Cold Coffee Magazine Issue 3

Cold Coffee

Boris Glikman

You Can’t Get Published Without An Agent, Right? Wrong!

Eric Stowell thought he found the perfect place to live but what he discovered was a small southern town held in the grip of a psychotic ice cream vender.

Stephanie Osborn

Editors Pick Poetry and Books submitted by members of the Cold Coffee Writers Community.

DAVID PRICE

Interview with Novelist Mari Sloan Hear how she dealt with the nightmares most writers face and saw her ghost story appear on bookstore shelves. “Employ your time in improving yourself by other men's writings so that you shall come easily by what others have labored hard for.”

Scream For Ice Cream

MAGAZINE

Featured Writer

Socrates (BC 469-BC 399) Greek philosopher of Athens

Photograph provided courtesy of Lloyd Cross, Flikr.com

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NO. 3

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

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Scream For Ice Cream by David Price Eric Stowell thought he found the perfect place to live but what he discovered was a small southern town held in the grip of a psychotic ice cream vender.

What is Cold Coffee? by David Price You’ve heard about it but your not sure what it is? In this article Cold Coffee creator David Price explains not only what Cold Coffee is but also what makes it so special.

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Interview With Novelist Mari Sloan Hear how she dealt with the nightmares most writers face and saw her ghost story appear on bookstore shelves.

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Cold Coffee Featured Writer Boris Glikman Cold Coffee Members come from all over the world. This issues featured writer hails from Melbourne Australia but his writing is known around the world.

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MAGAZINE 20

THE CLEARNESS AND THE IMPENETRABILITY by Boris Glikman An award winning short story by an internationally known writer.

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Editors Choice, Poetry by members of the Cold Coffee Writers Community.

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You Can’t Get Published Without An Agent, Right? Wrong! In this article Stephanie Osborn dispels myths about the world of publishing.

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Editors Choice, the top ten books from the Cold Coffee Bookstore.

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DAVID PRICE

Now, instead of searching for pockets of

half whispered, “Let’s just say the last

minerals, he spent his time at the coffee

fella to sell ice cream ‘round here left a

shop hoping to strike up a conversation

bad taste in folks’ mouths.”

with anyone who had the time to listen. Eric’s attention was focused on

Scream For Ice Cream

Eric Stowell loved the little town of Rockledge. Like most small towns, part of Rockledge’s charm lay in the family owned stores with parking right in front. The surrounding neighborhoods were dotted with white houses lined with carefully measured streets with pleasant names like Happy Hills drive and Smiling Trace. However, amongst all the charm there was one thing Eric noticed that Rockledge didn’t have, and that was an ice cream parlor. In fact, he hadn’t even seen an ice cream truck or heard one’s playful music. Summer temperatures on the rise and Eric knew he had an opportunity to carve his family a niche in Rockledge’s little slice of heaven. Frank thought of himself as a town historian but to everyone else he was a nosy old man with wisps of gray hair and too much time on his hands. He’d spent most of his life working with rocks and minerals, knowledge that made him a bit of a celebrity in the field of local geology. However, when funding from the mining institute dried up, so did Frank’s usefulness, or so he thought.

Frank’s haunted tone gave Eric pause yet sparked his curiosity. He rolled

a set of blue prints for the ice cream par-

up his blue prints, set them aside and

lor he planned to build and hadn’t no-

turned his full attention to Frank as he

ticed the thin weathered face peering

asked, “Why? What happened?”

over his shoulder.

Frank’s smile was barely visi-

“So, did I hear right?” Frank

ble through the steam rising off his cup.

asked as he eyed the diagrams. “Are you

“How ‘bout we grab the booth in the

going to build an ice cream parlor in

corner and I tell you?”

Rockledge?”

Eric found Frank’s mysterious

Eric turned, saw Frank’s with-

air only made his new acquaintance all

ered face, and smiled at the old man’s

the more interesting as they moved over

obtrusiveness. In the month since mov-

to the empty booth and settled in. Frank

ing to Rockledge, Eric and his wife had

took a long sip of his coffee but Eric

noticed that very few people had shown

could see his eyes dart nervously around

an interest in talking to them. Being a

the room, making sure they hadn’t drawn

small town, Eric figured folks just need

any unwanted attention. Satisfied, Frank

time to warm up to them and he saw

lowered his cup and began speaking with

Frank’s nosiness as an opportunity to

a hushed, gravely voice.

break the ice. He gave the curious man a

“It was 1957 and it was the

friendly nod. “Yes, I am. Do you think

beginning of the hottest summer South

it’ll work?”

Carolina had ever seen. Drought was

Frank’s eyes darted from Eric’s

everywhere. Old refrigerators and the

blueprints to the cup of coffee he held

tops of forgotten cars were breaking the

cradled in his leathery hands. He curled

surface of Jasper Lake. Folks were going

his upper lip as if he smelled a foul odor

outside to find a piece of shade and a

and said, “Maybe … in another town,

light breeze to escape the clinging heat.

but not in Rockledge.”

Everyday, hundreds of townsfolk opened

Eric thought the old man’s

their morning paper hoping to find good

deadpan answer was about as peculiar as

news that the weather would soon

the mismatched blue and black socks he

change for the better.” Frank shook his

was wearing. “Really?” Eric asked.

head, never taking his eyes off his cup.

“Now, why would you say that?”

“Their hopes were misplaced.” He set

Frank peered through the steam

his coffee down and pushed it away.

rising off his cup and scanned the coffee

“Relief did come though, but it didn’t

shop, checking to see if anyone was pay-

come in the form of rain, it came in the

ing attention. He lowered his voice and

form of an ice cream truck driven by a

6

clown.” Eric covered his mouth and

said in a low and almost threatening

the table and pushed it away again. “Not

voice.

in here.” He nodded toward the window

cleared his throat to mask his grin. “A clown you say?” Frank cast Eric an irritated

Eric shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the old man’s remark and

and the park across from the shop. “Let’s go for a walk.”

waited for Mary to leave.

glance but continued. “His name was

Once she was gone, Frank lifted

Eric laid a few bills on the table for Mary and followed the old man out

Filbert. He wore bright red hair that

the now steaming cup to his lips and

of the diner. After a short walk, they

stood straight out except on top where he

blew across the surface to cool the hot

found a park bench with it’s back to a

had no hair at all. His face was obscured

liquid. “Forgive me for sounding rude.

stand of trees and shrubs. Frank reached

by a layer of thick friendly makeup ac-

You see Rockledge is small town and

into his pocket, pulled out a small burlap

cented by a bright red ball that somehow

poor Mary means well but she tends to

sack, and sat down beside Eric. Eric

stayed fixed to end of his nose. He came

be a little chatty. It’s best we leave her

watched curiously as Frank reached into

to town in a panel van clad with stainless

out of our business.”

the bag with his long, weathered fingers

steel skirting and a big painted sign dis-

Eric glanced across the room

and retrieved a pinch of birdseed, which

playing his bright, happy smile. The

and watched Mary go politely about her

he flicked onto the ground.

sound of cheerful music playing over a

work as if nothing had happened. “But

loudspeaker mounted to the top of his

what’s the harm?” Eric asked. “We’re

Frank began. “This town was in a bad

van pulled folks from their heat-induced

talking about a guy who sold ice cream.”

way when Filbert came along. It didn’t

dreams. Everywhere he stopped, Filbert

Frank cast a glance towards the

matter that no one had seen or heard of

“You have to understand,”

released a handful of colorful balloons

kitchen and then locked his steel gray

him before. When Folks heard Filbert’s

and then temporary relief at ten cents a

eyes on Eric. “Let’s just say, Filbert was-

music children and adults alike would

scoop.”

n’t your typical clown.”

come clamoring to his van for a cold

“What was that name again?” Eric asked. “He went by, Filbert.” Frank

Eric let the words sink in as he

treat.”

searched for a sign that the old man

Eric pushed his fingers through

might be slightly out of his mind. He

his hair, pausing to scratch a spot on the

said, as if he could see the clown there

found none. Everything from the old

back of his head. “I don’t know, Frank. I

before him.

man’s wiry eyebrows to the patch of

can’t say I see anything wrong with

missed whiskers on his neck suggested

that.”

Eric thought for second but nothing came to mind. “I’ve never heard

that Eric should gather his blueprints and

if him.” Eric said.

leave, but he couldn’t. It was the un-

and looked at Eric. “Neither did most

clouded, steadiness in Frank’s eyes that

folks ‘round here.”

“And for a good reason,” Frank replied with a knowing smile. His eyes

kept Eric hanging on to hear more.

rolled towards Eric. “No one ‘round here wants to remember him.” Eric frowned at the old man.

“Okay,” Eric said as he watched Frank look again around the coffee shop to see if anyone was listen-

Frank reached in his little bag

Eric shook his head and laughed. “You make it sound like he was poisoning them or something.” Frank tossed another pinch of

“And why was that?” Mary brought a

ing. He wasn’t sure how Frank’s story

seed at the gathering birds. “No, he was-

full pot to refill their cups.

would end but he wanted to hear more.

n’t poisoning them, that would have

“So, what was so astounding about this

been too kind.”

“Sir?” Mary questioned as she reached to fill Frank’s cup. “He was talking to me.” Frank

clown?”

Eric’s jaw went slack in disbeFrank set his half-empty cup on

7

lief but Frank continued before he could

say anything. “See, folks couldn’t get

“Oh sure. I was standing there

existed in Frank’s head. It was too good

enough of that clown’s ice cream.

by the fountain.” Frank pointed toward

to miss the ending. “Okay,” Eric said

They’d gather on the street corners

the double-tiered structure in the middle

with a deep sigh. “What did he say?”

whenever they heard his music and some

of the park. “I heard the boys’ parents

wouldn’t wait. Those that could walked

and the sheriff talking about it over a cup

over, shook out the remaining bits of

from one block to the next to meet him

of ice cream.”

seed and dust, and then stuffed it back in

as he approached.” Eric shook his head. “Sounds to

“So your saying the boys was never found?”

me like he was serving some damn good ice cream, wouldn’t you say?” Frank raised his eyebrows and

his pocket. “Bobby was really shook up the day he came barreling into the coffee

“I’m saying no one ever looked

shop. He was panting so hard he could

them or the ten others that went missing

barely catch his breath, but all that was-

that summer.”

n’t near as strange as the wide-eyed look

glanced at Eric. “I questioned it too and do you want know what folks said?”

Frank turned his burlap bag

“What!” Eric said as he turned

of sheer terror written across his face. By

on the bench to face Frank. “You’ve got

the time he was calm enough to speak

“What?” Eric asked.

to be kidding me! Twelve people vanish

the whole coffee shop had filled with

Frank’s eyes followed the brick

and nothing was ever found?”

folks eager to find out what had him so

path to where it bent out of sight. “It was to die for.” Eric shook his head in disbelief.

“Thirteen to be exact.” Frank

frazzled. When they heard him describe

corrected. “The Taylor's red-haired boy

how he saw Filbert burning clothes,

was the last one.”

shoes and handfuls of human hair you

He knew the old man was exaggerating,

Eric stared at Frank for a long

could have heard a pin drop.”

but he couldn’t help but wonder what

moment, and then laughed. He laughed

Eric felt a ball of spit rise up in

made Filbert’s ice cream so good. “I

so hard he slapped his knee and had to

his throat, and he had to swallow hard to

don’t suppose you know what his secret

wipe a tear from his eye. He nodded.

speak. “Human hair?”

was, do you?”

“Thirteen missing people? Wow! That’s

“Secret?” Frank spat. There was

“The boy said he saw Filbert

good, Frank. You really had me going

throwing handfuls of hair onto a bon-

no damn secret. He was controlling the

there for a minute.” Eric stood up and

fire.” Frank looked at Eric. “Some was

minds of everyone in town. All folks

reached out to shake Frank’s hand. “I

blonde and some was brown but he was

talked or cared about was, when they’d

really appreciate your taking the time.

quite sure the hair was human.”

see him next. He had them so enthralled

You tell a very convincing story.”

it barely made news when the Armstrong boys went missing.” Eric leveled Frank with a flat

Frank nodded. “I can’t say I blame you for not believing me. Your

Eric sat quietly, and then asked, “So … what did the sheriff do?” “Same as you did.” Frank said.

reaction is about like everyone else’s

“He laughed. He laughed harder than

when the Taylor boy came back from the

anyone, and then he sent the Taylor kid

Johnson place with a wild story like he

home to his father with a stern warning

another pinch of seed, “You wouldn’t

did. You want to know what the boy

about making false accusations.”

think so, but I did find it suspicious

said?”

stare. “You don’t mean to say…..” “Well,” Frank said as he tossed

when federal authorities weren’t called in to find those boys.” Eric looked up from the gather-

“He didn’t even check it out?” Eric smiled, closed his eyes and

Frank shook his head. “And it

shook his head as he sat back down. On

wasn’t long after that the Taylor boy

the inside Eric was kicking himself for

went missing too.”

ing pigeons. “The local authorities knew

not walking back to his truck, but at this

about it, didn’t they?”

point it didn’t matter if the story only

8

Eric thought for a moment, and the longer he thought about all Frank had

said, the angrier he became. “This isn’t

rode out there with Bill Taylor. Aside

beginning to see a trend.” Eric finished

funny, Frank.”

from me, they were the only other peo-

sarcastically.

Frank shook his head. “I didn’t

ple in town not enchanted by Filbert’s

Frank spat. “If you’ve heard

think it was funny either. That’s why a

ice cream. We almost missed the place

couple of fellas and I decided to go out

because of the underbrush and if it had-

to the Johnson place to have a look for

n’t been for the Johnson’s enormous

beyond Eric’s capacity to believe, but he

ourselves. You want to know what we

cedar mailbox, we probably would have

also wanted to know more about the

saw?”

driven past. As soon as we turned onto

dairy farm. He laughed apologetically.

the driveway we could see where a vehi-

“Wait. I’m sorry Frank. It’s just … your

but gave in to his morbid curiosity.

cle had recently pushed its way through

story. Please continue.”

“Fine. What did you see?”

the outstretched limbs along the drive-

Eric wasn’t sure if he did or not

Frank crossed his feet and

way.”

leaned back on the bench. “I’m not sure

enough, just say so.” The story had traveled well

Frank looked at Eric with some apprehension but then let his gaze drift

“Let me ask you this.” Eric

to a place just beyond his shoes.

how much thought Filbert put into

interrupted. “If the whole town was con-

“Alright. Let’s see, so we pressed on

choosing where to set up camp, but he

sumed with Filbert’s ice cream, why

until the Johnson house came into view.

couldn’t have picked a better spot. The

weren’t the three of you?”

Its windows and doors were boarded up

Johnson place was an old dairy farm

“Well, for one, I can’t eat ice

but we could see a thin column of smoke

with two towering silos and a large, rus-

cream.” Frank said as he lightly patted

rising from somewhere out back. The

tic barn. About fifty years ago the John-

his stomach. “And Gene, well he had

barn came into view as we passed the

son’s used their creamery to provide

hated clowns ever since a circus incident

corner of the house, and there along side

Rockledge and surrounding towns with

when he was a kid.”

one of the silos was Filbert’s van.”

all sorts of dairy products, including ice cream.”

Eric rolled his eyes and half smiled. “And what about Bill? Was he

The possibility of the existence

“My boy was right.” Bill said. “That clown’s been up to no good.”

lactose intolerant, too?”

of an abandoned creamery piqued Eric’s

“No,” Frank answered. “Bill

Gene scratched his beard and looked up at the smoke. “Yep, and by

curiosity. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

weighed close to three-hundred-pounds,

the look of it I’d say he’s somewhere

Eric said. “But what happened to the

and was living by the grace of God. His

nearby. What say you, boys?”

Johnsons?”

doctor gave to him if he wanted to see

“No one knows.” Frank said. “One day they just left. A man from out

forty he had to stay away from things

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Ah, I see.” Eric said as he nod-

livestock and farm equipment. After that

ded in mock belief. “And what about the

the house was boarded up and since then

house? Why didn’t anyone want to buy

only kids looking to fish the pond in the

it?”

“That was until Filbert showed up.” Eric said. Frank’s gray eyes turned to Eric, and then drifted back to his shoes. “That’s right. So anyway, Gene and I

the truck.

like ice cream.”

of town set up an auction and sold the

old pasture go out there.”

Bill reached behind the seat of

“Getting my shotgun.” Bill answered. I watched him load one barrel, and then the other. “Listen, I understand

“I suppose someone would

you’re upset about your boy, but I think

have,” Frank answered with a slight

it’s important that the clown is still

shrug. “If anyone were interested in see-

breathing when we take him in.”

ing it sold. But, like I said, the only thing on anyone’s mind was …” “Ice cream. Yes, I think I‘m

9

Bill snapped the barrels closed and looked me dead in the eye. “Don’t worry, I want him alive, too, but if that

clown even blinks the wrong way, I’m

the other, eating away at small bits of

drum. The smell coming from the bub-

going to blow his head clean off.”

meat still clinging to the bones.

bling liquid reminded me of when my

“I say we split up,” Gene sug-

I looked away and blocked

mother used to boil the meat off a

gested, “and give a holler if you see

Gene’s view of carnage taking place

chicken. A layer of thick froth prevented

him.”

above us. In my next breath I asked Bill,

me from seeing anything inside, but I did

who had also turned away, “Did you find

notice a cable running along pulleys

anything in the van?”

from the rafters into the soupy mix. I

“Sounds good,” I said. “Bill, you check the ice cream truck. Gene, why don’t you check inside the barn while go around the outside.” Crows lined the edge of the

Bill’s face had turned almost as pale as Gene’s as he held out a pickle jar

followed the cable to a hand-operatedwinch, mounted on the platform.

full of a white powder.

barn's roof above a pig enclosure cawed

“What’s that?” I asked.

and flapped their wings angrily as I ap-

Bill spoke over his shoulder.

“What do you see?” Bill asked. “I'm not sure. Hang on, I think I found something.” I grabbed the handle,

proached. Below them were eight black

“I’m not sure. I thought it was drugs or

removed the safety, and started winding

pigs, all squealing and grunting as they

something but it tastes sort of like pow-

the cable onto the winch. The cable

dug and fought for a turn at the trough. I

ered sugar. What do you suppose he

wound easily at first, but then gradually

climbed up, stepping on the bottom

…..?”

became harder to wind. The platform

fence rail for a better look at what they

I watched Bill's gaze rise to

creaked and the cable popped like a gui-

were feasting on. It was hard to see past

something above and behind me. I

tar string as it wound through the pul-

their shouldering bodies, but I did see

turned around expecting to see another

leys. I had to turn my back to the drum

glimpses of what appeared to be a white

skeleton but saw large steel drum stand-

and use both hands but was able to keep

gelatinous mass covered in flies, and

ing next to a raised wooden platform.

it going. I heard the sound of water

maggots. A breeze carried the smell of

The drum had to have been 10 feet tall

splashing back into the drum but stop

decaying flesh from the trough and

and was setting on a foundation of cinder

winding until I heard Bill’s mournful

drove me from the fence.

blocks, over several rows of lit burners;

wail.

Frank paused and looked at Eric. “I must have heard Gene scream

steam rising above it. Bill swallowed so hard that I

about the same time that Bill did, be-

heard him, and then he asked, “What do

cause we both burst into the barn at the

you suppose he’s got in there?”

“No!” I heard Bill cry. “Please God, no!” As soon as I turned around my heart stopped, and a cold sickness crept

same time to find Gene staring with

My eyes darted from the burn-

wide, frozen eyes toward the rafters.

ers to a set of wooden stairs rising up to

of my lungs, preventing me from

Beams of light filtered down from a

the platform above the drum. My lips

screaming as I backed away and almost

plastic covered window to cut the dim-

were suddenly very dry. “There’s no

fell off the platform. Hanging from an

ness inside the barn and shine upon

telling.” I looked at Gene. “How ‘bout it

iron cross, three feet away from me, was

Gene’s stricken face. His mouth was

Gene? You feel like going up and having

the freshly boiled remains of Bobby

open in a frozen scream and when I

a look with me?”

Taylor.

looked to the rafters I saw the horror that gripped him. Hanging from steel cables,

Gene grimaced and vomited on the dirt floor.

up from my bowels. The air rushed out

His hair and clothing had been removed and his body wire-tied to the

on metal crosses, were three complete

Bill stayed below with Gene as

skeletons. A swarm of flies and other

I climbed the wooden steps to the top of

his skin white and caused his flesh to

flying insects were fleeting from one to

the platform and looked down into the

swell to an almost transparent state, re-

10

cross. The boiling water had bleached

vealing a pattern of his blue veins be-

right. It tasted almost like sugar, but it

around the corner cautiously, and

neath. His milky eyes bulged in their

had the consistency of flour. I heard a

through the dust-silted air saw a stainless

sockets, threatening to dislodge them-

creak from the other end of the barn and

steel machine with small brass gate on

selves from the boy’s skull. The muscles

raised the business end of the shotgun.

the front. There was no sign of Filbert

in his legs and arms had shrunk as they

Walking carefully down to a

but I knew the machine hadn’t started

cooked, snapping his tendons and tearing

door near where the skeletons were

itself. Light from outside was filtering in

the cartilage from his wrists and ankles,

hanging from the rafters, I slowly made

from beyond the machine, shining be-

exposing the white bone beneath.

my way inside. It might have been a tack

tween the cracks of another door. I

room at one point but now it was being

crouched and quickly crossed the room

used for something else. Filbert wasn’t

to the side of the machine while keeping

there. Instead, I found an electric grind-

an eye on the door.

Bill dropped the jar of powder, fell to his knees and vomited. I kicked the winch desperately, breaking the catch and watched as

ing machine and mixer plugged into a

Bobby’s body splashed back into the

bright orange extension cord. Both were

cream had started coming from the open

drum.

covered in the same powder that Bill had

gate on the front of the machine and was

found in Filbert’s van. I was about to

reaching for the mouth of a shinny dairy

out in pain. “Frank!” He gasped as he

leave when I noticed a bucket on the

pail sitting on the ground. Then I noticed

clutched both hands to his chest.

counter near the mouth of the grinder. It

another dairy pail on the other side of the

didn’t quite register at first what I was

first. It was half-full of a milky cream,

and called for Bill’s help but he was

seeing, but then, to my horror, it became

and had a long wire whisk in it. An open

looking up into the rafters lost eyes mut-

perfectly clear. The bucket was full of

jar of the white powder was sitting there

tering something about his son being

human bones.

too. I closed my eyes at thought of all

Suddenly Gene cried out cried

I rushed down to Gene’s side

gone. “Bill!” I yelled. “You have to get Gene to a hospital!” Bill stopped and his eyes slowly

I turned away from the grinder to catch my breath when I noticed the

A long tail of white creamy ice

the people who lined up to eat Filbert’s ice cream.

large bags of powdered sugar on the

I stepped from behind the ma-

came down to meet mine. “What about

floor next to the mixer. On a shelf was a

chine and turned towards the door when

you, Frank? He’s still out there.”

row of jars, just like the one Bill

I froze in my tracks. The shotgun trem-

dropped.

bled in my hands as I looked across the

“Leave me the shotgun,” I said. “I’ll deal with the clown.” I helped Bill get Gene into his

It suddenly seemed very hot in the little room. I gathered myself up and

room into the painted face of Filbert the clown.

truck and took the shotgun. After they

backed out into the open air of the barn

left, I went back to the barn and cau-

only to be startled by a loud, metallic,

then, so was he. His make up did little to

tiously looked for Filbert. My heart

clanking noise. I spun around with the

hide the fear in his eyes. I broke out of

pounded in my chest and a nervous

shotgun ready to fire only to find empty

my paralysis and aimed the shotgun at

sweat ran in small rivulets down my

air. The noise was coming from another

Filbert’s chest. The metallic click when I

brow and cheeks. With his van parked

room off the other side of the barn.

drew both hammers back echoed across

beside the barn, and a body boiling in the

I wiped the sweat from my

I was caught off guard, but

the room and triggered Filbert’s move.

drum, I knew that he couldn’t be too far

palms and swallowed hard as I tightened

He lunged to his right and hit a light

away. I went back to the broken jar of

my grip on the shotgun and started

switch, blanketing me in darkness. The

powder, dipped my finger in the soft

across the barn. The noise grew louder

sudden change from light to dark left me

white substance and tasted it. Bill was

the closer I got to the doorway. I peeked

temporarily blinded. All I could see was

11

a bluish outline of the clown. He moved

you can come down here peaceful like

again before my eyes could adjust,

or…”

knocking over a stack of empty dairy

I made it quietly back to the kitchen and turned two more cans over

The sharp crack of a pistol

on their side, draining their contents

pails on his way out the door. I was

made my heart leap into my throat and I

across the floor. “You’re about to find

blinded again, this time by the bright

felt the wood floor near my feet vibrate

out.” I answered. It took a minute but my

light flooding in from outside. I didn’t

as if it had been pounded with a hammer.

hunch paid off, and I located a box of

wait this time and ran after him, tripping on the strewn pails. Pain, fear and anger coursed my

An insane laughter filtered down from the room above me. “You saw the boy, didn’t you?” He laughed

matches in one of the kitchen drawers next to a stash of candles. I heard a creak from the stairs

body as I picked myself up off the

but his laughter quickly turned into a

in the hall off the kitchen and then I

ground. I saw a flash of Bobby Taylor’s

menacing threat. “There’s room for you

heard Filbert’s gravely voice. “Have you

face the day he came into the coffee

in there, too.”

considered leaving? Think about it, no

shop gasping for breath, looking for

I fired a thunderous blast

help. I kicked the pails out of the way

through the ceiling, initiating a rain of

and took after Filbert. I made it out of

plaster and bits of wood.

the barn in time to catch a blurry glimpse

“That’s one,” Filbert taunted.

one would have to get shot,” he cackled, “or cooked.” I stood near the back door and dropped a lit match to the kerosene

of the fleeing clown disappear through

He fired another shot through the ceiling

soaked floor. A blue flame sprang to life

the back door of the farmhouse. I ran

from the room above, knocking a can of

and I watched it run a trail out of the

after him.

kerosene to the floor. “Oh, and in case

kitchen. “You know something Filbert.”

you didn’t know, that means you only

I called. “You’re at least half right. I’ll

back door with the shotgun ready to fire

have one shot left.” He laughed. “You

be outside.”

at the first thing that moved, but found

hear me? That’s one shot between you

myself in an empty kitchen. I could hear

and a hot dip.”

I shoved my way through the

Filbert cussing and screaming as he stomped across the floor above me. “Filbert!” I yelled. “You come

Frank paused from his story telling. A satisfied smile spread across

He was right. Bill had all of the shotgun shells with him and Filbert had a pistol. I had to assume he had at least

his face. Eric’s expression was a mix of horror and disbelief. Frank continued. “I heard Filbert beat against the

down here with your hands empty or I’ll

four more shots left, if not more. I took a

stout timbers across the windows and

shoot you dead.”

step toward the door, but stopped when I

doors, and I heard him curse and scream,

The stomping stopped, but I

heard the wet sound my boots made on

but I never saw him step a foot outside

could still hear the ceiling creak as he

the floor. I was standing in a puddle of

that house.”

took a few steps across the floor in the

kerosene and there were a dozen more of

“So you killed him?” Eric said.

room above me.

the gallon-sized cans on the kitchen

“Don’t know.” Frank Shrugged.

“Who’s down there?” He yelled.

counter. I remembered the fire burning

“When the fires died out, the ashes were

under the steel drum and grabbed one of

searched but a body was never found.”

His voice sounded familiar but I

the cans of kerosene and removed the

couldn’t put a finger on it. “That doesn’t

cap. Moving quickly, I tipped the can

matter.” I yelled back, nervously. For all

and made a wet trail through the down

I knew he might have a shotgun too. “I

stairs of the house.

know what you’ve been doing and it all ends today, one way or another. Now

Eric leaned back on the bench and looked at Frank. “Nothing?” Frank shook his head. “Nope. Not a thing.”

“What are you doing down there?” Filbert chided.

12

“Was there an investigation?” “No,” Frank said. “You could

ask around but folks will just shrug their

horrific story I’ve ever heard. I just want

siasm with nod and urged him inside.

shoulders, or smile and nod, but nobody

to see something to back it up.”

Eric was amazed at how clean the van

will talk about Filbert. It’s almost like

Frank nodded. “Okay. I’ll take

the whole town is waiting to hear it

you, if that’s what you want, but it won’t

again.”

make you sleep any better at night.” “Hear what?” Eric asked. “The music.” Frank said. “It’s

True to Frank’s word, it didn’t

was as he trailed his fingertips down the side. “My God, I can’t believe this.” “Is this proof enough?” Frank asked.

take long to get there. Frank slowed the

“Sure.” Eric peeked inside the

like they’re waiting to hear Filbert com-

truck as cedar mailbox came into view.

van’s service window. “I guess I figured

ing through the neighborhood.”

“Steady yourself.” Frank said. “It gets

that it would be rusting away. It’s so

bumpy from here on in.”

clean like its ready to …”

“Wait.” Eric interrupted. “If all this is supposed to be true, where’s Bill and Gene?” Frank sighed and shook his

To Eric’s delight the broken foundation and jagged timbers that re-

Eric turned to see Frank pointing a pistol at him.

mained of the farmhouse loomed into

Frank clicked the hammer back

head. “Gene was right about his heart.

view, silhouetted in the afternoon sun.

on the pistol with his thumb and mo-

He never made it back to town. And Bill

The barn and the silos looked just as

tioned for Eric to step away. “I’d say

… well he didn’t take the death of his

Frank had described them, adding an

you’ve seen enough.”

son too well. A week later he put his

element of truth to Franks story. All the

shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trig-

talk of murder and cannibalistic recipes

ger.”

seemed horrifyingly real as Eric looked Eric stared at the brick path in

“What the hell are you doing, Frank?” Frank smiled and glanced at the

around. Frank pulled to a stop in front of

picture of the clown. “I used to love the

front of the bench and sighed. “Come on

the barn doors. Eric was out even before

circus and all those crazy clowns.” He

Frank. Tell me this is just some twisted

had a chance to put the truck in park.

chuckled. “Oh how they could get the

fantasy you cooked up.” Frank shook his head. “I wish I could.” Eric turned on the bench to face

“Well, here you are.” Frank came around the front of the truck. “You

tol to its side, admiring it, and then he

seen enough or do you want to have a

shook his head. “When the mining

look inside?”

money dried up, things got real tight,

Frank. “So the Johnson place…it’s real?” “It’s a mile or two out of town.” Frank answered. Eric searched Frank’s face,

crowd stirred up.” Frank turned the pis-

Eric smiled and cast a sideways

hell, it got to where I could barely afford

glance at Frank. “Why, are there skele-

to eat. So, I came back to this godfor-

tons still hanging from the rafters?” Eric

saken little town to my parent’s farm and

joked.

tried my hand at selling ice cream the Frank pushed the barn doors

way they had done. To make a long story

looking for something to suggest that he

apart. “No, those were taken down along

short, I didn’t do so well and I was about

was making the whole thing up, but he

time ago and, before you ask, the drum

to give up when I remembered the

found only stern sincerity. If the cream-

is empty too.” Frank stepped aside and

strange man from who worked the farm

ery was still intact, he might be able to

said, “See for yourself.”

when I was a kid. I had caught him steal-

reopen it. “Fine,” Eric said. “Let’s go. I want to see it.” Frank laughed. “Why? Don’t you believe me?” “You’ve just told me the most

When the barn doors opened

ing one day and in exchange for my si-

Eric saw an ice cream truck decorated

lence, taught me to work a magic that

with a large picture of a clown’s smiling

would give me control over any mind.”

face. “Oh my God! That’s it.” He glanced at Frank who returned his enthu-

13

Frank laughed at the horror on Eric’s face.

“He said the secret was in the bones.” Frank continued. “He told me a story from when he was a boy about how his family raised goats back on the islands and how they used the goat’s bones to make a spell. The spell gave them power to control the goats, to keep them from wandering off. The trick he said was that the bones had to be from of the same species of animal you wanted to control.” Eric took a step toward the barn doors, but Frank moved into his way, threatening him with the pistol. “The first bones I ground into powder were my brother’s. He died at a young age and was buried in on the farm. So, I dug him up and made a powder from his bones and mixed it with the cream.” Eric sank to his knees in sheer terror as Frank aimed the pistol at his forehead. “The result of course has been most beneficial.” “Jesus, Frank.” Eric said pleaded. “You’re a murderer. You’re Filbert the Clown.” Frank lowered the pistol, “And you know what the best part is? Nobody really seems to mind. I mean really, who doesn’t love a clown?” Tears began to glisten in Eric’s eyes as he looked from the smiling face on the side of the van and Frank. “Please tell me this is some kind of really sick joke.” “I wish I could.” Frank said as he aimed the pistol back at Eric’s head. Eric’s body began to shake uncontrollably. “I’ve got a wife and little boy.” Frank smiled. “Don’t worry about them. Tomorrow I’ll be back to making my rounds and one of my first stops will be in front of your house.” Frank laughed. “In a couple days they’ll never even know you were gone.”

The end

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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 15

Interview with Novelist Mari Sloan The Cold Coffee Community is home to a large and growing number of writers. It is also home to Cold Coffee Magazine, which serves to represent the best of these writers by publishing their work. The writers who’ve found and walked the path to success have a story to tell, a story that might help up and coming writers find similar rewards. This issue of CCM shines its spotlight on Mari Sloan writer of “Beaufort Falls,” a paranormal thriller about a mother who returns from beyond the grave to protect her children. Mari’s book has been sold in Barnes & Noble stores, and is available to be ordered from any store, or online. She also contributes helpful articles for CCM, and in this interview she will share with readers some of the steps and events that led to her writing success.

CCM: Thank you for joining us, Mari. We’ve talked on many occasions and in the past you’ve helped me with my writing. Now I get the opportunity to deliver your wisdom to our community. Thank you. Mari: Thank you, David, for interviewing me and letting me share my story with other writers. One of the best things that happened to me since becoming an author has been meeting and mingling with a lot of very bright new talent. The world of writing is expanding and it’s more fun than ever to be a writer. CCM: Writers face many challenges. Life, family, day jobs, all inhibit our ability to write. What was your biggest challenge in writing “Beaufort Falls”? Mari: Previous to “Beaufort Falls,” I’d written short stories and a lot of very bad poetry. I wondered whether I’d be able to sustain the energy to finish something novel length and there were stops and starts. A total of three years went by before I finished the first draft. If it hadn’t been for a writer’s E-mail group I was a part of, I doubt that I would have finished it. CCM: I read your book, not just because I know you, but also because I’ve always loved a good ghost story with Southern roots, in fact, I wrote a ghost story based in Louisiana. Having grown up in the South made writing a Southern based novel easier for me, but I still had to invest a lot of time to research. How much time did you invest in researching your book? Mari: Very little, actually. I grew up in Atlanta, Georgia and in several small towns in southern and middle Georgia, then I lived for three years in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, so I knew small towns and I knew the area that I used for my imaginary town. I had to check dates on a couple of things, but other than that, “Beaufort Falls” is totally fiction. CCM: I think most writers have a personal connection to their writing, something they pull out of their heart files and use to template their stories. Was their anything from your life that went into “Beaufort Falls” and if so how did it help make your story better? Mari: My grandmother was my mentor and my inspiration. She grew up inside of the Atlanta City Jail; called “The Tower.” She was known as, “the little girl in the jail.” Her mother was the first Women’s Matron for the

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state of Georgia, and her Dad was the engineer in the jail, and kept everything running. Together, they lived in an apartment on the third floor of the prison. My Grandmother had to go through three sets of iron doors to get out to go to school every day. She became friends with many of the prisoners, who were deeply superstitious and all believed strongly in ghosts. She quickly learned that people were not always like they at first appeared. She also learned how to tell fortunes by cards, and had prophetic dreams that were never wrong. There were times she was reportedly seen in places while she was home asleep in her bed. This was my background and is why I have an interest in people, particularly unusual people. CCM: Many writers I’ve spoke to think the best practice to doing rewrites is to shove the rough draft into a desk drawer and leave it for a month or two before editing. What is your formula for rewrite success? Mari: Not me! I rewrite constantly. I work myself into writing mode by correcting the chapter I’ve just written. It’s a constant, ongoing thing, never finished until it sees print. Fortunately My Sweet Man, my husband, lets me read to him no matter what else he is doing. I have trouble writing at all when he isn’t home. He’s a wonderfully, patient, man. He always says, “That’s great!” unless I’ve really missed the boat somewhere and confused him. CCM: I’ve written stories simply because I had an idea and needed to get it on paper, never really intending to publish. How did the writing of “Beaufort Falls” begin and was it a story you always meant to publish? Mari: I didn’t really think I would publish it. In fact, for a long time I didn’t think much of it until I sent it to a friend to look at, (she later became my editor), and she wrote me back excited, telling me that it was “really good!” I began querying then, and she soon began doing free-lance editing for a small publisher and recommended “Beaufort Falls” to them. Unfortunately, we were both fooled and after a twenty-two day print run with that horrible small press, I did the dance of joy when they let me go and I regained my rights to my book. CCM: All of my writing endeavors including this magazine and the community it represents are something I do in my spare time. I imagine there are many writers, me included, who would love to write and do things with writing for a living. How big a role does writing play in your life and is it your main source of income? Mari: It’s not an income yet, in fact, we only recently crossed the hurdle where we’d sold more books than we’d given away! I consider it a hobby at this point that sometimes pays for itself. When I say “we” I mean my husband and myself. He is not just a support but he’s an active partner in everything except the actual writing of the book. CCM: Writing a good query letter can be almost as challenging as writing the story. Sometimes you have to write your query specifically for the kind of agent you’re hoping will accept your manuscript. When you set out to become published did you have to send out queries and if so what worked for you in writing them? Mari: I sent out queries until I got my ill-fated contract. I used several writers’ guides and I sent to publishing houses and got a number of rejections, nice ones, form letters, the usual mix. CCM: Part of the challenge in writing and sending queries is accepting letters of rejection. What part of becoming published did you find the most challenging and how did you overcome those obstacles? Mari: The toughest part of being published is the marketing. When we were with the small press, they never intended to make the book returnable, intending to sell to the “friends and family” market and let it drop. I kept insisting that it be “returnable” so that I could market to bookstores, until I was more trouble than I was worth. I’d sold around 135 copies the first twenty-two days, and the publisher thought that was about all she could expect, so she let me go. Hooray! My husband and I redid the book from cover to cover (PLUS the cover) and published it ourselves as “It’s ME! Ink Press. We’ve sold plenty more, and replaced every one of the “ugly blue books” we could round up—for free.

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CCM: I’ve been to your website and saw the photo of you sitting on a bench in front a bookstore window displaying your book, a great end to a long road, one I dare say we all hope to experience. Now that you’ve tasted the sweet wine of success, what’s next? Is there a sequel in the works? Do you have one of those cherished two or three book deals? What does the future hold for Mari Sloan? Mari: That was a very proud moment, that book signing, but it’s barely the beginning. That Barnes & Noble stocked my book for a year, even though it returned books usually after the first six weeks. There are lots of markets and it’s up to you to make sure it gets out there, and that includes the Internet! You have to schedule panels, book signings, appear at libraries, and JOIN book clubs. Make sure you are a part of at least one major organization that is geared toward books of your genre. Sisters in Crime/LA was VERY helpful to me and I was able to sell and sign at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books for the last three years in their booth. Also Gayle Bartos-Pool, who runs their Speaker’s Panel, made sure I got made a part of many local panels and Rose Ann Savo, Co-coordinator for the Arts in Ventura County, California, kept inviting me to her groups. Now I’m learning the ins and outs of having a presence online. You can’t do it alone. In answer to the second part of your question, yes, there is a sequel to “Beaufort Falls “ that is now half finished. Molly grows into a difficult teen-ager who decides to make her fortune by taking the little pink trailer cross country to Beverly Hills, where she plans to sell it and make her fortune. I also have begun a serious fiction novel that is based in Chicago during the end of the Civil Rights Movement and THIS book is going to teach me how to research! CCM: In closing I like to give our featured writer a chance to share with others some parting words of wisdom, something that you feel will help guide other writers on their path to realizing their dreams. In a sentence what would like to say to your fellow writers? Mari: JOIN a group that can help you with advice, information, and inspiration with writing in your favorite genre. Once you are part of a group, you are no longer alone. Cold Coffee Magazine would like to thank Mari for taking the time to give us some helpful insights on the world of writing. Be sure to order a copy of Mari’s book, “Beaufort Falls” at a book store near you or online, at all of the usual places.

Interview by David Price.

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Featured Writer

-fiction articles have been published in various online and print publications, and have been featured on national radio and other radio programs. In 2008 his short story “The Clearness and the Impenetrability” was nominated for the prestigious Pushcart Prize. Boris is also a recognized philosopher of a spiritual community. Many of his articles have received world premiere, being read in public programs in front of hundreds of people.

Boris Glikman Meet Boris Glikman, writer, poet and philosopher from Melbourne, Australia. Boris has two degrees, Bachelor of Arts (majoring in Philosophy and Linguistics) and Bachelor of Science (majoring in Mathematics and Physics). After completing his degrees, Boris decided to pursue a career in writing. His biggest writing influences are Kafka and Bores. Boris claims that dreams are an important source of creative inspiration for him and that many of his stories

originate from scenarios and ideas in his dreams. When asked, Boris says, “Writing for me is a spiritual activity of the highest degree. Writing gives me the conduit to a world that is unreachable by any other means, a world that is populated by Eternal Truths, Ineffable Questions and Infinite Beauty. It is my hope that these stories of mine will allow the reader to also catch a glimpse of this universe.”

His stories, poems and non

19

He is well versed in the fields of maths and physics and has developed many theories, results and discoveries in both fields as well as in other areas of science. Boris’s life-long ambition is to become a child prodigy and then humbly aim to change the very fabric of space-time itself.

THE CLEARNESS AND THE IMPENETRABILITY My companions and I realise suddenly that we are actually in the world of the dead. We walk towards an open-air market that has many different stalls and see a newspaper headline about a boy from Titanic telling his story of what it was like to go under. This newspaper also features letters from road-kill animals relating their experiences of the last moments of life and the first moments of death. I go to the CD stall first. It is selling music that musicians have composed since their deaths. I am particularly excited about finding John Lennon's and Jimi Hendrix's new post-death albums. I also purchase Beethoven's 11th and 12th symphonies, Haydn's 200th Symphony and the completed version of Mozart's Requiem. Poor Mozart never did finish it during his lifetime, but thankfully in this dead world he has had plenty of time to work on it. Next to the CD stall is a bookstall. I browse through books that tell of the experiences of dead people, how they met their end, what their deaths felt like and what existence has been like for them since then. Those who are concerned that death would bring an end to their personal hatreds and conflicts can be reassured that in this world they will be able to resume with renewed energy and the kind benefit of limitless time all of their

old animosities and feuds. Indeed, many wars that those in the living world think have ended with signed peace treaties are still raging in full force and with unabated ferocity and rage in this world, with slain soldiers picking up their weapons and resuming their formations. The Hundred-Year War has now become the Six Hundred-Year War and First and Second World Wars have amalgamated into one conflict, with Kaiser Wilhelm II and Hitler assuming joint direction of the German armed forces and the Allies being commanded by leaders from both the First and Second World Wars. Japan is in a deep conundrum, not knowing which side to take, having fought for the Allies in the First World War and for the Axis in the Second World War. There is a whole paranormal section devoted to such esoteric, mystical subjects as Near Life Experiences (NLE) and making contact with the living world, which here has the appellation of "The Impenetrability" due to its characteristic feature of being composed of dense substance and because of its cryptic nature. As the properties of the dead world are directly opposite to that of "The Impenetrability", its denizens call it "The Clear World" or "The Clearness" and refer to themselves as the clear beings. I pick up a book that addresses

20

the NLE phenomenon. It describes how during NLE there is the sensation of drifting through a tunnel, away from a dazzlingly bright, warmly comforting light towards darkness and of accompanying feelings of great agitation, anxiety and confusion. Consequently people in The Clear World dread the NLE and do all they can to avoid exposing themselves to circumstances that could make them leave The Clearness and return to the world of The Impenetrability. Indeed so great and all-pervading is the fear of the NLE in the Clear World, that it is considered to be an imperative civic duty on the part of any citizen of this world to help those beings who are undergoing or are in danger of undergoing the NLE. All citizens are required to learn to recognise the symptoms and signs of NLE, and to know the First Aid procedures for preventing a clear being from returning back to The Impenetrability. Sometimes overenthusiastic citizens take the symptoms of NLE too literally and one sees a person, his loud protests ignored, being dragged out by his legs from a tunnel just in case that unfortunate fellow could be experiencing the NLE. Another book deals with the society structure and daily existence of the Clear Beings. It turns out that the epitaph "R.I.P." that the grieving relatives affix to the

tombstone could not be more misjudged and incongruous, for a person's existence only really begins when they die and become a Clear Being. No, there is no time in The Clearness to read a book, let alone rest in peace, so rich and vibrant is life in this world. Possessing an unlimited life span, the clear beings are free from the many life-sapping insecurities and anxieties that stem from the ever-present threat of death and that plague the people in The Impenetrability. The only fear that blights the joyous existence of the clear beings is the possibility of returning to the land of the living. Consequently, in the wars that still rage in The Clearness the objective is to make the enemy alive again. And so we have this paradoxical situation in which the impenetrable beings are tormented by the fact that their lives have to end in death and the clear beings are tormented by the fact that they might possibly become alive again. As with all human communities The Clear World has its hierarchy. One often sees a particular citizen surrounded by hysterical groups, which vary in size from just one or two to hundreds and thousands, showering flowers on that citizen and begging to be set any task so that they can experience the ecstasy of fulfilling the desire of their idols. A particularly curious sight is of certain beings that have no devotional groups accompanying them and yet they still throw flowers on themselves as they make their way along the street. I was mystified as to how these particular citizens gained such

fame, devotion and fanatical following, why they were always followed by the same unchanging group of devotees and why some groups were quite small while others consisted of hundreds upon hundreds of followers. At first, I was of the opinion that these beings made an exceptional contribution to the welfare and happiness of humanity back in The Impenetrability and that their devotees consisted of all those people whose lives were saved or improved by their work. My reasoning, however, was woefully off target. Given that the overriding and most powerful factor that animates the existence of the clear beings is their fear and hatred of the Impenetrability, the citizens who are the object of such fanatical celebration are those that back in The Impenetrability were called murderers and their devotional group consists of all their victims. The murderers of young impenetrable beings are held in an especially high regard for having given a child a way to partake in the glory of the existence in the Clear World. A uniquely intimate and extremely loving relationship exists between the killer and his every victim. The victim is forever in debt and devoted for all eternity to his killer for having had the courage and wisdom to overcome the ridiculously misguided taboo against murder that exists in The Impenetrability and enabling the victim to escape the dreary clutches of the living world. As suicide victims are their own murderers, they throw flowers on themselves as they walk, making

21

certain that others know that they too possessed the bravery and intelligence to escape the living world. Young clear beings, in particular, love their killers with the intensity that never even existed between them and their parents back in The Impenetrable World. Sometimes their unflagging devotion and endless expressions of gratitude wears out even the most patient of killers. There are also books speculating about the possibility that people exist in the world of Impenetrability before they are actually clear, a world wildly different from The Clearness. According to these books, in The Impenetrability all people come into existence at the same age and form, namely at the age of zero in the form of a tiny, helpless being. The inhabitants of The Impenetrability are apparently all composed of solid, crudely wrought material that deteriorates over time. Their bodies, this book claims, are incapable of such simple actions as penetrating physical objects, making themselves invisible to sight and overcoming the tyrannies of gravity and time to move freely in all the four dimensions. The purported existence of The Impenetrability is a hotly disputed subject in The Clear World and is the cause of an ancient and deep rift in its population, contributing directly to major conflicts and catastrophes throughout its history. For The Believers the existence of Impenetrability is a fundamental and crucial plank in the foundation of their world-view and is of inestimable significance to their spiritual and emotional wellbeing.

The Believers are of the firm opinion that human beings undergo a period of growth and development in The Impenetrability that prepares them for their real existence in The Clear World. Our characters and our destinies in The Clearness, according to their sacred tomes, are shaped and determined by our experiences and our lives in The Impenetrability. The Unbelievers reject any claim of person's existence prior to The Clearness. They cling strongly to the view that it is beyond the scope of human knowledge and reason to comprehend what occurs prior to a person coming into being in The Clear World and therefore all such discussions are just empty words. According to their creed, the clear beings come to exist in The Clear World already possessing, ready-made, all of their attributes, abilities and imperfections and that the destiny of a clear being is of his making only. A favourite way of passing the time for The Unbelievers is to mock mercilessly, to the point of tears, The Believers for their blind, unquestioning faith in some imaginary world, asking them to point to where they think this world is situated. Partly as a way of countering these attacks upon what they hold most dear, a sizeable proportion of the Believers has formed a splinter movement that goes by the name of The Believing Believers. For this schismatic group the act of believing has become more important than the issue of what it is that they actually believe in, namely the existence of The Impenetrability. In effect, belief has

disassociated itself from what it was based upon in the first place, and it is this pure mental state of faith, in and of itself, that has now become an object of veneration and a source of spiritual and emotional nourishment. Indeed a vast majority of The Believing Believers no longer remember what it is that they believe in, only knowing that it is their faith that distinguishes them from The Unbelievers and gives them the identity and the security that they so cherish. Recently, there have been unmistakable signs of rising levels of tension and antagonism between The Believers and The Believing Believers, with The Believing Believers accusing The Believers of undermining the whole movement. The Believing Believers are of the opinion that by obstinately holding on to the belief in some conjectural world of The Impenetrability, The Believers infect their sublimely pure faith with an imperfect and uncertain element as well as making themselves vulnerable to the attacks from the Unbelievers. Those who have studied the past events of this world and are now studying the present state of affairs are predicting that in the future eras, there will be cataclysmic conflicts the likes of which this place has never seen. These conflicts will no longer be between The Unbelievers and The Believers, but rather between The Believers and The Believing Believers, given how vociferous and zealous The Believing Believers are in proclaiming that their faith should not be sullied with any alien ingredients and how ignorant they are of where their faith came from in the first

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place. Another splinter group that has garnered wide recognition is the Clear-Again Believers. This movement puts great stress on the significance of the Near Life Experience that I have mentioned previously. The rising popularity of this movement is a clear indication of the extent to which the phenomenon of NLE has impressed itself upon the Collective Consciousness of the populace of this world. A key feature of the Clear-Again movement is the initiation rite that is centred upon the re-enactment of NLE, of experiencing the dread that it provokes and the feelings of relief and ecstasy that arise in one after escaping its clutches and becoming clear again. Hence the name of this group, which, incidentally, in our old parlance would be known as the deadagain movement. To make the NLE re-enactment as close as possible to the real thing, very narrow, dead-end tunnels are constructed, with bright, shiny lights being put up at their entry points. The Going In part of the rite is conducted in absolute silence and consists of crawling through the tunnel and never looking back. The director of the ceremony decides when they have gone far enough, and proven their courage of staring The Impenetrability in the face. In the Coming Out part of the ceremony, the director commands a member to pull the crawler out by his legs and this is accompanied by shouts of great jubilation coming from the participants surrounding the tunnel. The new member has officially be-

come clear again and now can bear the title of a Clear-Again Believer. This simulated acting-out of the near-life experience is considered by some rather reckless members of the movement to be but a mere shadow of the real deal. They flaunt their bravura and daring by deliberately subjecting themselves to situations that they know will bring them close to the edge of life. These foolhardy clear beings then take great pride in describing in detail their exploits, of how they feel their bodies acquiring a solid and unwieldy form, of sensing some intractable, unyielding power emanating from the ground and cancelling out their free movement capabilities, and of the astonishingly intense feelings of impending doom. I tire of reading all this esoteric stuff and continue my promenade through the market. There are flower stalls selling wilted flowers, fruit stalls selling dried up, rotten fruit but otherwise everything is exactly the same as in the living world.

names that we designate them by, how can we prove that this is not the real living world after all? Given that we cannot even remember any differences between this world and the real world, how can we then tell that the real world even existed in the first place?" I employ a mathematical argument to embed my solution in a firm, scientific soil. "Suppose there exist two worlds, the real world and the dead world. Designate the real world by X and the dead world by -X. But on the other hand the 2 worlds are identical and therefore it must be that: X = -X. Solving this equation we find that X = 0, and if X is zero then so is -X. So we get this absurd result that neither world exists. It then follows that our initial assumptions were incorrect and that there can only be one world. We can call it either the living world or the dead world. It is just a name and it makes no difference in the end."

All of a sudden, an astonishing insight strikes me. I clearly see a way to resolve the endless conflicts between the factions and make this world one again. It now becomes my duty and my mission to spread my revolutionary, world-changing solution to the whole population of The Clearness. I gather around me my first group of disciples and impart to them my Two Worlds Are One Gospel: " Given that there are no differences between the dead world and the living world, except in the

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I WROTE THE STORY OF MY LIFE BUT NEVER ONCE DID I STOP TO READ IT I wrote the story of my life but never once did I stop to read it. Words, plots, characters gushed out of me, yet never once did I take the time to see If the words were apt, if the plot had inner consistency, if the characters were realistic and likeable. Not once did I peruse the footnotes and attempt to research further the story I was writing. Not once did I check for for the minor spelling and grammar errors nor contemplated whether indeed the whole construction of my work-in-progress was fundamentally flawed from the very first word on the very first page. Never once did I pay heed to the better advice of my elders, to keep a constant tone to my novel, to not portray realism as fantasy, to not turn tragedy into comedy. But recklessly I mixed passages of horror with passages of humour, blended magic realism with surrealism and clumsily juxtaposed soaring poetry with indifferent pedestrianism. Not once did I look back to see if my story made any sense, leaving it instead to others to try and make sense of the story of my life. And so preoccupied was I with the writing of this book that I forgot all about existence and my life instead became this book itself. And now as I come to the final page, I think to myself: Is there still time enough to begin the book anew?

REVELATA SUBTERRANEA

"How could Evolution ever lying close to the river's edge, only deigning to bestir,

come up with such a horrible abomination?"

dip their heads languidly

I remember wondering to myself.

into the passing current,

"How could Nature ever allow

when a particularly choice morsel

such a glaring insult against Herself

One day, my friends and I descended into the sewers underneath the metropolis and discovered the most unusual eel-like creatures

of human waste floated by. to arise and flourish,

lounging indolently on the concrete banks of the subterranean river.

Their appearance overpowered me

such a travesty, such a betrayal,

with its repulsiveness. such a perversion of the very natural order?"

There they were,

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with all the cognition of a person. Yet when I looked closer

Their facial expressions were those

at these anathemas, of kindness, serenity, wisdom. a most astounding feature There were two over to the left, revealed itself to me. holding their heads close to one another, Somehow, through some playful whim

gazing deeply, just like two lovers,

of the Goddess who directs and into each other's eyes. oversees the evolutionary process, these overgrown worms

Suddenly I felt an odd sort of compassion for them.

developed human faces. Nay, not just human faces, but visages of angelic beauty such that no earthly woman would ever dare to possess, lest the Gods became spiteful and jealous. This discovery was so unexpected, the radiance of their mien so intense, I stood transfixed, unable to take my gaze

Cold Coffee acknowledges the talent of great writers in its community by showcasing their work and Boris Glikman is one of those talents. Cold Coffee would like to publicly express its gratitude for Boris’s amazing contribution, not just to this magazine but also to the Cold Coffee Writing Community.

even for an instant away from these heavenly creatures.

Thank you.

Their eyes looked at me

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Editors Choice Poetry Betrayal: A Tanka

Cold Coffee Cold Coffee pours like drops of rain on a warm summer’s day, as words gather, floating along pages, sharing secrets that paint images of brilliancy across the emotional spectrum. Each drop dances to a freefall, glides downward, warmed by a sun behind a cloud of thoughts that await to shake, rattle and roll in each mind that willfully accepts the pen that writes horizontally on the canvas. In the moonlight, it forms a tear, glistening in the hearts and souls from still images transposed by uttering words of magic that awakens the passions that sizzles in the night’s air. Each day, after the watersheds, the soil unearths, another writer is born, and with it a new message, feeling, and love that crosses into… The Cold Coffee Zone. -Ralph Piccolo

I stopped, you walked by. Your scent captured my dark soul; Left me here to die. Betrayed by my love for you, Leaving me without a clue. -Mary Sweeney

Green Moon An opaque moon grew transparent in light My memory recalls that dreadful night Creatures most foul, too hideous to view their icy presence chilled red blood to blue. The thread of evermore folklore foretold of restless spirits so deadly and bold and vampire's hunger for taste of blood as zombies rose from dark graves of deep mud. Werewolves howling a dark haunting night threat, your soul quivers to a deathly cold sweat. These unspeakable things roamed about night. Specters cast dark shadows of fearful fright. The moon shone eerie green, I shan’t forget. The memory remains, lingering yet.

-Fran Marie

Cold Coffee 26

Ray of Light

So Simple

The rapping of change beckons the door to my soul carrying a sickle of unrequited notions to swallow a blackbird of destiny caws in the barren background; a song of loss chills my broken-spine mentality.

When we met, I questioned your taste and you replied tacitly with something close to ‘simplicity’; yet you failed to appreciate Simpletons, for intelligence and simplicity was your style. My courage was the bond binding us to our small adventure as my bold smile and wild hair brought you to another angle of your logical life.

You were my gift, salvation wrapped perfection; the light piercing darkness… Many suns have buried themselves in the moon’s glow. Opaque stars laugh from above at fools who lay waiting. Falling tears provide life to the weeping willow shelter while silence remains the only constant sound of night. I remember fireflies and the scent of earth, its solemn grass cradling me… Blistered bloody feet walk the same path aimlessly, hope being their only recourse to find a destination. A secret wish buried deep within the heart’s silly song. Prayers heard by benevolent beings ignored by circumstance…

All that remains is the wind, blowing disappointment coldly. A reminder of your absence…

Throughout our excursion I tried to prove I wasn’t simple-minded, but you failed to figure it out until the last minute before the end. My attempts to show the simplicity of laughter and light, swirling kisses, along with jokes that made doves croon beneath a deep blue sky amidst streaks of gold that drew you in… but only for a moment of time.

Gently golden hairs brush my rosy tear burnt cheeks, almost as if giving a tender loving kiss goodbye. A sentiment left behind the chaos of life’s bidding, the only memory that will leave my heart stained.

For then you saw through my blunt simplicity of words and simplicity of expression resulting from the envious nature of my slightly dangerous affection, which ruined simplicity’s beautiful definition.

The candle that burns brightly is the one who fades first, though it’s brilliance unrivaled… My sweetest lover drowned in a heart kept caged, never to be seen again in the light of endearment. Held deep inside of hushed passions yearning whisper, lost forever in the sadness of knowing defeat…

Yet I am glad that before you left, I had the courage to tell you that I enjoyed the simplicity of it all, the simplicity of our time, like two carefree birds breaking free from the sorrows of their nests.

Day breaks in its new agenda, forgotten is my face. These words, just black ink bleeding through the pages of what once was light that pierced my darkness…

-Veeraya (Mint) Leevongcharoen

-Shannon Morrow 27

Meaning in the Moon

The Pattern

Restless wandering specter stalking slow about the room, the ghost of Dylan Thomas round the old White Horse Saloon Searching for a whisky glass, an ashtray or a broom to sweep up broken bits of April scattered round in June.

A pattern forms inside my mind, I see it everywhere. It haunts me as a ghost might. This pattern is a riddle, a mystery, the enigma of a life filled with secrets captured forever inside a tortured brain walking that fine line between the sun and the moon, always helping the stranger yet hurting those that get too close. The pattern, I am so near now. It stalks me like a jungle cat, so quietly that when I turn it is gone, nevertheless I feel it's breath as if it's a living creature not a pattern of shapes and colors. Is it a mathematical secret, the formula that will solve this final mystery? Perhaps it is proof of God's existence or the gateway to hell's mouth. If I could bring it to life, would the world die or could we all transform into butterflies? Will the blood stop flowing from my hands? Can my sins be forgiven, forgotten? The pattern will answer me soon. Will I turn out beautiful, ugly, evil, good or some shade of gray? Can it make the pain stop or give me a belief in love again? I can see your thoughts, even at times, the future. Mine is just a colored pattern. Have I lost my humanity, like a song taken from me, will my words even matter? I would give you anything but I would take everything. The pattern tells me this: We can never touch for you would burn. I am as the comet streaking though the sky. To share a piece of myself would demean us both. The pattern repeats again. Your day is my night and yet I see. Is there anyone to understand my call, to reach out in the night, not in fear, but willing to seek answers? The pattern is there, waiting. Who solves it decides the fate of us all.

How the smoky blues fulfill the places where we yearn. The empty, sad and fractured spaces longing to return. Can we place a sweet embrace like ash into an urn or trust youth’s fiery passion once the memory is burned? Sweat on asphalt steaming, people screaming for more room for souls to grow and fools to know the meaning in the moon and not the words of two young lovers singing different tunes when laughter born just yesterday fades away too soon. Are the craters simply Braille for angels who are blind Wandering round the galaxy not knowing what they’ll find? Or maybe they are roadmaps to a place we’re coming soon while searching for a whisky glass, an ashtray or a broom Pour the empty, dusty glass all full with shades of blue. Kick the broken, lonely pieces of April round the room, sweep the floors, lock the doors and light a cigarette. Liquor, darkness and sad music mix well with regret. All the simple answers to hard questions I have learned are simply foolish notions foolish people have discerned. The truth is settled to the complex corners of this room searching for a whisky glass, an ashtray or a broom. -Fabian G. Franklin

-KismetBTR

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Come Sister

The Dark As evening comes in, creatures of the night now rise. On the wings of the wind, small preys send out helpless cries. Sleek black bats, prepare for their nightly flight. Long, dark shadows, take the last of daylight.

Come Sister, Come take my hand. We'll run through the meadows like we did when we were children, chasing butterflies and clouds and wind.

Night begins to settle, evil is on the roam. Worshippers of the dark chant prayers from old tomes. Silent, wicked, and cunning, the dark one comes. Drawn in by their offering, and beating of drums.

Come Sister, Come put flowers in my hair and I will put them in yours, while we whisper in each other's ear

Chanting, and dancing around the sacrificial fire, They pay reverent homage to the king of liars. The sacrifice begins, the innocent is brought forth. Looking to the sky, the evil arrives from the North.

our secrets and wishes and dreams. Come Sister, Come race me to the river. We will make mud pies along the shore,

Tied by her limbs, they hoist her high in the air. Place her over the flames, she is stripped and laid bare. Their sacrifice complete, they pray the dark one is pleased. Watching and waiting, they can only hope he’s appeased.

wading along the cool shallow water studying pebbles and minnows and tadpoles. Come Sister, Come now, the sun is getting low;

Their lives he does own, the ancestor’s debt must be paid. Locked into this evil, forever bound by mistakes made. They gather together, offering gifts to the king. If the dark one is calmed, a good harvest it brings.

the light is fleeting and night is almost here.

All through the night their evil rituals go on, serving and worshipping, straight through to the dawn. The night has now faded. The birds awaken and sing. The tribes are all sleeping, dreaming dreams of dark things.

-Jill Ricci

I long to have a glimpse of our childhood and have that innocence again before I go.

A Solid Gold Soul

-Ria Adams

Her spirit tends to wander for it hates to be bothered. Her spirit tends to hide as it flies through the night; free adolescent soul wandering somewhere cold and soaring into hope.

Coffee Flavored Lips Your coffee-flavored lips so warm A singular smile that melts my storm. A stroke as soft as chamomile within your touch, I deeply feel a treasured life for us to share, meadowed wilds without a care. Dancing in the garden lane and Spanish omelets in the rain. Laughing in our happy place, days of loving, days of grace. Our reflections now we see I for you, and you for me. Your coffee-flavored lips so warm, come smile and melt my steely storm…

Paint me a picture with words of a beautiful girl ith a solid gold soul. Sing me a beautiful harmony of nothing but every perfect note. Still, it wont be good enough to sing or show to the girl that taught me all: My beautiful mom.

-Craig Froman

-Jaymee Morrow 29

I Am Famous I walked down University Ave, before it was the valley of silicone..past the tangent and poppycock...looking for St Michaels den...where kids from distant states carefully picked over goodwill clothes to attain that "I don't give a shit what I look like...look." I passed by the cellar when Ginsberg was there, but was on my way to score...more. I knew Ferlingetti when he worked for Macy's as Santa Claus...he wore camouflage... Kerouac was a pimp of the pavement...an open boxcar door calls to some like a street corner whore, both demand a price... I am famous. I smoked a joint with Ginsberg's boy of the week. I panicked. I was sure he slipped me a Mickey. I bolted from the room, checking to see if my underwear was turned backwards. I am famous. I touched Janice Joplin before she died in the early morning hours... trampled to death by a white horse... that I rode, too. I lived in the house of the merry pranksters...my house mentioned in Ken Kesey's cool aid acid test. I am famous. I invented the smoke filled balloon...I walked the be-ins with balloons filled with the smoke of wowie maui and panama red, giving shotguns to friends of the earth. The crowd cheered as I released them, when the cops neared... I invented the string tacked to the ceiling with a clip at the end...no more did the circle have to be unbroken...just swing it across the room. I am famous for scarring unsuspecting faces, who were not expecting a joint from across the room...and sparks exploded I am famous. For coming close to a near life experience... it opened my eyes...I saw the dark in a different light. I once took acid and spent all night in a closet...curled up...curled up...curled up... A turtle on the shelf above me was my friend I am famous. I made the front page during an all out riot...the city burned on the Westside...where all the long haired hippies took to the street...it burned on the Eastside... where dark skinned warriors sent us smoke signals... this war was indeed televised. The front page picture showed me shirtless...in the background a street lined with hundreds of helmeted police...teargas drifted in the air. I am famous. I was the symbol of anti war...I was crossing the street looking to score. I didn't give a fuck about peace and war. I am famous. I know where the key to the under ground is hidden, where the lost poets keep all their secrets stashed in cardboard boxcars, but I cannot tell... I am famous. -Ray “Rain” Neighbor

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Hope Immortal Hope... leaps in the womb of the broken and oppressed driving endurance to exceed even its’ own limitations. Tucked... into back pockets of little boys when people were colored butterflies still had wings and metamorphosized into greatness.

Rising... in unlikely places on the petals of urban crocus, close calls, history and miracles. Trapped... in under layers of concrete, crushed by the rubble of weakness and fear; dogma and excuse stereotyped. Cashed in and Sold-Out for the appearance ...of arrival without venturing the journey.

Burned… into the backs hands and feet of those… who walked because their soul was not for sale.

Sprawled... across the horizon like tagging project walls in the heat of city summers with toxic misplaced pride. Rebellion sterilizing dreams, vacuuming crumbs of destiny and excellence.

Scribed... on the tongues of Griots and Elders when ink could shed blood.

Auto-genocide... extinction, death by friendly fire; comrades have morphed into enemies.

Hieroglyphically recorded... in stone walls built to protect not prohibit.

Hope... rises boldly on prayers of the faithful, that the fight will not die off and victims will become Victors that generations might seek the face of God.

Hope... once rode the tip of a warriors spear remaining in his footsteps trailblazing glory…he would not live to receive. Songs sung... in many tongues of genesis exile and renaissance.

-Jennifer Hampton

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Capturing the Moment To feel the subtle waves of cushions of softness, reaching from waters, and tranquility motions, rushing sounds sends quivers up and down the spine. The cool refreshing scent as it touches one skin, inhaling as if a bouquet of red roses, lifting the spirit on a overcast day. To see the warming light shine from the eyes that shares hopes and dreams as if singing to the soul like a choir enchanting notes that wake the glory of God from a gentle rest. The wraps of love brings forth a glow, a honor that one can only share if heartbeats, shake the very ground that life treads on… pure, loving and graceful…

We've Been Rooked I'll be your king, you my queen and we'll have the bishop marry us to our misjudgment. We'll spend lustful knights fencing beneath sheets, pawn our hearts for the gold of sweating skin, slip across a bed board and crash into a head board when it's all over. Check love at the door, call Alice and get another fix. You and I are no more than a "trick" up the sleeve of a blind streetwalker, an immodest jaywalker, a naked gun, smoking after an expired stalemate.

-Ralph Piccolo

Checkmate, game over. Put away our crowns, like sick love toys, the charade is over, our kingdom found out as fraud. We're just masochistic chess players postponing the inevitable, taking way too long to make a real move. -Jacob Erin Erin--Cilberto

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The Void My muse’s silence whispers mockery across a gritted wind, handing me nothing. Anemic of word pages blink back; the ink’s flavor only hints upon their empty brightness.

Favorite Colours My favorite color is black

Buckle Up Emmie

swam thru blues just to get back

Potentials held back to beckon beyond, edgy and blocked in hopes they won’t fade from the endless wait

thought I'd return to bright yellows instead it all seemed gray though you alone were pink

or a final retreat through the blinded space that spills fast behind, free of replacements. -Rachel Rachel Brower

which caused so much green it led to black and blue and so much flowing red till I was turning blue so now into the white as my body slowly turns green, a beautiful rainbow in darkened dreams. -James Brower

I plan to rise above the other teens... show the world that I'm worthy enough. Show the world that I'm Emmie... Somewhere up in the sunshine, is my future. It's as fragile as a snow globe and I've put enough cracks in it. If I continue to beat myself up, it'll be gone. I'll have no future. Somewhere up in the sky, is my meaning to life but I'm too young to know what life means. With time will come my newfound discovery. Away with the wind, are all my insecurities. I don't want them back. They’re the winds to keep. I'm standing proud, on the mountainside, staring at the sun, the sky, the rainbow... and hearing the wind... I think to myself, "It's gonna be a long road", but I like road trips. So, buckle up Emmie.... -Emmie

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I Never Tasted Champagne I never tasted Champagne. No, I have never tasted Champagne, never wore garters or lace. No satin sheets, not for me. No diamond rings or other fancy things, but I have tasted love. To my lips, it was bittersweet. The pavement hit me like concrete. I fell and collided into hell, where the flames are eternal; melted into his arms, like an inferno, where the flames were so hot like fire melting ice. I paid the price I came through lukewarm like the calm after a storm. No, I never tasted Champagne, never wore garters or lace. No satin sheets, not for me but I have tasted love, so bittersweet like fire melting ice. I paid the price From the frying pan into the fire I fell into his arms with a burning desire as fire melts ice. I paid the price Nearly cost me my life, being his wife.

-Debileah A.k.a. Deborah Lea Krempa

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Grief I need strength! Frightening visions are engulfing my senses. A friend is lost. Memories are painful and tears flow too easily, blurring a summer's day. Will I meet old souls again when I return? Will their eyes give me comfort and reassure me that life is indeed eternal, infinite, a lesson, a test! Laughing at fate is not so easy when the heart beats out of time. Pointless days lay apathetic hands upon my face. Sleep is minimal. Countless, numbing hours: The clock ticks and destroys another second. I lose all concept of time. Shades of gray have embraced shades of red. This infertile heart has become sterile. Life has taken away the moon and her lunacy. Vengeance has devoured security. There has been an eclipse of the soul. I float adrift.

-Poppysilver

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You Can’t Get Published Without An Agent, Right? Wrong!

The old adage, “You can’t get published without an agent, and you can’t get an agent without being published,” isn’t true – but it isn’t far from it. Many of the big publishers won’t even look at anything that isn’t handed to them by an agent. With some of them, it’s impossible to even find contact information for the budding author. Contrariwise, most agents won’t look at anyone who isn’t published. But there are some good publishing houses out there that DO accept unagented submis-

sions. The trick to these is that, unless you know somebody, your submission goes into a “slush pile” and will remain there for some time. Slush pile submissions are read in the order received, so your baby will be there for however long it takes for the company’s readers to dig down to it. So be prepared to be patient. How do you find these publishers that don’t require an agent? The best way is to get a copy of the Writer’s Market. This is a

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book that is published annually, and which lists all possible markets for writers, from magazines to book publishers. It will tell you the name of the publisher, type of submission, what is expected to be included (e.g. query letter), what format in which to submit the manuscript, the address (snailmail or email) to use for submission, and so forth. It will also note which publishers require agented submission and which do not. It is difficult – in fact, next

to impossible – for a new author to obtain an agent, so for the time, don’t even bother with the publishers that require agents. Look through the Market for publishers in your genre, that accept unagented, unsolicited submissions, and compile a list. Then check this against the Preditors and Editors website. (The appropriate pages are http://anotherealm.com/ prededitors/peba.htm for book publishers, and http://anotherealm.com/ prededitors/pema.htm for magazine publishers.) Preditors and Editors keeps up with the publishing industry and is a very good version of the Better Business Bureau for new writers. You can find out if the house with whom you’re considering submission is legitimate, fair, and aboveboard. Once you’ve selected your first submission site, get together everything they want. If the submission is to be via email, your email is your query letter; the manuscript file should be in the format requested, usually .doc, .txt, or .rtf. If the submission is hardcopy, you should determine if the publisher wants the entire manuscript or just the first 3 chapters.

Format the page appropriately, usually doublespaced, single-sided; margin sizes may vary. Print out the submission, compose and print your query letter, and enclose the ubiquitous SASE – selfaddressed stamped envelope. This should be large enough for the return of the manuscript. Some sources recommend including a self-addressed stamped postcard for the publisher to return, acknowledging receipt. This is easy to get overlooked, however, and many don’t bother. My feeling is that it is not worth the time to worry with it. If your chosen house is overseas, obviously a stamped envelope does no good – their postal system will not accept U.S. postage. There is a workaround, however. It is called an International Reply Coupon, and it is obtainable from the U.S. Postal Service. You purchase the IRC at your local post office and include it in your package. Then, if necessary, the publisher redeems it at his or her local post office for airmail postage. Now you include all of this material in a large manila

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envelope, addressed to the appropriate person per the Writers’ Market (did you direct your query letter to that person? A bland “To Whom It May Concern” will not do here), and trundle it all down to your post office and mail it. And you sit back and wait. Because unsolicited manuscripts invariably land in something called the “slush pile.” This is a chronologically-ordered stack of manuscripts awaiting review. Readers and editors pull off the top manuscript and go through it to see if it is interesting, what their readers want, and appropriate to their house. Manuscripts are read in rough chronological order. You may or may not receive a processing number attached to your manuscript for future correspondence. Do not expect to hear back from the publisher for at least six months, sometimes a year; this is typically how long it takes to get through the backlog down to your manuscript. At the end of that time it is perfectly acceptable to send a second query to the publisher inquiring after the status of your manuscript; I have known authors’ manuscripts to fall through the cracks.

process is faster. Once your manuscript has been reviewed, it will either be accepted – in which case you will receive a contract offer – or rejected, in which case it should be returned to you in your SASE, with a polite rejection slip. If you’re lucky, the slip will be an actual letter detailing why they did not accept your submission. Count this as a plus, and use it to hone your writing. Then you get to start all over with the next publishing house in your list from Writers’ Market. There are two ways to speed up the process somewhat. One is to use multiple submissions. This can be tricky, however. It is necessary to state IN EACH QUERY LETTER that you are submitting your story to multiple houses simultaneously, so that they know they are in competition and someone else may well snap up your story before they do. This lets them know also that they do not have exclusive selection on the story. Some houses do not care for this technique and will simply ignore the submission; others will take it in stride. Either way, more eyes are looking at your manuscript in a given amount of time, so the

Do NOT send a singlehouse submission, decide they are taking too long, and send out multiple queries without first contacting the original house to determine your status. This is considered extremely rude, especially if you have not allowed the first house at least six months’ leeway to get to your story. If you have allowed at least six months, have queried the original house, and notified them you intend to multiply submit, THEN you may submit to more than one house. Another way of speeding up the process is to cultivate a friendship with an established writer. This writer can function as your mentor and your agent. He or she can review your work before submission and make any recommendations based on experience that could improve your chances of acceptance. Once you and he are both in agreement that it is ready, he can then submit it to his publisher (s). This often tends to bypass the slush pile and go straight to a reader/ reviewer. It doesn’t guarantee acceptance, but it greatly increases the likelihood.

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Believe me, from personal experience: A mentor helps. He or she should be someone already experienced in the business, and willing to take on a protégé. HE is the “somebody you know,” your entrée into the business. He can act as your reviewer, your advisor, your agent, your friend, and your shoulder to cry on when an editor says your beloved baby is a pile of horse manure. (And yes, this does happen occasionally.) Your mentor can point you in new directions, and tell you if and when someone is trying to take advantage of you. Sometimes he even becomes a co-author, and then it’s really fun. And sooner or later, your story is accepted. You have a contract in hand. YAY! Go off and celebrate! Because now the REAL work begins…

BOOK STORE

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Of Aztecs and Conquistadors by Brian Porter From The Preditors & Editors Best Poet of the Year, 2008 Award Winner, Written by Juan Pablo Jalisco, the poetry within this volume is spell binding and captivating. His writing makes the reader yearn for Mexico.

Goodnight Robinson by Marla Fair Phoebe’s job as a historic interpreter does little to prepare her for an encounter with a ghostly inhabitant of the home where she works. What will happen when she ends up in the past and must choose whether to let him live or die?

CHEYENNE WARRIOR by Michael B. Druxman This is the story of a forbidden relationship between a young pregnant pioneer woman and a Cheyenne warrior chief wounded by buffalo hunters. Kelly Preston and Pato Hoffmann starred in the 1994 movie.

The Coming Of The One by Donald Drake This is the story of a young man who is coming to grips with being thrust upon the throne of his homeland when he meets strange Druid.

Burnout: The mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 by Stephanie Osborn On Fictionwise's bestseller list, Burnout is a SF mystery about a deliberate shuttle disaster. Crash Murphy & Mike Anders find a coverup, fleeing as friends & colleagues perish. Whodunit? How big is the conspiracy? Will Crash & Mike live to find out?

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2012 Kin Bin Tin Nah by John Miller The Mayan legend speaks of changing the world. A leader of a Psychic Circus, Calvin, sees strange events occurring. Can he race with his group to help save the world in time? will this Mayan legend chose his fate for him?

Holy Hell by Michael Jodoin While researching material for his final sermon assignment, Jackson uncovers a horrifying truth about God and Lucifer. A truth that if revealed could undermine the very foundations of Heaven and Hell.

Murderous Passions by B. R. Stateham A police-procedural featuring two homicide cops by the name of Turner Hahn and Frank Morales.

Inside Realms by A. F. Stewart Walk through places where magic and music intertwine, where King Arthur reigns, where ghosts, deities and vampires drift among us.

Eureka Point by Betty Ann Harris A spellbinding romantic suspense thriller

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We at Cold Coffee would like to thank you for purchasing your copy of Cold Coffee Magazine. All proceeds from the purchase of this publication go to help the Cold Coffee Writers Community and the many promising writers that call it home.

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