHalfway Down the StairsLiterature TodayNew Jersey English Journal, NewPages BlogNorthern New England ReviewOrigami Poems ProjectSilkworm, Snapdragon: A Journal of Art and HealingSongs of EretzSpillwordsThe Abstract Elephant MagazineToday’s American CatholicToyon Literary Magazine, Yellow Arrow Journal, and elsewhere. In 2020, she was awarded the C. Warren Hollister Non-Fiction Prize. She graduated summa cum laude with a B.A. and M.S. from Bay Path University.


On Sanctification

When I was a kid,
mom offered me a bite
of her rum cake.

But what about the alcohol?
The apotheosis of evil
to a six-year-old evangelical.

It all bakes out, mom said.
By the time its out of the oven
the alcohol is gone.

Not wanting to call “unclean”
what my mother called “clean,”
I took a bite.

Spongy and soft, sugar and oak.
I tasted and saw
the cake was good.

May my life be the same.
Consumed in your Holy Fire
may all my evil cook out.

Daniel R. Jones

Bez & Co- October 2021 Issue

Table of Contents:

Book Recommendation-
Lifting the Veil: Imagination and the Kingdom of God by Malcolm Guite • Daniel R. Jones

Fiction-
The Bullet Maker • Matt Hollingsworth

Poetry
Another Expedition • Debasish Mishra

Visual Art-
Equity’s Decline • Kay Em Ellis


Book Recommendation: Lifting the Veil: Imagination and the Kingdom of God by Malcolm Guite

Judging based on our shared interests, I suppose it was only a matter of time that I found Malcolm Guite. He seems preoccupied with the Numinous. He’s interested in the writings of literary giants such as G.K. Chesterton, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and Seamus Heaney. Oh, and he’s really into Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan.

In short, right up my alley.

In this book, Malcolm Guite takes a look at the intersection of the artist’s imagination and Christendom. Guite himself is a particularly interesting character. He’s a poet, song-writer, and Anglican priest. He holds a PhD from Durham University. So, it’s not surprising that Lifting the Veil scans in a pretty academic tone. Even still, though, his profound and spiritual message is never overpowered by his eloquent words.

The book serves as both an exploration of Christian Art through the ages, as well as a clarion call for creative followers of Christ to “lift the veil” on their own lives, in order to notice the ways that the Lord works in and through the imagination. 

One truth that stood out to me from this book involves the difference between “apprehending” and “comprehending” language. 

On page 27, he writes:

In the gift of faith, and in Christ himself, we glimpse more than we can yet understand, our imagination apprehends more than our reason comprehends. This is not to say that the Gospel is in any way “imaginary” in the dismissive sense of “unreal” or “untrue.” On the contrary it is so real and so true that we need every faculty of mind and body, including imagination, to apprehend it.

Throughout the book, Guite draws from his deep understanding of poetry and the written word to get to the heart of his thesis. The author is clearly well-versed and at home with poetic devices, and his ability to elucidate the complexities of language in well-known pieces of literature is eye-opening. 

At the risk of sounding cheesy, he really “lifted the veil” on several occasions for me. I was able to see connections that I hadn’t previously noticed, both in Scripture and in poetry. If you haven’t already, I highly recommend you pick it up. I hope and pray that reading it will be as serendipitous and as joy-filled for you as it was for me.

-Daniel R. Jones


The Bullet Maker

Peter was seventeen when he first saw the names.

Perhaps they’d always been there and he’d never noticed. Thinking back, he couldn’t remember ever looking closely at a bullet before going to work in the factory.

He thought it was a joke at first. A bullet with your name on it, like the old phrase. But he soon realized that no one else could see them. It was like a superpower, and Peter felt sure that if he’d been clever, he could have thought of a way to use it for the good of the Empire.

But the truth, Peter knew, was that he wasn’t particularly clever, nor strong, nor special in any way other than that he saw the names. He hadn’t even made the draft, though almost all males were required to spend at least a couple years in the military. Rather he was told he could better serve the Empire at home. In other words, the Emperor didn’t need a 50 kg asthmatic in his army.

So here he was, now twenty-one, earning a meager living for his family, pulling levers to operate the press that made bullets. And as he examined them, looking for faults, he would see the names of the people those bullets would kill.

He was surprised, at first, how few bullets actually had names. Fewer than one in a hundred. The rest, he guessed, would miss, finding their final resting places in muddy battlefields, under rubble, beneath sand dunes, or in the trunks of scorched trees. (He could never keep the locations straight for the seemingly endless conflicts the Empire fought.)

Often the names would be foreign, but sometimes he would see Imperial names—Jonathan, Stephen, George. He guessed that these were casualties of friendly fire, and as he examined them, he would cause intentional damage so the bullet wouldn’t fire. The name would disappear, and Peter would send it on its way. Then Peter would smile, happy to have saved a life.

He considered for a while disabling all the bullets with people’s names on them, saving many more lives, but he didn’t do it. Such an act would be treason, and it wasn’t his place to determine which wars and killings were just. Besides, if he stopped an Imperial soldier from killing an enemy, that enemy might instead kill the Imperial soldier. Then Peter would be responsible for the death of one of his countrymen, and he’d been taught that there was no greater crime.

Peter completed his ten-hour shift. It was a payday, and he walked home with the satisfying clink of coins in his wallet. Walking back, he routed himself to avoid the tent cities. His family wasn’t rich by any means, but he felt guilty when he saw the truly poor.

He lived with his parents in a one-story cottage on the outskirts of the city. He’d been engaged until six months ago, and his fiancé, Jennifer, was planning on moving in with him after their wedding. They couldn’t afford their own home on his meager salary and would have had to live together with his parents. 

He’d secretly felt like he didn’t deserve Jennifer. He hadn’t confessed these fears to her, but she must have guessed them, for she would always tell him how much she loved him and how it didn’t matter if they lived in one of the tent cities—she just wanted to be together. She’d said that right until she’d met some rich war hero and fallen in love with him. She’d broken their engagement in a 30-minute conversation, and he hadn’t seen her since, although he hadn’t actually tried to contact her.

He told himself that he was happy for her. That she deserved someone like the war hero. 

He told himself that.

Peter’s parents were happy to see him as always. Their city had fallen on hard times recently, and all three of them worked long hours to afford rent on their cottage. It would have been easier if Jennifer was there. A fourth income would have gone a long way, and unlike them, she had some university education which qualified her for more prestigious jobs.

Peter’s parents were old now, long past when they should have retired, but they still managed to put on a smile when he came home. And they would dine together, grateful for their modest meal. Then, after eating, they would gather by the hearth, basking in the warmth.

As he sat in his room that night, he grabbed a book off his nightstand. It was Jennifer’s. A war novel that she’d loaned him that he’d forgotten to give back. He liked to hold it sometimes, ruffling through the pages. 

Sometimes, Peter wished he could see his own future the way he saw the future of those bullets. Other times, he was glad he couldn’t, because what if his future was sitting at that machine, pulling lever after lever until he died. How would he feel about that?

#

The next day, Peter returned to the factory, pulling levers and examining bullets. He’d seen quite a few today with names—all foreign—and he was happy that the Empire’s armies were winning. And then he saw something that gave him pause. He lifted the bullet from the conveyor belt, reading it a second, third, and fourth time, though he was certain he’d read it correctly the first.

On the bullet was the name of the soldier that Jennifer had left him for.

Immediately, all the forgiveness he’d thought he had for them was gone, and he found himself, almost without thinking, placing the bullet back on the belt. 

But no, he couldn’t do that, could he? Killing a fellow countryman was a crime. The greatest crime.

But was Peter really killing him? The soldier would be a victim of friendly fire a thousand miles away. No one would even know about this moment. No one would know what he’d done.

Maybe Jennifer would even come back to him. He imagined seeing her at his doorstep, begging forgiveness for having left. He felt tainted.

He couldn’t believe he was considering this. He had thought himself a good person, and he wondered if the guilt would be unbearable. If Peter killed Jennifer’s soldier, maybe he wouldn’t be able to live with himself.

But somehow, he knew he’d be able to. At least, he thought he knew.

But he pictured Jennifer sobbing after hearing the news. Pictured her dressed in black, crying over a casket. And that was something he couldn’t let happen. Before he could think about it further, he damaged the bullet. A dud. The name disappeared and Peter smiled.

Another life saved.

And suddenly, Peter was overwhelmed by the vastness of the world. How many names had he seen on those bullets? How many people with lives just as rich and complex as his own? And here he was in his tiny corner of the universe. This small sliver of creation. And he knew in that moment, that he wanted to make it the best sliver it could be.

Matt Hollingsworth


Matt Hollingsworth is a Christian and a freelance writer/editor from Knoxville, TN. His blog is available at https://jmhollingsworthblog.wordpress.com/


Another Expedition

Rowing past the tides of blinding white
and Leviathan-like large obstacles,
I move on quietly like a breath of air:
from a coherent beginning at the shore
to a smoky panorama of indecision.

Even with the wealth of my skills
and supreme foresight, a gift of Christ,
there comes a time when I wonder,
Will I be home? Or am I lost in 
the sea? Will I reach the end?

Life is threatened yet I hold on
and believe in the strength of the oar—
too small a device for too huge a task—
like Hemingway’s poor Santiago.
But faith buoys me and I gently pass.

Tomorrow, somebody else
would be rowing here,
in this very boat, in this very place,
with the same oar against the same white foam
while I would be off somewhere
rowing past the tides of another sea.

Debasish Mishra


Debasish Mishra, a native of Bhawanipatna, Odisha, India, is the recipient of The Bharat Award for Literature in 2019 and The Reuel International Best Upcoming Poet Prize in 2017. His recent poems have appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, Penumbra, trampset, Star*Line, Enchanted Conversation, Journal of Postcolonial Writing, and elsewhere. His poems are also forthcoming in The Headlight Review and Quadrant. A former banker with United Bank of India, he is presently engaged as a Senior Research Fellow at National Institute of Science Education and Research, HBNI, Bhubaneswar, India.


“Equity’s Decline” by Kay Em Ellis

When Kay’s not writing, you might find her traveling the world. She especially loves hitchhiking through Transylvania, playing guitar outside Notre Dame in Paris, and dropping notes and poems along the riva in Hvar Town. Don’t ask her to take another bumpy, dusty bus ride through the Bolivian desert (she’s on strike), but she’ll be happy to talk to you about her favorite country in the world (Romania). Her devotions have been published by Christian Devotions Ministries, and a list of her writing awards can be found at her website: www.backpackwithkay.com

‘The Sylphid and the Sage’ Available Now!

The Sylphid and the Sage is now available as an eBook on Amazon!

Check out this sprawling, novel-length poem, written in heroic quatrain. It serves as both a whimsical story set to loose iambic pentameter, as well as a heartfelt allegory on sanctification. If you love poetry, fantasy, and allegory, this may be right up your alley.

Here’s a quick blurb:

“Three Sages make up the governing authority in the city of Selvus. The open-secret, though, is that none of these supposed wise men are actually learned or intelligent, at all. When one of the city’s Sages dies unexpectedly, it’s time to elect a new leader. But a mysterious fairy-like stranger arrives, promising the Selvans a better way. But can she be trusted?”

Pick yours up today!

New Novel-Length Poem Available for Pre-Order

True to the schedule laid out in my New Year’s resolutions, I am pleased to announce I’m self-publishing The Sylphid and the Sage. It is available for pre-order now, and will be released on Amazon on March 1, 2021. In truth, the fairy-tale set to verse has been several years in the making for me. It is a sprawling, novel-length poem, written in heroic quatrain. It serves as both a whimsical story set to loose iambic pentameter, as well as a heartfelt allegory on sanctification. Admittedly, this book is pretty esoteric, and won’t be for everyone. But if you love poetry, fantasy, and allegory, this may be right up your alley.

Here’s a quick blurb:

“Three Sages make up the governing authority in the city of Selvus. The open-secret, though, is that none of these supposed wise men are actually learned or intelligent, at all. When one of the city’s Sages dies unexpectedly, it’s time to elect a new leader. But a mysterious fairy-like stranger arrives, promising the Selvans a better way. But can she be trusted?”

Check it out here, today!