Re|View
KNOXVILLE WRITERS GUILD MAGAZINE
WINTER 2024
Re|View is made possible by a grant from the Tennessee Arts Commission and a donation from Union Ave Books
WINTER 2024
© 2023 Re/View Magazine
Re/View is published twice a year
in winter and summer.
knoxvillewritersguild.org
Re|View
KNOXVILLE WRITERS GUILD MAGAZINE
WINTER 2024
Re/View is an e-zine for
the Knoxville Writers Guild
to give members a forum for
expressing a new look at their
surroundings, community,
and their place in the world:
what makes us look twice at our
connections/disconnections,
what we pay attention to,
and what inspires us to keep
writing and wondering.
Re/View is published twice a year
in winter and summer.
knoxvillewritersguild.org
EDITOR
Jeannette Brown
POETRY EDITOR
Marilyn Mascaro
ART DIRECTOR
Nancy Vala
COPY EDITOR
Linda Parsons
The Knoxville Writers Guild is a secular
community and does not discriminate against
any person because of race, age, religion,
handicap, national or ethnic origin, sexual
orientation, or gender.
KNOXVILLE
WRITERS GUILD
Stewart Harris
Unnatural Death
KB Ballentine
Calling Crows
Melanie Harless
Busy
Laura Still
Diptych: On a Folding Path
10
Daniel Reiss
The Girl Who Found Big Hefty
11
Candance W. Reaves
“Hey Dog”
15
Robert Beasley
Drop Zone
17
Nancy Vala
Three Strangers on a Bus, 1972
20
Suzy Trotta
Hail, Caesar!
21
Audrey Aiken
Halloween
24
Pamela Schoenewaldt
This Sure Uncertainty
25
Lucy Sieger
La Voyeuse (The Voyeur)
31
Connie Jordan Green
Ars Poetica Apologetical
33
Marilyn L. Mascaro
At the Tennessee
34
Bethany Lemons
Patricia
36
Mitzi Kesterson
Each Grief Is Every Grief
38
Rhea Carmon
For All the Women Who Made Me
39
John Bukowski
Rest Stop
40
Judith Duvall
A Strong and True Influence
43
Jamie Elliot Keith
A Gift
45
Katharine Emien
All Around You
46
Laura Still
The Forgotten Poet Laureate
47
Hen McClucken
The Accomplice
52
Connie Jordan Green
Happiness
53
In Memoriam
Bob Cumming, 1928-2023
54
Cover Photo: Stephanie Klepacki
Re/View is funded by the Tennessee Arts Commission, Union Ave Books, and generous donors.
Thank You to Our Contributors
Audrey Aiken has been
writing fiction and poetry for as
long as she can remember. Her
writing has been published in
the Young Writers' Workshop
2022 Anthology and online as
a finalist of the Owl Hollow
Press Heroes.
KB Ballentine loves to travel
and practice sword fighting and
Irish step dancing. When not
tucked in a corner reading
or writing, she makes daily
classroom appearances to
her students.
www.kbballentine.com
Robert L. Beasley lives in
Maryville, Tennessee, and
writes fiction.
John Bukowski is a former
researcher and medical writer,
with publications ranging from
journal articles to website
content to radio scripts. He has
published two novels and eight
short stories. He’s a native of
the Midwest but currently lives
in East Tennessee.
Rhea Carmon is a poet,
motivational speaker, teacher,
and founder of the 5th Woman
Poetry Collective. Her most
recent chapbook is Let the Sun
Shine In (Iris Press, 2022). She
was inducted into the 2019
East Tennessee Writers Hall of
Fame for Poetry, received the
2017 Community Shares
Award for Artist of Change,
and was the first African
American Poet Laureate of
Knoxville, Tennessee.
Judith Duvall’s poems and
fiction have been published by
Greyhound Books, Tellico
Books, Kudzu Literary Anthology,
Motif, The Tennessee Magazine
and in KWG and other
anthologies. Her poetry
collection is Unrationed Hope (Iris
Press). She lives, dreams, and
writes near English Mountain
and Douglas Lake in Jefferson
County, Tennessee.
Katharine Emien is a writer,
photographer, and radio host
living in Knoxville, Tennessee.
Her work has been featured in
Denali Magazine, KBOO Radio's
Writer's Read, and Hippocampus
Magazine.
Connie Jordan Green is the
author of novels for young
people and books of poetry and
was a newspaper columnist for
over forty years. She was
inducted into the East Tennes-
see Writers Hall of Fame and
received a Tribute to the Arts
Award from the Oak Ridge
Arts Council, among other
awards. She taught creative
writing for the University of
Tennessee and continues to
teach writing workshops.
Melanie Harless lives in Oak
Ridge, Tennessee. She wrote a
monthly travel column for a
regional magazine, and her
creative nonfiction, poetry, and
photography have appeared in
anthologies and in print and
online journals. Melanie is on
the board of the Tennessee
Mountain Writers and
volunteers for the Oak Ridge
Institute for Continued
Learning.
Stewart Harris lives in
Florida, where he tells stories
and works on his beach body.
Jamie Elliott Keith lives in
Knoxville, Tennessee, and
works as a community volun-
teer. Her poetry has appeared
in such journals as SLANT, San
Pedro River Review, Third
Wednesday, Soundings East, and
Naugatuck River Review. Her
chapbook, Past the Edge of Blue,
was published by Iris Press in
2017.
Mitzi Kesterson has been
writing almost since she started
speaking, and her favorite genre
is poetry. Mitzi also teaches,
paints, and travels as much as
she is able.
Bethany Lemons is a
27-year-old emerging writer
and lifelong East Tennessean.
After college, she organized
progressive political campaigns
and now works in the nonprofit
sector and spends her free time
writing, watching movies, and
hiking throughout Appalachia.
Enamored with all forms of
the written word, Marilyn
Layman Mascaro has
published poetry, memoir, and
nonfiction. Her latest book is a
narrative nonfiction history of
Knoxville, When the Rivers
Flowed: An Ambitious Hillbilly and
a Southern Flapper Discover
Knoxville, Tennessee.
Writing for people brings
Hen McClucken great joy.
She hopes to help others see
the world for its beauty and
treasure.
Candance W. Reaves is a
retired English professor from
Pellissippi State. She has
published in numerous
anthologies and literary
magazines and lives near the
Great Smoky Mountains
National Park, where she finds
her solace and inspiration.
Daniel Reiss is a writer from
the Great Smoky Mountains
currently enrolled in the
Creative Writing MFA
Program at Eastern
Washington University. His
work has appeared in Flying
South Literary Magazine and Still:
The Journal.
Pamela Schoenewaldt is a
historical novelist and
USAToday Bestseller. Two of her
first three novels, all published
by HarperCollins, were
shortlisted for the Langum
Prize in American Historical
Fiction. She has taught fiction
writing at UT and in Naples,
Italy, and was a University of
Tennessee Library
Writer-in-Residence.
Lucy Sieger is a writer and
editor based in Knoxville,
Tennessee. By day, she writes
and edits research reports for a
global tech company's think
tank. Nights and weekends, she
plays with prose and the
occasional poem.
Native East Tennessean
Laura Still is a poet,
playwright, and local history
author. She created Knoxville
Walking Tours in 2012 and
works as a storyteller and
history guide. Co-owner of
Celtic Cat Publishing since
2016, she has published
collections of poetry and plays,
as well as historical works, most
recently A Fair Shake: The
Leaders of the Fight for Women’s
Rights in Knoxville (2021).
Suzy Trotta lives in
Knoxville, Tennessee, with
her husband, dog, and two
cats. She posts personal
essays on her website, and
occasionally reads them aloud
on her podcast, Damn It, Suzy.
In addition to writing and
podcasting, she spends her
time sewing, gardening, and
reading tons of books.
www.suzytrotta.com
Nancy Vala is a writer, artist,
and singer/songwriter. She has
published a travel memoir in
Travelers’ Tales and poetry in
Pigeon Parade Quarterly. She just
completed an art calendar
based on the survival skills of a
wood nymph and a freshwater
mermaid. www.nancyvala.com
Winter
2024
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR
Dear Readers and Contributors:
Welcome to the inaugural edition of Re/View, an online publication
by and for the members of the Knoxville Writers Guild, as well as the
reading public.
When the Guild was chartered thirty years ago, we published themed
anthologies for a dozen years. Submissions were open to everyone in
the region and the editors volunteered their time. Many of these
books came close to selling out. Although current economics prohibit
a printed book, the online format allows us greater freedom with
space, color and graphics, as well as a wider audience.
We had over fifty submissions of prose and poems to this issue,
the majority were of high quality and clarity. Although they were
blind-judged, we surmise that contributors' ages span at least
seven decades.
We are very appreciative of our sponsors: a grant from the Tennessee
Arts Commission via the Knoxville Arts and Cultural Alliance, and
Union Ave Books, Knoxville's independent bookstore. We also enjoy
the support of the KWG Board of Directors.
The Knoxville Writers Guild is excited to offer this new creative
literary platform for Knoxville. Look for our summer issue.
Happy Reading!
Jeannette Brown, Editor
Re|View • Winter 2024
Winter
2024
abeel was that rarest of creatures: a
happy lawyer. Well, that may be a bit
of a misstatement. He wasn’t so much
happy about being a lawyer as he
was just happy. And nice, to the point that I
thought he was faking it when I first met him
at the big firm that hired us both out of law
school. I dismissed him as a climber, someone
who was going to charm his way to success.
He was always so up, so glad to see me—to see
everyone, actually, from colleagues to clients
to the guy who fixed the copier. But
he was the real deal. I spent ten
years with the guy, and nobody can
fake it that long.
Nabeel laughed all the time,
but not in an irritating way; he
laughed just frequently enough,
and just loudly enough to
spread an even-tempered good
cheer throughout the office.
And his manners were impeccable, if a bit
old-fashioned. He practically bowed when he
shook hands. He addressed women as “my
dear” and invariably complimented their
appearance until he was gently admonished
to tone it down by a partner concerned
about sexual harassment claims. She liked
Nabeel—everyone did; she was just looking
out for him.
Nabeel took the criticism in stride, as he did
everything else, although he confided in me that
it was very hard for him to abandon the social
practices that had been drilled into him in his
English public school. Nabeel’s family was from
Syria, but he had been educated at one of those
places that occasionally serves as a backdrop for
murder on British television, and he sounded
Re|View • Winter 2024
FICTION
Unnatural Death
Stewart Harris
like it. “Ah, Andrew!” he would greet me each
morning—he was the only person in the world,
other than my mother, who used my full first
name— “So nice to see you! You’re looking
tip-top!” I invariably looked “tip-top,” even
when I didn’t feel it.
Clients loved Nabeel, not just because he was
charming, but because he saved them millions
of dollars with inventive tax shelters that
pushed the limits of the law but never exceeded
them. Each time he received a
favorable revenue ruling from the
IRS, Nabeel would take his client
out to dinner and he would always
invite me to come along.
So it was natural, when I decided
to strike out on my own, that I
asked Nabeel to be my partner.
He accepted almost immediately,
after consulting with his lovely wife,
Rajah, whom he adored. Photographs of her
covered his desk and walls, as did pictures of
(and by) his three-year-old daughter, Gamila.
Nabeel worshipped his family. When he told
me, just after the new year, that Rajah was
pregnant again, this time with a boy, there were
tears in his eyes. He invited my wife, Barbara,
and me to his home for a celebration, where he
insisted upon cooking us a sumptuous dinner
on his massive new gas range. That range was
the sole source of discord in his marriage, so far
as I could tell. “Rajah thinks I’m going to kill
us all,” he confided to me as he grilled his Kebab
Halabi to perfection.
“Kill you?”
“Oh, she thinks the whole thing’s going to
explode. Her family has always had electric
i dismissed him
as a climber,
someone who
was going to
charm his way
to success.
stoves.” He made a face. “But it’s impossible to
cook properly with such an abomination. One
must be able to adjust temperatures precisely,
and the only way to do that is with gas.”
Surrounded by the savory aromas filling
Nabeel’s kitchen, I couldn’t disagree. Neither,
it seemed, could Rajah, who tucked into her
dinner with the hearty appetite of a very
pregnant woman.
“Have you picked out a name?” Barbara asked.
Rajah looked at Nabeel. “Almost.” Her
accent was as British as her husband’s. “We’ve
narrowed it down to either Taahir or Wali.”
She smiled and squeezed Nabeel’s hand. “We
like Wali, since it sounds more American, but
Nabeel’s father is named Taahir . . .”
“Stand your ground,” Barbara said. “Andy’s
father is named Elmer, and we decided long
ago that that ain’t gonna happen.”
Everyone laughed. Nabeel poured more
Cabernet.
•
A week later, I came into the office early on a
Saturday morning, shaking snow off my hat
and coat. I often come in on Saturdays, before
Barbara is up, to clear the decks for the coming
week. I like the quiet, which is hard to find on a
weekday. I typically stay a couple of hours, and
then I grab doughnuts or bagels to take home
for a late breakfast. I was just settling in when I
heard the squeak of a desk chair. Someone was
in Nabeel’s office, adjacent to mine. I wasn’t
alarmed, just surprised. Nabeel rarely came in
on weekends. Weekends were sacrosanct,
family time.
His office door was closed. How odd. Why
close your door when no one else is around?
I was about to knock when I heard something
I’d never heard before: the sound of Nabeel
crying.
“Nabeel?” I called out. “Are you all right?”
6
Re|View • Winter 2024
Silence.
“Nabeel?”
The desk chair squeaked again. Then slow
footsteps on the hardwood floor.
Nabeel never walked that slowly. Was someone
else inside? An intruder, perhaps?
I stepped back and steeled myself, but nothing
could have prepared me for what I was about
to see.
Nabeel was shrunken,
disheveled, unshaven,
almost unrecognizable.
He wore no tie. He
always wore a tie. He
leaned on the doorjamb
as if he were about to
fall. His eyes were wet
and rimmed with red,
but, worse, they lacked any expression.
Nabeel stood without speaking, then turned
and shambled slowly back to his desk. He
collapsed into his chair.
“Good God, Nabeel! What’s wrong?”
With a limp hand, Nabeel reached forward and
pushed a single paper toward me. It slid easily
across the polished walnut.
I scanned it and felt the blood drain from my
face. I looked up. “Are you sure?”
Nabeel nodded. His voice was that of an old
man. “This is something my family has lived
with for generations.”
“But—”
“It typically strikes in the mid-thirties, if it
strikes. If one makes it to forty, well, then, it
has passed one by.”
Nabeel, I knew, was thirty-nine. We celebrated
his birthdays together. Thirty-nine. He’d almost
made it.
Nabeel stared into the middle distance. “It takes
nothing
could have
prepared me
for what
i was about
to see.
about six months to run its course—six months
of ever-increasing, untreatable, agonizing pain,
culminating in slow suffocation. I saw an uncle
die of it . . .”
“When did you suspect—”
“The pain started two weeks ago. The test
results,” he glanced at the paper in my hand,
“came in yesterday afternoon.”
We sat in silence for over a minute. I didn’t
want to ask, but I had to know: “Have you told
Rajah?”
Nabeel’s face contorted.
“No. I made an excuse
and stayed here last
night. I . . . just couldn’t
. . .” The tears came.
I stood and hugged him,
awkwardly. Nabeel
was not a hugger.
Eventually, he regained
control and I returned
to my seat. Nabeel said,
“She suspects. She
suspects, Andrew, but not just because of my
symptoms.” Nabeel pulled another sheet of
paper from a drawer. It was nearly identical to
the first—a page of test results, but the name
on the top was different.
“Rajah? Rajah has it, too?”
Nabeel bowed his head.
“But, how can that be? Isn’t this a genetic
condition?”
Nabeel looked at me from beneath heavy black
brows. “Her family is from the same village as
mine, in Syria. Everyone there is related, if one
goes back far enough.”
He heaved a sigh. “She just turned thirty. Her
pain began at almost the same time mine did.”
“Oh, my God!” I took several moments to
digest the horrible news. Then my heart
thumped. “What about Gamila? And the
Re|View • Winter 2024
baby?” Rajah was about eight months along.
“When both parents manifest the condition,
there is a 100 percent chance that the children
will be afflicted. They will both . . . they will
both be dead before they reach five years of
age. And their deaths will be . . . excruciating.”
Now I cried. Incongruously, I felt Nabeel
standing beside me, trying to comfort me.
I stood, and we clung to one another, sobbing,
until we could stand no more. Nabeel did not
usually drink very much, but he didn’t object
when I offered him a double shot of Scotch,
neat. He soon lay unconscious on his couch.
Leaving the door open, I returned to my office
and did what I do best. Nabeel, with his British
manners, was the barrister of the firm. I was
the back-room guy, the guy who could always
find the obscure precedent to rescue a losing
case. But, this time, my research skills failed me.
Nabeel’s condition was exactly as he described
it. It was always fatal. There was no treatment,
no hope.
Nabeel’s landline rang and I heard him groan.
It was almost six-thirty. We’d been there all
day. How could that be? I jumped up and
grabbed Nabeel’s phone before he could reach
it, motioning him back to his couch.
“Rajah? Hi, this is Andrew. Yes . . . yes, I’m
here with Nabeel,” I babbled my first few
words, not knowing what to say next, until
I did: “I’m afraid I owe you an apology. We just
got some very good news about a case, and I
insisted that Nabeel celebrate with me. He’s a
little, ah, knackered. I’m sorry. I’ll bring him
home and you can put him to bed. Okay? Yeah
. . . yeah . . . Okay, see you soon.”
I hung up. Nabeel stared at me. I took a
breath. “Nabeel, I would tell you to sit, but
you’re already sitting. I’ve spent the day online,
researching your . . . affliction. There’s a
clinical trial taking place right here in Detroit.
For a new treatment. It’s showing great
promise.”
i was the
back-room
guy, the guy
who could
always find
the obscure
precedent
to rescue a
losing case.
Nabeel almost leaped to his feet. He was still
exhausted and hungover, but, for the first time
that day, his eyes held a glimmer of hope. He
asked question after question and I told lie
after lie. We agreed that we would say nothing
to Rajah, not until I had
made arrangements for
them both to get into
the trial. I knew one of
the doctors personally.
I would make it happen.
Lie, lie, lie.
I made Nabeel drink
another double Scotch
and poured him into my car. We reached his
beautiful ranch home twenty minutes later.
Rajah put him to bed. Then I sat with her for
two hours, drinking wine, eating the dinner
she had prepared for her husband, making up
more lies about the great legal victory we had
8
Re|View • Winter 2024
scored that day, all thanks to Nabeel’s hard
work and brilliance. I overstayed my welcome,
until her exhausted mother’s eyes began
to droop.
“I’m so sorry, Rajah. You must be all in. Off to
bed with you. I’ll clean up. I can let myself out.”
With only faint protest, Rajah retired. I cleaned
the kitchen, taking my time. When I was
finished, I stepped into the hall leading to the
bedrooms. I could hear the steady sounds of
sleep, both Nabeel’s heavy snoring and Rajah’s
softer breath. I looked in on Gamila, tucked
firmly into her bed.
The house was warm and snug. I looked
around, at all the photographs and crayon
drawings, the books and toys. Then I gathered
my hat and coat, and, just before I left, I
opened all the jets on Nabeel’s massive new
gas range. a
i looked
around,
at all the
photographs,
the books
and toys.