Indian Summer and aaduna? When, Where, Why…

While there are several interpretations about the designation “Indian Summer,” there are legitimate indications that Native Americans in the United States started to observe this “season” within a season.  Without a doubt, there has to be a variety of weather conditions that must exist to apply this term.  Some folks say it started on November 2, while others suggest that it can not start until November 11 and end by November 20th.  We say, “Regardless….”

Well, when our former esteemed colleague Keith Leonard talked about having a summer/fall issue, little did we know (at that time) that he was wistfully itching for an issue that would be launched during “Indian Summer.”  Now that we exist with his ever present spirit, maybe he knew something that we did not.  Anyway…

Here are a few more snippets from aaduna’s summer/fall 2015 contributors for you to savor and look forward to:

Bruce Ellis Alford, (photo provided)
Bruce Ellis Alford’s offers an excerpt of an unique poem cycle entitled, “Alford’s Devotional and Guide to Poetry.”

815. The Project encourages you to write. Kids still play with baseballs. Someone teaches them how to throw the doors open. This poem steps out. Hungry

816. Children lingered in line outside an old building where youth ministry workers handed out Kool-Aid in Styrofoam cups and Oatmeal cookies wrapped in paper napkins.

Hallie Hayes (photo provided)
Hallie Hayes creates poetry of intrigue and wonderment.  Check this out:  (excerpt)

The lilacs slip into their whitewashed gowns tinged grey
in soot from the hard-fought wind, in May they dash
to the ball
                                    in their odor of ardor,

            come around again.

Christina R. Leal (photo provided)
Christina R. Leal’s fiction, “Come Home” is a story that you will not put down.  (excerpt)

Chris, you have a telephone call. I’m going to transfer,” the receptionist muttered over the intercom. I quickly made my way through the rows of endless desks, trying hard not to stumble on the colorful backpacks sprawled out on the floor, and looking over my shoulder at the innocent faces waiting patiently to be enlightened. One girl stood out amongst the rest with her bouncy, golden locks. Her ivory, smooth skin and red lips gave her the appearance of a beautiful, porcelain doll, rather than that of a middle-school student.

“Come home. Come home now. Don’t-don’t go anywhere…something has happened, and I need you to come home,” he whispered in such a low voice I could barely make out the words.

“Huh? What do you mean? What do you mean leave work? Is this a joke?”  I responded, startled.  “I’m about to start ‘A Retrieved Reformation’ with the kids.”

“Christina, come home. They’ll allow you to go if you tell them an emergency came up. They’ll allow you to leave,” he whispered. “I have to talk to you. Something-something…has happened, and I need you to come home. I need you here. I am home already…come home.”

Mario Duarte (photo provided)
Mario Duarte’s fiction, “The Western Exposure is Always Brightest in the Final Hours before the Sunset” is a reminder of what the creative mind can bring to us everyday. (excerpt)

Dear Lino, I know we haven’t talked in a long time but I have something to tell you.  No, everything is fine, but I’ve been busy. Let me tell you what I’ve been doing—the herculean labors this old woman of yours has endured.

     It all began with the rain. Yes, rain. It rained like it hasn’t rain in decades around here and more than I’ve ever seen. Yeah, I agree, global warming. Anyway, the rain began with one long thunderous crack, erupting like a tear in the fabric of the sky, a rip that cast down million and millions of fat rain drops.

    It rained without end. It began after the first red streaks of light on the horizon while I was feeding the chickens and didn’t end, I think, until long after I crawled into bed. Let me tell you it’s hard to fall asleep when it rains and thunders that much. The whole day was dark, and windy and the rain blew into my eyes when every step I took when I stepped outside to gather some eggs. A bad feeling descended over me, one I couldn’t shake for anything.

Jim Keane (photo provided)
Jim Keane’s opens his short story with a degree of suspense: (excerpt)

The nightmares were back.  They never really left.  Frank awoke breathing heavily.  His shirt was drenched as if he had just run a marathon.  Frank's wife Sarah awoke rubbing her eyes.

            "Did you have the same dream again?"  said Sarah.
            "Yes, I was close this time.  I could have saved him."  said Frank.
            "You have to stop punishing yourself.  It's not your fault."
            "If I was there I could have done something to stop it.  I am sure of it."
            "There is nothing you can do now.  It is time to get ready for the reunion." 
            Frank's Mother would always arrive last to the Pilgrim family reunion.

          Frank Pilgrim was enjoying his retirement.  After working several years with Horizon Communications, he received his gold watch and pension.  He and his wife Sarah had saved over the years to buy a house on the Hudson River.  This house would become their legacy house, a house they could pass on to their children and their children's children.  Where had the time gone? Frank thought.

            The Pilgrim Family Reunion happened every summer.  No matter what was going on with all the family members they found a way to make it back to Frank and Sarah's home.  Everyone would make a long weekend out of it.  Frank had everything he needed.  Almost.  There was something missing.  There was something looming and he knew it. 

The next aaduna issue is being prepped. We are psyched!


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