Cold Coffee Magazine Issue 1

Cold Coffee By Ben Larkin A Short Story about a father’s undying love for his daughter.

Editors Pick A Collection of poems by some of Cold Coffee’s best poets. Twenty novels written by members of Cold Coffee Books.

P LA G I A R I S M Editor and Columnist Rachel Blackbirdsong shares her thoughts on a literary injustice.

Words Words Words Some of the finer points that help good writers become great.

J.M. Doslobos

Brian Porter’s tenacious work ethic and writing skills have proven to be a winning combination. In an exclusive interview with Rachel Brower, Brian talks about his stellar novel and how he found success. “Your manuscript is both good and original, but the part that is good is not original and the part that is original is not good.” -- Samuel Johnson 1

MAGAZINE

Yonder

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What’s in Your Cup? Cold Coffee Magazine is a quarterly publication produced by members of the Cold Coffee Writing Community. It is dedicated to the voice of promising writers everywhere, writers who might otherwise go unheard. Each issue features an interview with a successful author, a short story, a number of poems, a list of twenty books found in the CC Bookstore and several helpful articles on writing. All work published in CCM was submitted by members of the CC writing community (www.coldcoffee.ning.com). Those writers interested in seeing their work published in CCM need only join the CC writing community and read the submission process. All who submit will be considered but not everyone who submits will be published. As compensation, those writers whose work is published will receive an invitation to the online web site where each issue of CCM is produced. Advertisers interested in having their company or their products represented in CCM or on the CC community web site may go to the CC community and submit your interest to David Price, creator of Cold Coffee.

Magazine Staff David Price – Owner, Designer, Chief Editor Rachel Brower – Poetry Submissions Editor Shannon Morrow – Design Specialist

Contributors The Perfectionists – Proof Reading and Editing Members of the Cold Coffee writer community Flikr community of photographers CCM is available through Magcloud.com Page 12

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Cold Coffee 6

Words, Words, Words by J.M. Doslobos “… We as writers have our brains are cluttered with vocabulary and punctuation rules we learned in third grade.”

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Yonder by Ben Larkin A Short Story about a father’s undying love for his daughter.

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What is Cold Coffee? by David Price The most interactive and quickly growing writer community in the world.

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Plagiarism by Rachel Blackbird Editor and Columnist Rachel Blackbirdsong shares her thoughts on a literary injustice.

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MAGAZINE 21

Interview With Novelist Brian Porter In this interview Brian talks about his stellar novel and how he found success.

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Featured Writer Candice Geary Candice is a glowing example of the blossoming talent one finds among the members of the Cold Coffee Writer Community.

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Editors Choice Poetry Cold Coffee Magazine accepts submissions from members of the Cold Coffee Writers Community and then chooses the best for publication.

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Editors Choice Books Cold Coffee Magazine picks and features books members have displayed at Cold Coffee Books. These are this issue’s picks.

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Words Words Words ‘

called “‘intestinal’ Latin jawbreakers” as opposed to “the gutty Germanic words.”

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The comment of course is Hamlet’s response to a question about what he is reading. When asked, he seems to indicate that the comment is meaningless. This is a situation we face every time we sit down at the computer for word processing. Most of us, more’s the pity, no longer use typewriters. The pity here is that when using a typewriter, especially if you write as a profession, you have to think, think about the words, before punching the keys. With a computer it’s simple, too simple. The machine will even go through your copy, check spelling, rephrase sentences and, if you aren’t alert, may change the meaning of what you have written because the machine has a limited vocabulary, and no brain. However, writers, even this one, have brains. If we are readers as well as writers — and we had better be — our brains are cluttered with vocabulary and punctuation rules we learned in third grade. Most of us who would someday want to be writers, would fill our conversations with what Robert A. Heinlein in one of his books

An old newsroom incident comes to mind. The people had better be nameless, but: Our police reporter returned from his rounds and set about writing up the notes he had collected from the police, the sheriff’s department and the state patrol. These included mostly petty crimes and vehicle accidents. I was slaving away at my desk doing rewrites or something — this was years and years ago — when suddenly the night editor who, at his mildest, was an irascible (oops, one of those Latin jawbreakers) old tyrant, and shouted at the police reporter, “Jack, what the hell are lacerations and contusions?” The reporter responded, without even turning to face the editor, “How the hell do I know? You’ve got a dictionary.” Within seconds, Jack also had one, right between his shoulder blades. He grabbed the book, stood and glared at the editor. “What the hell was that for?” “Cuts and bruises,” the editor growled. “Cuts and bruises. Cuts and bruises.” “The police report said contusions and laceration.” “Cuts and bruises.” We were being taught to write clearly and simply. The problem with a word like “obfuscate” is that it does. That is, it may confuse, which is a simpler term with the same meaning. The fact that a word like obfuscate exists, doesn’t mean you have to use it. Going a step further:

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The hero in our story is looking up at the blue sky. What? Not only what? But why? The sky is blue unless it is cloudy, foggy, gray (smoggy), or reddened by the rising or setting sun. If the sky is other than blue there is some point in mentioning it. Tight, clear prose is or should be the goal, even if the writer for some reason wants a leisurely pace. And speaking of pace: As news writers, we were taught to be terse (tight) for ease and speed in reading. Short sentences were the rule. Descriptions were accepted only if needed and were part of an onsite report, for example a serious accident, a fire or something really serious like a murder. A little “color” was acceptable, but only if it added to the drama. Hmm. Drama. Unless a football game or something like it was involved “drama” was another no-no. Normally, if drama was involved, it was supplied by a witness. But for fiction and often nonfiction, dramatic elements can be very important. But you really can’t create drama. You have only words, and words used sparingly can create drama: elation, sorrow, fear. But (there are a lot of ‘buts’ here): “It was terrifying!” is just a statement. You have to, as writer, supply the terror. Remember: you have only words. You must create a situation that is terrifying. To wit: When he made her kneel she began shaking. He walked around, rubbing the muzzle of the pistol gently across the back of her neck. She gasped, twist-

ing the hands bound behind her, her eyes wide and seeming out of focus as he moved around in front of her, letting her see the pistol. Her eyes, wet and dripping, opened wider as she looked at the gun and then at the man who smiled and said, “Goodbye bitch.” She closed her eyes as he put the pistol almost against her face. She took a deep breath and opened her mouth and pistol banged, sounding loud and flat. And she fell, flat. Her legs twitched, but she was dead with a small hole in her forehead and cavity in the back. Some may not find this terrifying, but it is intended as an example, however poor. It’s intended to show just what sorts of things you can do with words. Saying the one-year-old was happy with the kitten is a little flat. How about (about baby): When the kitten stopped in front of her and rubbed a velvety head against baby’s knee she gurgled and bounced and clapped her hands. When I was training people or attempting to, I would suggest that they try to describe for example a red sky without specifically mentioning color or the sky, or to write (describe) blue with out mentioning the word color or the color. It can be done and is a fun exercise. Spelling is important, and the spellers on most computers are a little limp. There are too many English words that sound alike. Don’t trust it: Consult Webster. Among things I have found very useful over they years are crossword puzzles. Don’t misunderstand here. Crosswords won’t do much for your vocabulary but they help develop the ability to find words

in you own storehouse, your brain. Sometimes crossword puzzle definitions are inexact (often), sometimes wrong until you get down to the least common definition and sometimes, too, words appear to be misspelled until you get down into the “alternate spelling” part of the dictionary definition. For me, they help, along with the morning coffee, to get my brain moving. And sometimes you will find alternative definitions, which often are archaic. Most daily newspapers supply daily crossword puzzles and of course there are crossword puzzle books. And there is reading. We all know that. I assume we would not be writers if we were not first readers. Leaving out schoolbooks and assigned reading, I suspect most of us during our school days read a lot of fiction, and some nonfiction, assuming we read at all. Television has drastically changed reading habits. So have school curricula changed. Some of the losses in education at all levels include poetry. I don’t mean the blank verse which passes for poetry, rather the older poetry which included blank verse as in Shakespeare, but especially poetry that was rhymed and metered. For some reason, not understandable to me, poetry that is rhymed is considered inferior, even though a good rhymed and metered piece is far harder to produce. Still, it is pleasant and often exhilarating to read, or, as in Poe, can be difficult and annoying. Believe it or not, meter in fiction, if not overdone, can be a very valuable tool. In fact, whether deliberately or not, 7

much serious writing is metered, simply because we tend to meter our speech. For some reason, we tend to speak in iambic pentameter. But I’m talking about words, descriptive words, words with emotion, with temperature. You don’t have to spend all your time reading, for example, Shakespeare’s — or anyone else’s — sonnets to see the way traditional poetry can produce temperature, emotion, mood. Robert Service: Service is readable, understandable and normally quite entertaining. Almost everyone has heard of the “Shooting of Dan McGrew.” When I was youngster it was popular campfire fare. However Service’s poem most frequently anthologized is “Young Fellow My Lad.” Service in his writings called himself a “mere maker of verse.” Perhaps that was all but, like Kipling (and many others) the language and the beat of his verse can be very exciting, uplifting or depressing. Even when depressing, the “music” draws us on. Service could even extract beauty from the battlefield: Beside the dying and the dead, Where rocket green and rocket red, In trembling pools of poising light, With flowers of flame festoon the night. Or in another vein make it as ugly as it really is:

… And you yourself would mutter when

You took the things that once were men And sped them through that zone of hate To where the dripping surgeons wait. Perhaps — I certainly hope not — no one will want a novel or especially a nonfiction book in rhymed or even blank verse, but a sound grasp of poetry and its language and can greatly improve a writer’s, any writer’s output.

that dictum, but I usually catch myself when I do and fortunately for many years had someone who would catch it if I didn’t. But it is a potential foible for all writers, especially new ones. I would say for inexperienced writers, but all of us remain learners.

By: J. M. Doslobos

Too frequently when we write, especially if we’re struggling, we don’t listen to our words, we forget about mood, temperature and color. Yet in our lives, unless we close ourselves inside some light proof, sound proof shelter, we are surrounded by those things. You find them in stories. If you are writer of stories and you feel the music and the color and the temperature, then writing is less of a chore and will be better writing. There is one more thing, perhaps the most important thing I have learned or been taught about writing; and it was painful. It involved my first writing assignment in college English: I was, as are many freshmen, pretty full of myself. After all, I was a top tenner in high school, at the head of my classes in a number of subjects. I had helped other students. My magnificent paper came back with a pretty good grade but with large red hand-written notation: “If you can’t be very, very clever, don’t be clever at all.” It hurt, but it was true. I won’t say I’ve never violated

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special in my book. To say I loved the child is like saying the Grand Canyon’s a hole in the ground. Words don’t cover it. All fathers know somewhere inside that anything that matters nearly always crosses paths with their daughters’ happiness. But I knew it in every bone of my body. She wasn’t a part of my life—she was my life, plain and simple, which is part of the reason I can’t comprehend why God made her up and leave.

My world could have been seen as small by some. It was me and Annette on our little farm, a father and a daughter in a simple two-bedroom house. Yet it didn’t feel small. The spread of the valley and the height of the pines had nothing to do with that estimation. Annette was enough for me, and I reckoned I was enough for her. I never caught her staring into space searching for something beyond the tree line. The lack of a mother or siblings didn’t daunt her. Annette was the only child of my wife, who passed while giving birth. My daughter figured having one parent was the way it was supposed to be. You see what I’m saying. The focus was never on what she didn’t have. And as I recollect, there was a swell amount she didn’t have. We were out in the boonies, on the ranch my pa owned before a stampede overtook him in ’42. Fifteen years later society ain’t any closer to us. If you scaled the tallest tree and used its highest branch as a lookout point, you’d see nary a chimney or water tower. Heck, we ain’t even got a telephone. This is back country, and people who live here don’t live here because

it’s fashionable or even reputable. It’s something you’re born into, and if you don’t like it, you pack up and head for more populated areas. To us, there ain’t no such thing as safety in numbers. Safety is out here, away from the crowd. It’s that feeling that someone bigger has always got His eye on things, and since there ain’t so many people, He’s able to focus right in on you. So it was me and Annette, our horses—Ritzy and Willow, and a mite over a hundred head of cattle. Most of my time was taken up by the stock, but I let Annette choose what part she wanted to play in helping. Some afternoons she’d be out in the field with me, not so much working as keeping me company. Other days she stayed at the house, cleaning up things in ways I never taught her. That was her mother coming out, I’m sure. Every once in a while she’d go roaming with Melissa, the only other girl her age within traveling distance. I missed her those days, but I never asked her to stay. To make her stay when she didn’t want to would only make the times she was here less special. And just about every day was

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Annette left last summer, you see, to go yonder with her mother. Her departing happened in the snap of a bone— her spine, in this case. I found her myself, though not without considerable searching. She’d gone horseback riding with Melissa, and they had ventured back over to the ranch of Melissa’s family. The Parcher Ranch. You could say they were our next-door neighbors, but they lived a good five miles away. Most times Melissa came over here, which her parents never seemed to mind. I know now I should’ve made them play o’er here every time, one of the many things I loathe in hindsight. Melissa’s a good kid, always has been, but her parents are as shiftless as they come. Daniel Parcher marks the time on his porch, his feet propped on the railing, swigging away on his putrid homemade whiskey. The grass is always high in their garden, and it occurred to me more than once that ten- yearold Melissa probably does most of the work that gets done around there, not by choice either. That’s a frightening thought, but as Annette only knew me, Melissa’s only known the life handed to her, and she didn’t know to be angry about it.

These days, I make it my job to be angry for her. But I’m rambling. Annette and Melissa set out early that morning, Annette on Willow and Melissa on the one old mare the Parcher family owned. I don’t remember if I told Annette to be back by dusk, but I knew I didn’t need to. She knew my shorthand well enough, and I suspect she shared an inkling of my feelings about Daniel Parcher. Mary Parcher would be there at least. I didn’t know Melissa’s mother well, but from the few times I’d seen her she seemed at least a hair more cognizant of her surroundings than her husband. She had a quiet, fragile way about her, like someone searching for a match in the dark. I don’t know if she ever stopped searching. She ran off with some other fellow about a week after Annette’s departing—yonder in a different direction, I suppose. That day went by like any other. I never thought to worry for Annette. She was a good three years older than Melissa, and had more common sense than the entire Parcher lineage combined. When dusk set in, I didn’t think much of it. Annette must’ve gotten a late start back. I knew she’d explain it in a solid way the moment she got home. Maybe Melissa’d be with her, needing a place to hunker down for the night. If Daniel Parcher was having one of his moonshine parties, that wouldn’t be surprising. That girl had sense to know when she needed to steer wide of her papa. I’ll give her a nod for that. Soon stars were pricking the sky, and I wondered if I should ride out to meet them. Annette knew how to travel at night, but maybe Melissa wasn’t used to it. I didn’t want Annette saddled with a long journey and a little

girl’s sense of safety. So I started for the shed, whistling to Ritzy to let her know I was coming. Then Willow wandered into the path, her saddle as empty as my suddenly hollow stomach.

experiences, if that makes any dern sense. As I crouched on the ground, staring into Annette’s once vibrant but now hauntingly still face, such a thing came over me.

Maybe at that point I knew. I don’t remember. The rest of that night is a smudge to me. At the time, the night and the search seemed eternal. Willow n’ I skinned out to the Parcher stead, and then all through its overgrown paths, calling out her name. I remember thinking that infernal sun was never gonna rear up. At one point I passed that doggery of a house the Parchers called home, thought about calling on them, but didn’t. Melissa’s horse was bedded down in the stable, which meant Melissa was bedded down in her stable, too. Calling on them would only waste time and get Melissa worrying. I headed back into the brush, having never considered asking Daniel Parcher to help search. Some things aren’t options.

I was back in our house, a year or more earlier, and I was reading the Good Book aloud, like I did every night. Annette was there, too, listening while she did the dishes. It’d be easy to think Annette did the dishes so she didn’t have to listen to me prattle, especially if you’ve ever heard me stumbling clumsily over every thee and thou I came across. She was listening, though. Her moss green eyes kept coming back to me, and they were wide with wonder. Another benefit of staying so far from other kids her age, I guess. She didn’t know to be bored.

Dawn had barely broken through the trees when I found her, her body sitting awkward against a juniper trunk, her eyes staring dully into the rusty light. She looked like a doll waiting for someone to come and play. I assumed without question that Annette had been on her way back when the accident occurred. The fact that she was on the wrong end of the Parcher tract didn’t so much as pierce my thoughts. Annette was dead, and I was filled with equal amounts exhaustion and despair. No, take that back. I had more despair. It’s strange how certain moments bring memories back to the surface, bring ‘em up so fast they don’t quite feel like memories at all. More like re-

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And so I read. “Forbear to cry, make no mourning for the dead, bind the tire of thine head upon thee, and put on thy shoes upon thy feet, and cover not thy lips, and eat not the bread of men. So I spake unto the people in the morning: and at even my wife died; and I did in the morning as I was commanded.” I paused to sip my tea, not really contemplating what I had read. Annette had, though, and she posed a question. “Pa?” she asked softly. “Did you ever hate me for killing Mama?” My head jolted up so quick I nearly forgot the mug on my lips. Some tea sloshed my chin, but I kept my grip. “Annie,” I said, unable to hide my shock. “Why would you go thinking a thing like that?” She shrugged and turned back to the dishes. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.” Her voice was strangely calm, as if

this were a fact she long ago came to accept. I rose from my chair in a hurry. “Now you listen,” I said, suddenly angry for some reason unknown to me. “Your mama’s passing was not your fault. You have no right to bear such a burden on your shoulders.” She turned then, and I was surprised to see a faint whisp of a smile on her face. “I know, Pa,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s not like I had a choice as to how I was born. But still, you had to send your grief somewhere. I just reasoned it might’ve come my way.” “Well, it didn’t,” I sputtered, crossing my arms. “I never let such a thought even form in my head.” That faint smile disappeared from her face, and Annette’s eyes turned serious. “Did you blame God then? Did you blame Him for taking Mama yonder?” That caught me off-guard, and I think she knew it. The anger fell from my face as I pondered. “No,” I said, trying to retain my fatherly posture. “I never blamed God. That’s the easy way out. You see, in the end God don’t kill people. People kill…” I broke off, realizing what I was saying. Annette nodded and went back to the dishes. I touched the back of her arm desperately. “It really wasn’t your fault, sweetie. It weren’t no one’s fault. Truth be told, I never thought about it. I did my best not to think about it, in fact. Those thoughts only end in pain, and I had a new baby to see to.” She nodded again without turning to me. The silence hung over us like rain clouds waiting to burst. I pulled my hand

away, knowing the conversation was over. We could keep picking at it if we chose, but there’d be nothing new to say. I turned and made my way to my bedroom. What stopped me was her sweet voice. “You’re a good man, Pa,” she said, and I could hear the smile on her face. “Not that I’ve known many. Still, you’re a good one--one of the best, I reckon.” Those words ran through my head like a flood, and then I was back in the forest again, staring at moss green eyes with no light in them. The eyes of my daughter. I buried her the next evening. Some people came over, brought some food, tried to keep me company. I didn’t ask for them, but once I phoned the sheriff to tell him the situation word got around. Old ladies started showing up with casseroles. Widow Stevenson brought the same potato salad she made after my wife died. I don’t mind saying their presences unnerved me. All these people with God in their hearts, trying to let me know I was loved. The problem was they all looked like strangers to me. Sure I recognized their faces, but I didn’t know anything about ‘em other than their cooking abilities. And they sure didn’t know me. No and heck no. I was merely their noble cause for a day. I stomached their food and their compassion, but Lord was I grateful when the last one sputtered out of my driveway. The Parchers never showed up at all. Weeks passed like nails on slate. Every moment without her wrenched my insides. But I wasn’t allowing for despair. Instead, I threw myself into chores. The cows became my all 11

-consuming task. I spent most of each day among them, fussing over any blessed thing I could think to fuss over. I only came in the house to fall into bed. The indoor parts quickly fell into a state of befuddled desperation, but the outdoor parts looked better than they ever had. The loose boards in the fence were either mended or replaced. The leaning mailbox had a new post and a better hole to prop it in. The yard around the house had nary a scrap of clutter in it. Another thing left on my list of time-passers was the stable. One of the swinging stall doors had hung by a single hinge for the better part of two years. And when was the last time I raked out the old hay? It was time, and I was more than willing. Every task took my mind away from that one big thought looming at the edge of my being. I’d heard the thought in bits and pieces. Sometimes I even shook my head to keep it from completing. I knew it, though. ‘Course I knew. How could I not? When the tasks ran out, so would my life. You probably think I mean suicide, but you’re only half right. The truth was I never planned a thing. I had a scattershot rifle in the closet, but I wasn’t about to use it on myself. Maybe I’ve never been the most sanctified of men, but I had faith enough to know that Annette still had a view from whichever perch she was on. And I couldn’t stomach the thought of her watching me blow myself apart. No, death was coming, but not from the barrel of my rifle. There were other kinds of death, kinds that took more than a quick flash of thunder, the patient kinds, the slow kinds. That was what I had. The slow death had started in the pit of my soul. I felt it in

there, quietly gnawing its way to the surface. Maybe cattle and busy work were slowing it down some, but that well I was drawing from—the well of purpose— was gonna run dry eventually. And that gnawing in my gut would get a whole lot worse when it did. Maybe I’d never hurt myself, but I was rapidly losing the gumption to help myself, too. I saw the future coming, one where I’d wake one morning unable to crawl out of bed, or eat, or even drink. I’d be trapped in a quarry of grief, and the final straw would be my ability to breathe. The air in me would go flat, simply because I didn’t have the will to keep it moving. But I wasn’t going to think about that. I had a stable to see to. Maybe I need to pull the reigns on my storytelling. You see, it gets a mite strange from here. And though I don’t mind telling it, I ain’t about to suffer any eye rolls or mocking sighs. I don’t care if you think me crazy, so long as you don’t try to convince me it didn’t happen. I know it did, know it the same way I know when one of my steers is sick. I’m a granger, and I can tell when something’s contrary. My story comes from heightened awareness, not the lack thereof. Just so’s you know. ‘Cause that saddle didn’t crawl up on Willow by itself. I don’t know how long I played with that rickety door before I noticed. Eventually I did, because I dropped the hammer into the hay and watched for a spell, as if expecting it to move. There was Willow, her gray coat almost blue in the early morning light. And there was Annette’s saddle on Willow’s back, belt strapped around her belly, stirrups dangling in the light

breeze. For a moment I wondered if I had left it there all that time, even though I knew it weren’t possible. Maybe I did all my riding on Ritzy, but I tended to Willow, too. I usually let her roam one of the fields for a good part of each day. I would’ve noticed a saddle hanging on her back. As I thought about it, I remembered taking the saddle off. I remembered how hard that simple action was. Taking off the saddle kind of brought it all home for me, forced me to open my mind to the truth. Horrible thoughts swirled through my head as my fingers wrapped around that stiff leather. Had a snake jumped at Willow? Or did a low branch knock Annette plum off? These were answers I’d never be privy to, and I think that was the first moment I ever truly wondered. Was the Big Boss really watching us out here? Or were we as alone as the townspeople thought we were? I wasn’t mad at Him yet, or at least it didn’t feel like I was. But the confusion inside was dreadfully stifling. This didn’t feel like the way it was supposed to be. People have to die sometime, I know. But not like that. Not thirteen years old and full of vigor. It wasn’t—it wasn’t something I cared to think about anymore. All the same I had tears in my eyes and a sneer on my lips as I mounted that saddle on the gate. And now it was back on Willow I made my way over to her and checked it out. It was a slow process, you understand. I’d take a few steps in her direction, keeping my distance but watching her to see if she had any new marks. My mind kept telling me that someone’d been out here, maybe even took Willow for a ride or two without 12

permission. The question there was why bring her back? I don’t know many horse rustlers--none in fact--but I don’t reckon many would steal a horse only to return her to her stable. That is, unless they were just about to do it when I got there. That thought made me rigid in a heartbeat. I jerked around like a deer sensing a predator. Suddenly, it made perfect sense. The saddle was on, but not the bit and bridle. Whoever did the dressing got interrupted, by a man with no greater ambition than fixing a broken door of all things. That feeling of being watched came over me like a heavy storm. Real or imagined, it came on something fierce, and for that moment there was no doubt in my mind. “Who’s there?” I called out. It was a greenhorn thing to do, but I couldn’t help it. “Come on, now. Show yourself.” I waited with one ear cocked. Seems like I heard every strand of hay bristling in the wind. I couldn’t hear movement-nothing that would give credence to my fear. No boots sliding through grass. No whispering breath. Just me and my heart hammering away in my veins. Then something did move, and I yelped before I could pull it back. The breeze kicked up. Kicked up fast it did. Drifts of hay took flight around me. Dust streamed through the stable in a torrent. And yet even with all the commotion, I noticed something that made my neck hairs stand on end. The trees next to the stable were still and lifeless. The wind was only blustering inside the stable. “Who’s there?” I yelled, praying someone would answer.

Someone did. I don’t know if you’ll believe that, but someone did indeed. I heard a laugh—just a sliver of one. It was on the wind and then gone again before my ears could really get a hold of it. But once I heard those sparkling chimes, I knew. “Annette?” My voice came out strange, like a person waking up. “Annette, is that you?” The wind went still just like that. Like someone flicked it off. I stood there, frozen in my boots, waiting—no, praying I’d hear her again. The seconds went by. Bits of hay glided past my trembling eyes, heading back to the stable floor. Then Willow whinnied, and I turned and looked at her. She was bobbing in her pen, her head swaying excitedly. And it wasn’t unsettled excitement, either. Willow was being playful, as if an old friend had popped in for a visit. I gazed at her, realizing she was probably right. Someone had been here, someone who knew this old stable a whole lot better than I did. I looked up at the tin roof, my vision fogging up. “I love you, sweetie,” I said, maybe knowing that if anyone else had been watching, they would’ve thought me crazy. I couldn’t have cared if they did. That night, I spent more time than usual inside the house. I realized I had been a fool to stay out so much. There was so much of her inside. I took big, long whiffs and smelled her clean skin. I went in her room and held the wooden horses I had carved for her years ago. I saw drawings on the wall, some made less than a month before. They were all pictures of trees and flowers—and Willow, of course. Lots and lots of Willow. Maybe I had known it before,

but her skill with a pencil suddenly seemed amazing to me. My Annette had real talent. I held one particular picture for what must’ve been an hour. I stared at it the whole time with a goofy grin on my face. It was a drawing of the two of us—her on Willow and me on Ritzy, and she had gotten everything right. The colors were spot on. The lines of the horses’ faces were straight out of real life. If she’d done any flubbing it all, it was that she made me more handsome than I could rightly claim. As I lit out to dreaming, I still had that picture in my hand. A spark of hope crackled inside, and I had a feeling maybe thing’s weren’t as drastic as I first figured. Maybe Annette wasn’t on some far-off perch, twiddling her thumbs. Maybe she was closer. Maybe she never really left at all. The next morning only confirmed it. I woke to the sound of horseshoes clumping. Staggering to the window I saw Willow, this time with bit, bridle, and saddle. She was out on the south pasture, trotting merrily. To the average eye she seemed to be running alone. But I knew better. Annette was with her. She had led the horse from the stable to the field, and now she was hitting the breeze, giving Willow a better leg-stretch than she’d had in weeks. I went out on the porch and watched for most of the morning. Any other busy work I had planned became a distant second to watching Willow prance across the horizon. And something occurred to me that hadn’t ‘til then. I hadn’t been the only one to lose a loved one with Annette’s passing. Willow had lost her best friend, too, and had likely suffered greatly for it. I was too caught up in my own worries to notice.

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But now—now she galloped through the high grass, and my heart galloped right along with her. The rest of the day went by like any other—that is to say, any other before Annette’s death. I went about my work with confidence and a gleam in my eye, knowing come tomorrow Willow’d be out running again, and Annette would be there, too. She’d always be there, keeping me company in her special way. Maybe it was a little different now, but in the biggest ways it was like it’d always been. Everything on the by and by. Come tomorrow, I’d be a man once again content with life. Then tomorrow came, and I found out how wrong I was. I went to the stable early that morning. I didn’t know if Annette would let me watch her dress Willow—didn’t even know if it was possible to watch—but I figured it couldn’t hurt to try. The sun was barely winking over the spruces, and I had a bounce in my step that might’ve come straight from Willow. I swung open the one-hinged stall door, called out a loud good morning to Willow, then got the fright of my life. A young woman stood in my stable, and she was screaming. I don’t like to admit it, but for a moment I would’ve sworn up and down that it was Annette standing there. The sun was behind her, and her hair was glowing strawberry blond like Annette’s. She had a bridle in her hand, too, and it didn’t take much guessing to know it was Willow’s. But then the moment passed, I blinked, and realized it was Melissa Parcher. I had startled her with my swift entrance. The

poor girl was trembling all over, and I could tell from the look in her eyes she thought she was in trouble. I raised my hands to calm her, but I didn’t speak right away. I couldn’t. I was stunned speechless. My heart felt like it was teetering on a barbed wire fence. Had it been Melissa I’d interrupted the other day? Had it been Melissa who let Willow into the south pasture? These were questions I was certain I didn’t want answered. But they were about to be, whether I wanted it or not. “It’s okay,” I whispered, my mouth drier than a desert canyon. “I ain’t out to hurt ya.” “I’m sorry,” the girl spouted. “I know I’m not sposed to be here. I couldn’t stay away anymore. I had to come see for myself.” I nodded, finding it hard to make my vocal cords work. Finally I said, “Come on. I’ll make you some breakfast.” She came back to the house with me. As I started working on breakfast she sat down at the table, in the same spot I usually waited when Annette made dinner. I got right to it, frying up eggs and bacon and flapjacks. Somewhere in the darker regions of my brain I knew the girl would never eat this much, but it wasn’t about Melissa’s hunger. I was back to doing busy work. I was drawing from that well of purpose again. And it didn’t surprise me to see it was almost dry. In fact, I wasn’t sure it would last out the day. “My pa didn’t want me coming out,” Melissa said, her voice so small it barely registered over the eggs popping in my frying pan. “He said I had no business out here anymore. He said he’d wallop me good if I disobeyed. You won’t tell him, will ya?”

“No,” I said, keeping my eyes on the eggs. “We’ll keep it between us.” “Thank you, sir.” Melissa stared at her lap the same way I was staring at the frying pan. “I had to come see. I heard she died, but it didn’t seem possible. Ann don’t seem like the type of person that can be killed. It’s like she’s too strong for that.” My teeth gritted hard, and I was glad my back was to her. I knew then. I did blame God. I blamed Him completely. The surge of anger that came with that realization made my hands clench up and start shaking. “Yeah,” I whispered, my voice hollow. “I know what you mean. This ain’t the way it’s supposed to be.” “I thought my pa only knocked the wind out of her was all.” That comment made it out of her without a hitch. Yet the moment I heard it my lungs seized up as if full of gravel. I turned around slowly, taking breaths so small they wouldn’t have blown a feather off a mountainside. “What?” Melissa looked at me, saw the hardness in my eyes and stiffened. “It was an accident,” she said. “Me and Ann was riding the backwoods at my place. And we ran into him by accident. Usually, I know where not to go. But he moved his shinin’ jugs without telling me. We barreled in there, knocking his ale over and spilling it everywhere.” She gulped. Tears stood in her eyes. Part of her didn’t want to finish the story. But I think Melissa knew she’d really come here for one reason, and this was it. She wanted me to know. Couldn’t stomach holding it inside anymore. It was too big for such a little girl. She went on.

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“Pa was there, of course. He’d been napping on his hammock. And when we barged in he jumped up, thinking we were people out to get him or something. He grabbed his rifle, but didn’t have time to aim. Ann was already too close. So he swung out at her, and the barrel caught Annette in the chest. She came down like a sack of flour.” Melissa sobbed. “Then Pa pulled me down off my horse. He yelled at me and slapped me, then made me go back to the house. I kept trying to see what happened to Ann, but she was back behind a bush, and Pa wasn’t letting me get any closer. I took off for the house, thinking he was gonna send her home. I didn’t know she was dead. I promise I never…” She broke off again as her chin set to trembling. “I know you didn’t, Melissa.” As I stared at her tear-streaked face I realized the tears were gone from my eyes. They had shored up, replaced by something else, something a mite chillier. Melissa struggled to get a hold of herself. “So anyway,” she said, almost whispering. “These last few weeks I’ve been shut up inside the house. Like I said, he’d wallop me good if he knew I were here. He only let me leave because we ran out of food. The garden ain’t produced nothing for a spell, and after mama left there was no one left to go to the store. So he sent me, and that’s where I was headed. I kinda changed course without meaning to. One moment I was on the road to town, the next I was running my fingers over Willow’s bridle.” She dabbed her eyes with her sleeve as she turned to the window. “I never knew how to put on a bridle right until Annette showed me how.”

She passed into silence, letting her memories carry her on. I watched her, feeling a hot brick in my gut. Finally I looked back at the burnt eggs and took them off the stove. I turned the burner off and walked out of the kitchen, into my room. When I came out I had my coat and hat on, and Melissa was now the one watching me. “Where you going?” she asked. “To the store,” I said, not looking at her. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t go nowhere.” I stepped outside and headed for the stable. I felt Melissa’s nervous gaze on my back, more specifically on the thing in my right hand, but I paid her no mind. I had something to do, and anything else--breakfast, a rickety stable door, even the Big Man Himself--was beyond my ability to care. Somewhere inside I knew I was drawing up the last bucket from that well of purpose, but that was fine by me. This last bit of busy work dwarfed everything that had come before. I wouldn’t need purpose by the day’s end. I only needed what I already had in my hand. My scattershot rifle. I cinched Willow to the front railing of the Parchers’ front porch (I almost took Ritzy, but then decided Willow deserved to be here for this, too. We both had a score to settle on that account). From somewhere inside that gray box of a house Daniel Parcher called out in a boorish voice. “Melissa, get your rump in here! You done been too long, and I’m starving!” I didn’t respond, at least not with words. I simply raised my rifle in the direction of the front window and pulled the trigger. A crack like an earthquake rum-

bled the air as the window and a good bit of the wall around it blew to pieces. The man inside let out a scream, one I was glad to hear. There would soon be more. I moved onto the porch at a swift clip, my boots clicking heavy on the floorboards. One of those boots came up fast and kicked the front door, and it opened right up. Parcher hadn’t locked it today. Didn’t know he would need to. At any rate, I moseyed on in, laying eyes on a house more damaged and chaotic than anything my rifle could’ve done. Soiled clothes hung over the furniture. Empty jugs were scattered about the floor. Old vomit was caked on the curtains, as if he had tried to make it to the window in time and failed. I felt a fresh surge of anger as I imagined Melissa living in this squalor, and it got me moving again. I heard him in the back room, scrambling like a wolf in a hen house. When I kicked in the door he let out a scream worthy of a choirgirl. He had been crawling through a window half his size, but now he spun around, stiff with fear. I took a moment to get the measure of him and let him get the measure of me. It’d been a good two years since I’d seen Daniel Parcher, and I noticed the difference immediately. He was thinner now—bonier, too. His pasty skin hung on his face like a loose blanket. His light brown hair had no conceivable order. It went where it went. His eyes were the most recognizable feature on him. I had seen those eyes in my shaving mirror over the past month. They were dead, barony eyes. They were filled with the slow death. “You took my daughter from

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me,” I said, and as much as my heart was racing, it was amazing how steady my voice sounded. Daniel Parcher said nothing. He stared at me with those eyes, knowing what was about to happen. Maybe even thankful for it. When the slow death has you, a quick release starts to look good. I raised my rifle chestlevel. “You know you’ve got this coming.” “I know,” he said balefully. “I had it coming a long time.” My finger nestled around the trigger, done with the chatting. I had one purpose left in my soul and I was bound to it. Daniel Parcher knew it, because he closed his eyes and frowned mournfully. Dusty silver tears ran down his cheeks. Maybe he was grieving about the loss of his life, but I had a notion that he’d been grieving over that for a long time. My eyes narrowed and my jaw stuck out. The seconds passed. Wind kicked up outside. Somewhere off in the woods, a dog barked eagerly. More seconds passed. Slowly, quietly, I realized something. I wasn’t born to this. I was a granger like my pa and his pa before him. We spent our days shepherding animals, keeping ‘em healthy, helping new ones into the world, tending to their food, broaching their trust, cleaning their coats, and letting them live. Livestock was our trade. Life was our trade— and when you spend all your days around life, the thought of death ain’t in your blood. The Big Man most assuredly knows what I’m talking about. I lowered my rifle, my stomach clenching something fierce.

A tear slid down my cheek, but I barely even noticed. Parcher opened one eye, staring at me, somehow even more afraid than before. He thought I was gonna make this slow and painful. I could see it in that one quivering eye.

low and gigged her, and a misty rain began to fall. I rode into the forest with a cool chill on my face. Water droplets like pearls collected on every leaf and flower, and it seemed like I noticed each one, noticed the beauty of it all.

I cleared my throat. “Your daughter will not be coming home…She’s bunkin’ at my place now.” I propped the rifle on my shoulder, and he allowed his other eye to open. “If you have a problem with that, you and I can augur about it at any time and place you deem fit…I’ll be waiting.”

During that ride I noticed something else, too, but I couldn’t tell you precisely when I noticed it. For a spell it was Willow and I cutting through the brush. And then somewhere along the way we added a member to our party. I knew because I felt it— in the form of small hands wrapped around my sides and a small head nestled against my back. I felt her against me, and before I knew it the tears were flowing. I kept looking forward all the same. Part of me knew, I think, that this was a one-time deal. By the time we reached the house she’d be gone again. So I slowed Willow’s pace, closed my eyes, and tried to savor the feeling.

Somehow my feet got moving and took me out of that room. A whimpering echo followed me, a coughing, pathetic thing that filled me with disgust. He was trying to make words. As I passed through the front door he got something out. “You were sposed to kill me,” he said, sounding cheated. I looked back and conjured up a stony smile. “Boy, you’re already dead. Your body just don’t realize it.” That was the last thing I ever said to Daniel Parcher. It turned out my words were true. Two months later the sheriff stepped into the same house (to find out why Melissa was staying with me, ironically) and found Daniel Parcher’s decaying corpse huddled under the window, one skeletal hand wrapped around a moonshine jug’s handle. “One too many benders,” the sheriff told me solemnly, but I knew better. The slow death got him, plain and simple.

Behind me, I heard a soft whisper. “You’re a good man, Pa—one of the best, I reckon.”

THE END Ben Larkin

But that was still in the future. At the moment, walking out of the Parcher shack, I only wanted to untie Willow and remove myself from that condemned land. I climbed on Wil-

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What is

Cold Coffee? Cold Coffee began as an attempt to offer writers a more interactive writing community. I was tired of bland post-and-read websites. CC was going to be warm, inviting and comfortable. I wanted it to feel more like a home than a website. The name Cold Coffee was derived from good conversations, warm chats between good friends where the coffee goes cold before it’s ever finished. Communication was key to creating the environment I was looking for. Members had to be able to communicate in real time. CC members enjoy two chat rooms, one that is exclusive to CC members and another that is shared with other writer communities. Aside from the warm colors and intimacy, members also enjoy the same aspects they liked in other writing communities. They can post work not only in blogs or on discussion boards but also in groups dedicated to specific types of writing. CC is inviting not only to the up and coming writer but also the more polished one. Writers who have books and want a community that provides them with a place to display their art enjoy the Cold Coffee Bookstore - a free boutique where members can upload their book cover, blurbs and links to where their book can be purchased. In an effort to offer the promising voices in the community a better opportunity to improve their craft, CC offers workshops hosted by seasoned writers who want to help. An exclusive Events feature allows these workshops and meet-ups to be announced and/or scheduled. Of course if you’re reading this, there is a good chance you’re reading it in CC’s exclusive voice, Cold Coffee Magazine. Members of the CC community take pride in knowing they have a publication that caters only to them. In each issue, CCM publishes the best of the best that the CC community has to offer in poetry, short stories, novel and articles for writers. If you’re looking for a warm, interactive writing community that offers the same amenities other websites do, then Cold Coffee might be your home away from home. The cost of membership is free; the friendships are priceless. What’s in your cup? www.coldcoffee.ning.com David Price 17

Plagiarism This is an honest article for any who may have questions or are not sure what plagiarism is. Let’s face it, we writers have a silent code amongst ourselves in this and other writer’s communities, groups, clubs, and organizations, etc., and that is: Don’t plagiarize my work. Most of us don’t feel the need to verbalize it since, as I said, there is a silent agreement, but there are those who feel the need to post warnings on their work, blogs or websites telling would-be word thieves what will happen to them and their various body parts if it is discovered that their work has been stolen. The reason is simple there is a very real fear of being plagiarized. So the question arises: what exactly is plagiarism? Many have opinions about what it means, and I could easily give you a list of some of those, but for the sake of not trying to confuse anyone or take up too much of your time with this article, here is what plagiarism actually is:

“Plagiarism is the practice of claiming or implying original authorship of (or incorporating material from) someone else's written or creative work, in whole or in part, into one's own without adequate acknowledgement. Unlike cases of forgery, in which the authenticity of the writing, document, or some other kind of object itself is in question, plagiarism is concerned with the issue of false attribution.” Notice I used quotation marks? That’s because that

statement is not mine, but quoted from another source; that source to be exact is http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Plagiarism. Here’s some more from that same webpage (mentioning that this is from another source and then giving that source’s information is called a “citation”): “Within academia, plagiarism by students, professors, or researchers is considered academic dishonesty or academic fraud and offenders are subject to academic censure. In journalism, plagiarism is considered a breach of journalistic ethics, and reporters caught plagiarizing typically face disciplinary measures ranging from suspension to termination. Some individuals caught plagiarizing in academic or journalistic contexts claim that they plagiarized unintentionally, by failing to include quotations or give the appropriate citation. While plagiarism in scholarship and journalism has a centuries-old history, the development of the Internet, where articles appear as electronic text, has made the physical act of copying the work of others much easier, simply by copying and pasting text from one web page to another.” *The italics in the above paragraph were added by me for emphasis. I would also like to add that you risk being forever blacklisted, which means that you will not be able to publish your work. How is that possible you ask? Because publishers and editors share information like this amongst themselves. So if one of them catches you giving yourself credit for something that someone else has written, they are going to make it their business to tell others about it. Why you may ask? Because pla-

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giarism is considered to be the lowest thing one writer can do to another. But more importantly for the publication, they risk being sued by the original author if they publish plagiarized material and worse than that, they risk being blacklisted themselves. And in a business where reputation is everything, that is everything. Besides being extremely unprofessional on the part of the writer, it breeds an atmosphere of distrust, since when it is discovered, no one is going to feel able to trust that you won’t do it again. Some may argue that there are no original ideas anymore and my opinion of such an argument is that whoever thinks that is probably someone I should watch out for, because there are original ideas and ways of taking something such as a love story and putting your own particular stamp on it.

Examples: Anne Rice took the age-old story of the vampire and made it uniquely her own. How age-old is it? Well according to the information found here: http:// www.chebucto.ns.ca/ ~vampire/vhist.html, vampire myths go back thousands of years. So even Bram Stoker, the author of “Dracula,” which was published in 1897, was borrowing the idea for his book from a legend. Did he plagiarize it? No, and neither did Anne Rice. “Star Wars,” and “Lord of the Rings,” along with quite a few other books borrow from the some of the oldest themes in writing: the hero on a quest, the

romantic couple, the wizard, the dark lord, etc. But each of these stories takes those familiar themes and then does something completely different with them. If you want to read more about these other archetypes in literature, and also some basic literary elements, there’s more information about them here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Archetype#Archetypes_in_literature http:// www.orangeusd.k12.ca.us/ yorba/literary_elements.htm I’m sure that after reading these lists you might be able to think of other examples in literature and movies that also fit those ideas. I’m pretty sure each one of us could come up with something uniquely our own using this page as a guide and create something that could only come from our imaginations and abilities.

But the bottom line is still this: There is no reason why you or anyone else who claims to be a writer can’t do the same thing. Which of course is what any writer who has the capacity and the imagination to write should be able to do. If you still want to argue that there are no original ideas and use that as an excuse to steal work and ideas that aren’t your own, then perhaps writing isn’t the field for you. Seriously. Try something else. So the next time you want to quote a song or words from a movie or borrow anything from another writer’s work, give the original author, composer, movie or whatever it is their due. Use quotation marks,

mention the author’s name, use citations, but for God’s sake, don’t pretend that it’s your own original work. For those of us who are poets and fiction writers, the same goes for you, too. We aren’t immune from being blacklisted and publically heralded as thieves. I hope now it’s clear what plagiarism is, so for those who weren’t sure, you now have an explanation and to those of who you are doing it, you have a warning. You will be found out, because sooner or later these kinds of things are always found out. You will ruin your reputation and any hopes of having a writing career of any kind. So you may want to ask yourself a few questions:

1. Is the momentary attention that I’m receiving really worth losing my reputation as not only a writer, but also an honest human being, really worth it?

2. Do I really want a writing career, which means not only that I’m a serious writer, but also that I’m willing to live up to standards of journalistic professionalism? 3. Why am I doing this in the first place? If I’m a creative person then surely I must be able to come up with ideas of my own which come from me, my experiences, my abilities and my craft.

In the end, it’s up to each one of us to decide what we want to do. Ignorance isn’t an excuse there is no excuse for plagiarizing someone else’s work.

Rachel Blackbirdsong

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Interview With Brian Porter What goes through the mind of a serial killer? What makes them tick? When Rachel Brower from Cold Coffee Magazine set out to find the answer to these and other questions, Brian’s book, A Study in Red, is a magnificent journey into the fictionalized accounts of world famous serial killer, Jack the Ripper. Rachel recently sat down to find out more about Brian and what readers might dare to find within the pages of his novel. CCM: Hi Brian, Welcome To Cold Coffee Magazine. Thank you for taking the time to join us and talk about your success. BP: Hello Rachel, thank you for the opportunity. CCM: Some congratulations are definitely in order. From winning cover designs to new publishing contracts and now a movie deal with Thunderball Films, I guess you have every reason to be, as you said, “Over the moon.” BP: Definitely. I’m certainly grateful and if you will allow, have some exciting, ‘Hot off the press,’ news. ‘A Study in Red’ recently made top honors in ‘The Predators & Editors Best Thriller of 2008’ readers poll, and subject to scrutiny will soon have another award added to its growing list of accolades. CCM: So how did ‘A Study in Red’ get picked for a film? Did you submit the manuscript or did your agent set it up? BP: To be honest, the whole thing came as very big surprise to me. Shortly before Christmas, I received an email from Thunderball Films to say that they were interested in obtaining the Motion Picture/TV rights to my book, which they had been tracking for some time and felt would make a successful transition from book to screen. CCM: What are negotiations like bringing a book to film? BP: I’m not sure. I would guess every situation is different. My literary agent was unavailable so I entered into negotiations with the Executive Producer of Thunderball alone. I must have asked him a thousand questions, all of which he patiently and professionally provided the answers to. After three days of almost non-stop e-mails I received a draft agreement. Thunderball is currently producing an early trailer to help promote the film and the book. CCM: Your book is fantastic but it takes more than being a good writer to become commercially successful. Competition for publishing contracts is fierce and as a result, self-publishing is on the rise. That being said, how much of your success can be attributed to your tireless self-promotion and would you agree that being proficient at self-promoting is a much needed skill? BP: Self-publishing is an option for many writers but for me being traditionally published was important. That’s why it was very exciting when Double Dragon Publishing picked up ‘A Study in Red’. I do agree that self-promotion is a vital element in a modern-day author’s portfolio of skills. Most small publishers simply don’t have the advertising and promotional budgets of the larger publish-

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ing houses and it is generally left up to the author to promote their work. I promoted my book to the best of my abilities and doing so has brought a great deal of success to the book. I’ve looked for any and every opportunity to spread the word about my book and from time to time have encountered animosity for such self-promotion but that has not dissuaded me from my path. Thankfully, the vast majority of people have been only too pleased to hear and share in the good news.My advice to any author, either traditionally or self-published is, “Promote, promote, promote!” CCM: I don’t think anyone would argue that part of the reason your book shares such high visibility is a direct result of your promotion work. What specifics can you share with other writers that might point them in the right direction? BP: For one, become a member of any organization that is concerned with the subject matter of your book. Doing this will increase the potential readership and fan base for your work. Writers must display a professional attitude toward their work and the marketing side of the business. I learned to treat myself as a ‘product’ as much as the book. In effect I became a ‘brand’ and worked hard to make the name of the book synonymous with mine. When people think of Brian Porter, hopefully they think of ‘A Study in Red.’ I make sure that when anyone contacts me about the book or my work they receive a reply! So many people tend to forget the personal touch in marketing their work. I don’t care how many emails fill my inbox. If someone has taken the time to ask me a question or just to say hello, that they’ve enjoyed the book, they get a reply. Writers who build a relationship with their readers unquestionably build a strong fan base for their books. CCM: One of the things that makes ‘A Study in Red’ so fascinating is that the story is chockfull of interesting facts. How much time did you invest in research for this book? BP: The truth is that I first became interested in the Jack the Ripper killings over 35 years ago and I have studied the case ever since. Those thirty-five years of research have gone into the creation of ‘A Study in Red’. I spent nearly six months of nonstop reading and re-reading of my research material before commencing the book. CCM: Are you involved in your book’s conversion from novel to screenplay and if so what challenges as a writer does that bring? BP: Thunderball Films intends to use me as a consultant. What exactly that means, I don’t know, but whatever my role, I’m sure it will present me with new challenges. I hope they employ a screenplay writer who sticks to the essence of the book. After all, it was the storyline that they wanted in the first place. CCM: Editing can be a chore for even a short story. To edit an entire novel must have seemed like a monumental task. How difficult was it to edit your book? BP: I was relieved of the task of editing by my publisher. I had, however, self-edited the book twice and then had it proofread twice before the manuscript reached the publishers. It took almost as long to do that as it did to write the book (well not quite). The editor from the publishing house was superb and worked closely with me in fine-tuning the final manuscript. CCM: Is it true that this book was originally based on a poem of yours by the same name? BP: Yes, Rachel, that’s true. A few years ago I wrote a poem that I entitled ‘A Study in Red (An insight into the mind of The Whitechapel Murderer).’ I tried to place myself inside the mind of Jack the Ripper and wrote the poem as though in his own words. When a publishing friend of mine read it he said it was so intense and powerful that if he ever wrote a psychological thriller he would love to use that poem as his introduction to the book. Of course, he never got the chance, because his remark actually kick-

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started my novel into being, and that poem now forms a part of the Ripper’s fictional journal in the novel. CCM: One of the appealing aspects of this book is the nonfiction feel about it. Did you lose any sleep or have nightmares as the book took shape? BP: Actually, I did. At times I was so immersed in the world and the characters I’d created that I would dream of the scenes in the book as though they were happening to me. I had a few nightmares and also a few good ideas as a result of those dreams. My wife was often worried that I was spending too much time on the computer as I became totally obsessed with finishing the book, much as the central character in the novel becomes obsessed with completing his reading of the journal. It’s probably true to say that ‘A Study in Red’ completely took over my life during the time spent in creating it. CCM: With all you’ve learned in researching and writing this book do you think you know who JTR really was? BP: I’ve had my own theory as to whom Jack the Ripper really was for some years. Having said that, my personal ‘prime suspect’ wouldn’t have fit into the character I wrote for my fictional Ripper. I used my second ‘favorite’ suspect as my book model Jack. As no one knows who the Ripper was, it’s quite possible that any of my suspects could have been Jack. I’d like to think I know who he was, but then that is the dream of every Ripperologist and there are so many suspects that it’s unlikely we’ll ever know the truth. CCM: Is Jack finally out of your system or is there more of his story to be told? BP: I don’t think that Jack the Ripper will ever be totally out of my system. In fact, I’ve almost completed a sequel to ‘A Study in Red’. ‘Legacy of the Ripper’ should be finished in a couple of months and Double Dragon Publishing has already offered a contract for its publication. It should appear later this year I hope. CCM: Do you have a favorite writer or book? BP: If I had to narrow it down, I’d say that I have two favorite writers. Firstly, Tess Gerritsen, whose medical thrillers, ‘The Surgeon’ and ‘The Apprentice’, are second to none. She was also gracious enough to bestow me with encouragement and good wishes while I was writing ‘A Study in Red.’ In fact she gave me permission to place her message on the cover of the book, an act that served to make me even more appreciative of her work. Secondly, I have to say that I love the work of Jeffery Deaver, who for me is the ‘Master of Misdirection’. His books are awesome and again he took the time, when I contacted him, to wish me luck and success with the book. Both he and Tess appear in the acknowledgements of the book. CCM: You’ve released three newer books: The Nemesis Cell, Purple Death and Pestilence. Do you feel that any of these books will see the same success ‘A Study in Red’ has? BP: Yes. In fact, The Nemesis Cell was released as an e-book by Stonehedge Publishing and will soon appear in paperback from 4RV Publishing LLC. Both Purple Death and Pestilence will also be published in paperback by 4RV, and Pestilence has just received an absolutely awesome advance review, which I’ve included here. I sincerely hope they will emulate ‘A Study in Red’ success. My other e-book releases include ‘Avenue of the Dead’, ‘A Binary Convergence’ and ‘Dracula Doesn’t Live Here Anymore’. CCM: In relation to writing, do you have any special or unique habits that help you find your muse? BP: I would have to say no to that one. My mind is in a constant ferment, with ideas and plot scenarios constantly popping into my head, which is probably why I have four novels on the go at the same time!

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CCM: The party’s over, the band has gone home and aside from some lasting memories, the cleaning crew is all that’s left from your recent triumphs. What’s next? Tell your growing fan base what they can look forward to from Brian Porter. BP: It’s exciting, really. I’ve already mentioned Pestilence and Purple Death, coming soon from 4RV Publishing. They will also be releasing more of my work in the next two years, with Glastonbury, and a paperback version of ‘Avenue of the Dead’ also under contract to them. Of course I hope to see the sequel to ‘A Study in Red’, ‘Legacy of the Ripper’ appearing in print as well. I should also mention that I write children’s and young adult works, under the pen name Harry Porter. Once again coming from RV Publishing, ‘Harry Porter’s Dog Tales’ will tell the remarkable survival stories of the pack of rescued dogs that are my constant companions. The first of these, ‘Tilly’s Tale’ will be released in May 2009, a month after ‘Alistair the Alligator’, a short illustrated story book for younger children. CCM: In closing, what words of advice do you have for the ambitious and hopeful writers of the world? BP: Rachel, the only advice I would give to any aspiring writer out there is to never, ever lose your selfbelief. If a writer doesn’t believe in his/her own work, it’s a sure thing that it will be hard to find anyone else who does. Rejections may flow into the letterbox like confetti, but should be treated as occupational hazards, and not taken to heart. If you’re lucky enough to find a publisher who believes in you and wants to work with you, then do your bit by helping to promote and market yourself to the best of your ability. Many fellow writers have said to me “I’ve no idea how to sell myself,” and yet there are so many simple ways to go about it. All it takes, like writing a book, is a little research and application. Nothing is going to come easily in the cutthroat world of publishing, and any author who wants to ‘make it’ has to be prepared to push themselves to the limit in order to get their name ‘out there’. ***** Cold Coffee would like to thank Brian Porter for his time and valued insights. His work ethic serves as a great example to all writers who hope to see similar success. Rachel Brower, for Cold Coffee Magazine, conducted this interview. Editing provided by ‘The Perfectionists’

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Cold Coffee Magazine Featured Writer

Candice Geary So I Write

Artist not a poet

The keyboard sits in front of me Waiting for the words that will be; Glimpses of hidden parts of me Feelings and logic that disagree. Sleep eludes me in the night And so I write, so I write.

He is a quiet man doesn't say much even when you ask him directly

Pondering things that don't make sense Clouds of confusion thick and dense A need for understanding so intense My only salvation to abandon pretense The answer still not in my sight And so I write, so I write Somewhere in my quest for clarity Somewhere in my quest for clarity If approached with pure sincerity I begin to reconcile the disparity Acceptance of the irregularity Only then can I see the light So I write, so I write.

Glimpse dew drops glistening in morning sun entangled in a spider web creating fragile beauty lasting only moments my watchful eyes glimpse brief existence unravel too soon gone.

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deep and still in his thoughts guards them like a sentry shows his love with his hands big calloused hands cut and scraped rough from work with cherry and hickory that keep him company in his wood shop. Day after day, he silently retreats to craft his gifts of love for heran artist not a poet, too few words for that.

Kisimu It is still with me As if I brought it back in my luggage. It lingers almost like sadness but this is different; An indescribable longing to return. Homesickness for a place Not my home. Or is it? I have never been happier than I was during my days in Kenya. When I close my eyes I can drift back on the breeze of a memory.

Little did I know when we visited the museum in Kisumu I would be the most popular exhibit. They followed me in a tight circle eager to share with me the history of their culture Showed me the snake exhibit Thought it was funny I was afraid of snakes About to take a step when I saw something black and yellow in the grass. I let out a surprised scream as I jumped over the snake. All the children erupted in laughter as I looked back to realize I had just saved myself from a garden hose.

I see their faces little children's sunny faces surrounding me six deep. Music of their laughter tinkling like tiny bells so infectious in its charm; my own laughter joins the happy chorus.

I could have stayed there playing with my new friends but their teacher called to them The school field trip was over It was time to leave.

Each child lines up to shake my hand and ask me questions: "Where do you live?" "Did you fly on a plane?" "What is it like in America?" "Do you know Obama? His father lived here." "Can I touch your hair? It's so soft."

They will probably never know the incredible joy they gave me that day or that I carry it in my heart still.

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Editors Choice Poetry

Dusk Dusk settles through the land, And cool winds blow, soft but brisk. Colors paint the soft white sand, From blue, to red, to amethyst.

Mind, Body, Soul The poet’s eyes can captivate; so soft and kind are they. His lips can craft the sweetest verse and lift your soul away. His fingers weave seductive tales; in ink and fire they weep. His mind is full of love and passion, intricate and deep.

Birds embrace from evening flight, And bring their melodies to end. Closing blooms prepare for night, Until the day again transcends. A gentle mist greets the sky, And wisps so softly through the trees. With the darkness now so nigh, Daylight whispers final pleas.

The eyes, however long they gaze into the starlit night, Enchant the soul forever when his lover holds him tight. Down into the darkest depths, he sees you from within, And savors all the secrets hidden deep beneath your skin.

Pleas to have another chance, To let the land seem bright and new. To watch the rivers’ graceful dance, And bless the seas with heavens hues. The emeralds dance upon the seas, And softly float themselves away Red and turquoise bless the breeze As evening twilight fades away.

The lips can reach and touch the heart whenever he may speak, But silent they caress it, leaving knees and eyelids weak. Your skin beneath his lips is tender. Trembling, it cries, And brings itself to life to know a wanderer so wise.

Robert "Spindle" Beard

His fingers move with grace and fashion, innocence and pride, But find themselves seductive in his lover’s sweet confide. So smooth, they wander through your hair and feel your mortal form, Entrancing you and loving you as softly they perform. His mind encompasses your whole and cherishes each day. The flesh, the eyes and innocence he loves in every way. Your soul forever his, he holds you sweetly as you sleep, His body full of love and passion, intricate and deep. Robert "Spindle" Beard 28

as she reclined in the music and drunken laughter delighted by the company of wolves who were in actuality quite something else indeed; I was the only one who heard the horses above the music and the drunken blaze I remember seeking out old Enkielle's eyes and he didn't move and he didn't sound an alarm we both knew there was no point when it was monsters like the ones ripping through the night who came at the will of the captivating shiver of my shoulders

This is how the horses screamed We were chosen by a ceremony beyond our understanding picked from a field of uncertain poppies swaying inside a marble moment perhaps the graphic innuendoes fell uncertain from the bowl of the seraph but I believed in him and I will tell you why; he captivated me with the rule in the bend of his wrists each time he pulled me up out of the sands onto the waves to spin strands out of sunlight and play cats cradle with me until the wounds inside my body were just bruises without a memory to ponder

I bent into that night like a naked arch of back my hips against the bone balcony edge wondering what color my sound would be what light my fall would be what sin would crawl out of the laurel leaves braided around my head if I were to tip just slightly into the dawn and scatter into the marble tiles below; the horse came screaming out of the mist the wolf ate the darkness off my mouth with his sentence of love I flew through the flex of a moment turned inside out into the future my silks like rose pleats streaming past the dying and the blood inside the manor as I fell across the sweat and heat and muscle of the stallion to sooth the screaming horse below with my thighs firm about his belly with my hands in the longing of his mane with my body pushed deep into his sweat and carved inside his need for the human girl with the evergreen eyes

They locked up the wrong moment when they bent low above my lips with their whispers kissing my mystic oracle pulses; there was a man in particular I remember his eyes were the color of amaranth and his mouth tasted like scorn and his hands felt like clenched beauty as they divided my corset to a lullaby playing on the victriola down the hall and I remember him the most out of all the monsters because he never left me in the perfumed silks of the night stayed until the dawn to oppress my flesh with a song over his coffee and buttered rolls as I watched him from beneath my lashes clenching my fists into the future.

That night the horses screamed I became a monster wounded inside a glass of spiritual suicide; and so I simply became the monster body of them all.

I remember the horses screaming inside the epic night the manor was filled with blazing company waltzing to candlelight Strauss melodies the wolves stalking the edge of men plumped out with gold and liqueur highs nibbling the underside of a lady's alabaster chin

Victoriaseleneskydome

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These Eyes don't let these eyes fool you, for they've seen a million wrongs... and wept rightfully. James K. Blaylock

Wings of Pearl hey there, being of obilvion, come take me far beyond... or are you somewhat more, with wings of pearl, I'd figure, you were here for higher purpose, and as for us, we're just wasting time on petty things, and viced in shameful lust.

The Needle Hums and Sings And zips across the skin It draws its lines across them And marks them deep within A pattern is created In flesh, it stands apart Some have simple meanings Some, deep within the heart Steady, wincing, buzzing Pulling, drawing blood Colours sweat and glisten Trickle in their floods Ringing, stinging, cutting Marks and meanings I create Everywhere that I am drawn I find this to be my fate Just a little picture I place upon the skin No mind to their own senses Or to reasons there lie within I just watch the needles Puncture every pore And turned what’s there into something That it will be no more. James Takeo Panton

James K. Blaylock able, like an Unsettled windstorm. Why can’t it just get Done and be over with?

The Color of Roses

I am that midnight flower, wilted to the world. Love is a blackened rose I know I can never be a purple Once wilted, it never grows. rose. Black hearts filled with deception. Gloom follows me to and fro. Hard to tell what’s up from what’s Ready down. To pour sorrow all down around me. A purple rose seems full of hope, But can meet doom at a moLove and roses go hand in hand. ment’s spell. It’s only the color they don’t unLoving it seems cruel and unreal derstand. like a movie that’s still. The heartache inside is unbeliev-

Dawn M. Olexa

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I Didn’t Write This For You I didn’t write this for you It was not my intention That to you I dedicate This writing of my invention I did not aim to please you With words I write here now I only did it because I wanted to With or without you, anyhow You may not like my rhyming You may not like its flow I only write my way It’s the only way I know I don’t do it for the glory I don’t do it for the art I do it because it’s what I think Or feel within my heart I know this may sound selfish But it’s something that is mine And somewhere in these writings The real me, you may find No need for lies or falseness Or any dishonesty It’s just some words I write With a truth that sets me free I may not be poet I may not be very good I may be overlooked Or misunderstood But still, I keep on going Doing as I can Does this make any sense to you? Then maybe you understand. James Takeo Panton

Gravity’s Embrace Navigating through traffic and a Morning thundershower, listening to him explain from his school book, countless galaxies, stars, quasars, black hole.. Touchdown. The drop-off lane at St. Michael's Elementary School “Mercury is closest to the sun but Venus is hotter”, he says. (I didn’t know that) He hops out. I blow him a kiss. He slams the door and a family of rain drops splatter the seat where he sat moments ago describing a shift in distant orbital relationships. "Neptune is farther out than Pluto now.” (I didn’t know that, either) He bursts through the rain wriggling into the shoulder straps of the backpack he will jettison upon entering the school’s cavernous main hall. Clouds separate like gentlyteased white cotton candy and the sun pushes pinpoints of luster into a world glistening wet. Wiper blades catch the last of the rain and hurl it from the windshield in droplets that arc skyward then fall toward the earth like twinkling glass meteors caught in gravity's embrace.

Dennis Fleming

That it hurts to hear Such other than our minds Taunting us Playing with our fingers to touch ourselves The desire runs from our fingerHow we do lust tips Like roses and flowers yearn for Only holding us to not speak our water words And a tree for children called Just hide them as tear behind our leaves eyelids Yet we do whisper Holding the last breath Like the wind whips against the As it burns to come out masts Crawl out in dire importance Blowing them in their vast state The meek eyes looking with Life without lungs thorns as eyelashes Without brain They called us rose's people But just a cardiac organ Our blood red brilliance Fusing blood through our veins White purity Like words taunt our nerves Hold me as the rain penetrates wherever we yearn the bare skin of me The minds that taunt give us The flesh that holds those petals our divine desire. together Desire at your feet Netti Mulima I crown you not the belief But that they call us sins Full of our immorality

Desire

It itches to remove that veil from her face Take that cloth from his eyes It runs in our fingertips But do not dare caress For it is not implacable To display such affection Or such infatuation The sudden thought that it means not to be wrong But of the sarcasm Our words are being called It stands with a stroke of living Without breathing Life without breath Rose without petals The veil is torn The crown has been worn And yet we the people are broken Yearning for that desire Lying in our minds How they make us smirk And yearning for that touch That feel and caress Skin upon skin The departure from our innocence But our rebellion Ringing in our ears

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Surfaces Along a dirt path of subconscious I stumble alone between weeds overgrown around these dreams, tangled and unreleased. They lie, fragile petals torn beyond valid reasons, left simply to rot beneath demented thorns, unforgiven and stabbed anew with ugly truth. This love was pity, freed now and glad to be forever gone. A smooth patch of numbness is just another wall; narcotic echoes that block and camouflage the road.

Rachel Brower

BOOK STORE

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Son Of My Soul By Debra Welch An autobiographic journey through a life of neglect that led to a vow to save a child’s life through adoption.

Fresh Frozen By Darden North A young policeman and his tormented wife are granted one last hope when they hear about a catalogue of human egg donors.

The Making Of Tibias Ivory By Doug Jenkins In the small town of Principle, everyone has a role, knows their place and is content for things to remain the same…..idyllic.

The Tension Reliever By Dominique Watson The Tension Reliever is a collection of poems, inspirational thoughts and short stories.

The Chosen Few By Matthew Simon In an investigation that takes him through the neighborhoods of Boston, private investigator Max Lovely finds himself entangled in an expanding web. 33

Irretrievably Broken By Irma Fritz This is a haunted, funny and heart breaking account of German ex-patriots, Nora, Ruth, and Bettina Alder.

For Love Of Teddy By Jo A. Fulkerson When teenage drug dealers threaten his younger brother, Teddy, Michael Kirkpatrick goes after them.

Beaufort Falls By Mari Sloan A determined little ghost avenges her death, protects her living children and finds her lost child in Beaufort Falls.

Pure Of Heart By A. D. Smith A fabled story of two wrongs don't make a right. When the son of a king is killed, the royal family seeks revenge.

Nora’s Soul By Margay Justice A woman who lost her faith in all things angelic with the death of her brother, must learn to reconnect with her faith when a series of events test her beliefs. 34

The Fallen By Alexander Quinn The Apocalypse has been averted, but at great cost. One girl gave her life to save the world, but her soul was cast into Hell.

Silent Scream By Yvonne Mason Gerard Schaefer shattered the lives of the families of these young girls and destroyed the faith of the public in law enforcement.

Pit-Stop Grill By Ben Larkin Welcome to Pit-Stop Grill, a roadside attraction along Arizona’s Route 66 where travelers kick up their feet while sipping a nice cup of joe.

The Rose Petal Murders By David Price When rookie detective Mary Archer gets a break in a cold case file, She follows the lead to Boston where she picks up the trail of a young hit– man.

Chronicles Of The Undead By A. F. Stewart This Vampire horror novella is written as the personal journals of Samuel, Edmund, and Charlotte Harrington.

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A Book Inside, How To Write, Publish, And Sell Your Story By Carol Denbow Whether you’ve already written your book or have a book inside, putting it all together can seem like a challenge unknown to most.

Living The Thin Life By Elle Meyer Creative ways to maintain your weight for life, provides tips and stories about healthy eating.

The Gate, A Journey By J. M. DosLobos The gate is the story of a man and his loving memories of Rosa.

Let Freedom Ring By Ernie Johnson Four Cheyenne Braves advance to warriors in their tribe.

The Ezekiel Code By Gary Val Tenuta 2012 is coming...The clock is ticking...The code must be deciphered.

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Issue One Featured Writers Featured Novelist Brian Porter

Featured Writer

Books

Candice Geary Debra Welch Darden North Doug Jenkins Dominique Watson Matthew Simon Irma Fritz Jo A. Fulkerson Mari Sloan A D Smith Margay Justice Alexander Quinn Yvonne Mason Ben Larkin David Price A F Stewart Carol Denbow Elle Meyer

Short Story Ben Larkin

Article Rachel Blackbirdsong

Article J. M. Doslobos

Article David Price

Poetry Robert Beard Victoriaseleneskydome James Blalock James Takeo Panton Dawn M. Olexa Dennis Fleming Netti Mulima Rachel Brower

Ernie Johnson Gary Val Tenuta

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MAGAZINE

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