Picking Up the Pieces by Pieter Whittington

Thrills & Chills! Check back here each day leading up to Halloween for a new story written at an Inlandia workshop for those wanting to write for Ghost Walk. This story was a selection for the 2015 Ghost Walk.

***

Setting: INT. FORMER CORONER’S MORGUE – NIGHT

(the audience interacts with ghost)

The audience fills the room. It’s cold. Pale.

A VOICE OVER narrates. Echoes the room.

NARRATOR: He was a pet doctor. A successful one at that. He could cure any illness. And fix any broken bone. He was the best… But soon after, his wife died of a tragic illness, and he could not save her. And after he laid her to rest, he turned into a lonely man… So everyday, to rid his mind, he’d walk the railroad. (the sound of a TRAIN APPROACHES) One day on a walk near the railroad tracks, old man Bennett took a walk. His hearing was low, and he could not hear the train coming from behind.

SMASH. A SKID. A YELP.

NARRATOR: His body was littered throughout the yard… Most of his body was taken to this morgue, but the rest of him was lost… And now he comes to pick up the pieces.

The LIGHTS FLICKER

NARRATOR: So every night, Dr. Bennett comes and lurks this morgue to find his body parts.

A MORGUE WORKER pulls out a crate.

NARRATOR: So after careful searching and digging, we found the rest of him. And today, we come to return it to him… Would anyone like to volunteer to return them to him?

The chosen few are handed skeleton bones. A hand. An arm. A femur. A hip. And a skull.

NARRATOR: They say when you turn off the lights. And they say, if he comes, do not run. Do not move a soul, or you go with him… Do not scream, do not touch him if you want to go home.

The sound of a TRAIN comes and goes. The LIGHTS flicker.

NARRATOR: He’s here.

The LIGHTS TURN OFF. In the dark–

A cane STUMPS the ground.

OLD MAN BENNETT: (a deep slow voice) I am here to pick up the pieces.

A loud KNOCK. And a THUMP.

OLD MAN BENNETT: I am here to pick up the pieces.

Another loud KNOCK.

The LIGHTS turn on.

An OLD MAN stands there gaunt, heavy eyes of no sleep. Pale brown suit. Black boots. And a claw that holds a cane.

OLD MAN BENNETT: I am here to pick up the pieces.

The old man scours the audience. Sniffing. Smelling. Showing his rotted teeth.

Old man Bennett carries a bag. Opens it wide. And walks to his part. The audience member drops it into the bag.

Dr. Bennett gladly ties up his bag. Satisfied, he looks up into the sky. And smiles.

He walks away, into a bright light.

THE END

Neglected California Tale Is a Must-Read by Victoria Waddle

My local library had added an adult reading program to its menu of summer kids’ programs. Always supportive, I had shown up ready to list the many books I was reading. Just before I started to fill in the participation form with Sedaris’ “When You are Engulfed in Flames,” the librarian mentioned that the staff had chosen to give the adult program a theme. The children’s program was about ‘bugs’ and the teen program was about ‘metamorphosis.’ Adult program participants would read books connected to California in some way.

Still wanting to be supportive, I figured I’d jot down the titles of the John Steinbeck novels I’d read. “When you finish the first book, you get a free DVD rental,” the library lady quipped, handing me the coupon. Now I was in a quandary. I hadn’t read the Steinbeck books over the summer—not even in the last several years in fact—and I wasn’t one to accept a reward for something I hadn’t done.

“Let me see what I can come up with,” I told her, but dreaded adding a book to my already long summer reading list just to follow the program rules. There were so many good books at home already!

A few days later, in one of the loveliest moments of serendipity in my life, a friend handed me a birthday gift. Not just any friend, but one whose core sympathies so deeply parallel my own that I not only trust her judgment and taste; I skip her advice at my own peril. “Read this book,” she said. “You have to read this book.”

And I did read Angle of Repose by Wallace Stegner. Despite the fact that Stegner won the Pulitzer Prize for the novel, I had never heard of it. It was an old book by now—published in 1971—but reissued as a Penguin Classic. Stegner published many fine books and won the National Book Award as well as three O. Henry prizes for short fiction and the Robert Kirsch Award from the Los Angeles Times for lifetime literary achievement. Nonetheless, Angle of Repose is considered his finest work.

It seems to me that the book’s jacket blurb does little to interest the reader in buying the title. ‘A man looks into his grandmother’s past in California.’ So what? It is the very personal past of the grandmother—her desperate efforts to follow her husband through his California scheming and his moves through unpopulated areas as he works to develop irrigation systems and other infrastructure that the state isn’t quite ready for—that hooks the reader. Through letters to her friends ‘back East,’ the grandmother, Susan Burling, makes apologies for her husband, laments being removed from culture and society, longs for good books and her family.

Susan’s story is framed by the narrator’s own life. Lyman Ward is an old man himself with a degenerative bone disease that has left him crippled and wheelchair bound. His wife of many years left him while he was hospitalized and his adult children think he is going senile because he wishes to be alone in the Grass Valley home of his grandparents to sort through his grandmother’s letters and to write his grandparents’ history.

The narrator’s grandmother is based on Mary Hallock Foote, a nineteenth-century writer and illustrator. Stegner received permission from Foote’s descendants to publish some of her letters in his book (although the family later accused him of plagiarism). The passion of these unaltered letters gives the book an insight into the crucible of a married woman’s life that would otherwise have been missing. It is moving to see how deeply this nineteenth-century marriage, with all its problems, parallels twenty-first century relationships and the issues that plague them. That Susan’s creative life and spirit continually support the family with income from her work—while her husband’s work fails–is ironic considering that the life she and her husband are living is hardly the kind that one would expect to nurture her creativity. And yet Susan is able to capture local color throughout California and in Mexico—sending her work to her publishing friends in the East, who know there is a market for the exotic tales and illustrations.

One of the men who is an employee and trusted friend of Susan’s husband has the misfortune to fall in love with her. Considering the turmoil of her marriage to a taciturn engineer, it would seem natural that Susan return his affection. And yet these are decent people with high moral principles. Veering from them—or even thinking of veering from them—can only lead to tragedy. And it does. As the narrator Lyman Ward explores this, he considers the role of forgiveness in his own marriage.

The editors of the Modern Library have chosen Angle of Repose as one of the ‘one hundred best books of the twentieth century.’ Trust them. Trust me—a fellow bibliophile. Read this book. You have to read this book.

Note: October is California Writers’ Month. If you haven’t had a chance to celebrate by reading a Californian author, there’s still time!

The Secret of Mary Bell By Jacqueline Y. Paul

***

Narrator: 100 years ago on these very streets of Riverside, there lived a child. A very odd child. This child was about 14 when she came to live with her adoptive parents–John and Josephine Jones. They were humble people who owned a mercantile in downtown Riverside–right about where we are standing now.

It was on this very night that a terrible incident occurred. I am actually not comfortable telling you about this particular story on this particular night, in this particular place. But, since you good people have paid good money to come on this tour tonight, I will take a chance.

The child’s name was MARY BELL. She had no friends. And her history was questionable. She had a stick doll she liked to carry around. No one knows where this stick doll came from but rumor has it, it was cursed. Some say it is the physical incarnation of Satan himself!

Just a little bit of little known local lore, right? All I know is that those who tell the story warn others …NEVER say the name MARY BELL…Never in this place on this night. NEVER say MARY BELL. MARY BELL.

Oh, no…I said it! I hope we will be okay! It’ll be okay, right?

Priest: (comes from behind the crowd…maybe some fog… he’s burned in tattered clothes and walks with a limp)

What have you DONE? Mary Bell. Mary Bell….say her name and burn in HELL!!! You’re cursed. CURSED!!! Then he limps away and collapses. All of you are CURSED LIKE ME!

John: (he’s also burned …comes from behind…wearing tattered overalls and burned….kind of looks like a zombie farmer)

CURSED indeed! I will never rest in peace as long as people keep saying that cursed child’s name…bringing her back to life. Bringing her back to torture my soul.

It was 1915… Mother and I wanted a child but my wife, Josephine, was barren. Some say it was the stress of a previous life. You see, my wife and I weren’t always upstanding citizens. We didn’t mean it….but we killed someone–a poor helpless widow. We hit her over the head with a cast iron pan left on her stove.

We stole all of her silverware and the money in her safe…then we buried her under our store.

Nobody knew. (repeats) Nobody knew…

Or at least we thought nobody knew….

When we heard from my brother in Santa Rosa that there was one child survivor after a fire burned the orphanage there, we thought God was telling us that this was our chance for a child. Nobody wanted to take her in because she was…strange. We traveled all the way to Northern California to save her. We thought it odd that she had been there for 13 years–since she was 13 months old–and was never adopted. And, there were strange stories about what had happened to three other families who tied to take her in…and then mysteriously disappeared. All of their homes burned–but she survived. They all had her with them for just about a year….

Josephine: (comes into the crowd ….in period clothing all torn and burned…she also looks like a zombie)

Who spoke that cursed child’s name? I will never rest as long as it is uttered. I remember that night… I remember so well. It was closing time. I yelled for Mary Bell to come help me clean up. She had been with us for 13 months exactly.

And…it was the anniversary of the very night that I committed that horrible thing…I was young. I didn’t know better. I was desperate. And, nobody knew.

Nobody knew.

But I knew and I hated to be out on this wretched night. I ached to get home.

I yelled and yelled for Mary–“MARY BELL! MARY BELL!”

I finally found her…sitting on the very spot where he had buried old widow Smith’s body-back where we stored cleaning supplies.

Mary. Mary. I scolded. Get away from there. Let’s go. But she wouldn’t leave. She just sat there staring at that doll…chanting….“BURN IN HELL! BURN IN HELL. BURN IN HELL!!!!”

Suddenly … a wind came along—a HUGE wind! Oh, I can’t think of it! The howling wind and the smell of sulphur! I looked at Mary…her eyes had turned BLACK. She started laughing at me. Oh no! No! No! She has come back!

MARY BELL: (she should look really really scary…) You stupid fools! I’m not a child. I am MARY BELL. I came for your souls! You cannot hide your wrongdoing from GOD or SATAN! You are damned to walk the earth whenever my name is said. You will NEVER REST!

(Mary then looks at her doll…the eyes glow and maybe there’s some smoke or a loud sound or something)

(John and Josephine and the priest start writhing in pain……and there is fake fire or at least fire sounds)

NARRATOR: The Smiths’ store burned to the ground that night. They say it was actually swallowed into the bowels of the earth. The townsfolk later called in a priest to purify the ground. Legend has it that a priest also was cursed to HELL and swallowed up the minute he set foot on the ground. It was many years before anyone built anything here again….but time goes on and we all realized that nothing bad can really come from saying a person’s name or standing in this spot on this night…Can it?…I mean MARY BELL…MARY BELL…what does that do? (dismissive and sing-songy)

(then MARY BELL and a legion of cursed souls start coming up to people saying MARY BELL….MARY BELL…SAY HER NAME AND BURN IN HELL….they all have stick dolls with them….they terrorize Ghost Walk visitors as they walk away…..)

Lenora’s Monster by Evan Bonavita

***

Characters: Lenora, Coroner, Detective Ramirez

Setting: the morgue

-Enter Lenora in front of the morgue. Lenora banging on morgue door, rambling nervously.

Lenora: “They went straight to school, all three in bright yellow dresses. NO, NO, NO, RED, bright red dresses! School then straight home! They had their alert whistles with them that’s for sure, never leave the house without them! THEY KNOW how dangerous it is out there, WHILE THAT MONSTER THAT GOT THEIR DADDY IS JUST ROAMING THE STREETS HUNTING US! “Kids will be kids” is no excuse! We went over their jobs 100 times. Lilly is supposed to guide them home only using main streets, safety in numbers, Sofia and Mia are supposed to always hold Lilly’s hand and keep look out! But something happened, I just know it! What if no one heard their whistles, or their screams? No one is ever around to help! Sofia, and Mia are much too small to fight off that monster; Lilly wouldn’t be able to alone. I KNEW I WAS RIGHT. Rick wouldn’t run away from me and the girls, he’s dead and now they are too, I can feel it! I’ve lost my husband, now my girls, all the love in my life is gone, MAYBE NOW YOU GUYS WILL BELIEVE ME!”

-Lenora now knocking down door angrily.

Lenora: “WHERE ARE THE PEOPLE WHO RUN THIS TOWN, WHERE ARE THE PEOPLE WHO ARE SUPPOSED TO SERVE AND PROTECT!”

-Interrupting Lenora’s rant, the coroner exits the morgue, giving the appearance he was closing up for the night. His facial expression shows he’s annoyed to see Lenora but speaks politely to her.

Coroner: “Lenora, what can I help you with this time.”

Lenora: “WHERE WERE YOU! I’ve been banging your door down for what seems like FOREVER!”

-Coroner is now clearly annoyed with her.

Coroner: “Closing up like I always do at this time SO I CAN GO HOME, SO IS THERE ANYTHING I CAN HELP YOU WITH?!”

Lenora: “Where is Detective Ramirez?! I couldn’t find him at the station and we ALL know he’s not out trying to keep this city safe, apparently that’s just my job around here! SO I figured he’s in here chatting it up with you, while you guys just sit back and watch THE BODIES PILE UP!”

-Coroner now angry.

Coroner: “NOW LENORA, I’m sorry about Rick, I REALLY AM, you didn’t deserve him taking off like that, BUT HE’S NOT DEAD, he’s just GONE. You need to get over this murder nonsense for ME, for you, and for your girls.”

-Lenora’s eyes widen as she remembers again her urgent reason for finding the detective.

Lenora: “THE GIRLS! THEY’RE MISSING! They’re dead just like my husband Rick, I, I, I… I just know it. YOU GUYS LET IT HAPPEN AGAIN! THEY’RE DEAD, THEY’RE DEAD, THEY’RE DEAD, JUST LIKE THEIR DADDY! You guys didn’t search hard enough!”

Coroner: “SLOW DOWN, where were they last?! Come inside and I’ll try to get a hold of Detective Ramirez.”

-Cop appears and interrupts them before they can go inside. Cop speaking at corner.

Cop: “Sir, we need you to open up the back, we’ve got three small ones, still warm coming in.”

-Cop notices Lenora and speaks to her gently.

Cop: “Um, miss you should come with me, we need to talk.”

-Lenora yelling at cop and coroner. *NOTE: her back is still not visible to audience.

Lenora: “None of you wanted to believe me. No you all just thought I was CRAZY, you all just ignored me! I TRIED TO SAVE THEM! I told you someone killed my husband, I TOLD YOU AND NOW she’s killed my girls! AND IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!”

-Lenora NOW turns her back to the audience reveling large hand outlined smudges of blood on the back of her dress where it appears she’s wiped her hands. Lenora now speaking in a soft and calm voice.

Lenora: “I warned you the monster was still out there and you didn’t believe me [small pause] you didn’t stop me.”

Shadow Mountain Writing Workshop Coming Up Again This Friday 10/23/15

Desert/Mountain writers looking for a workshop? Or unsure when the next workshop begins? Read below, from workshop leader Jean Waggoner:

Shadow Mountain Inlandia Writing Workshop 10/23/2015 with Jean Waggoner

We meet in the Meeting Room at Palm Desert Library from 10:00 am – noon.

Theme for this Friday’s Workshop: Artistic Synergy

Given this inspiration, I guess I’ll have to bring my laptop for sharing:

Minimalist Duets in Sculpture and Dance (from Hyperallergic)

Where Sculpture and Dance Meet: Minimalism from 1961 to 1979 is an exhibition at the Loretta Howard Gallery that explores this overlap. Curated by dancer–turned–dance critic Wendy Perron in collaboration with historian Julie Martin, the show pairs videos of historic performances of dances by Merce Cunningham, Lucinda Childs, Trisha Brown, Simone Forti, Yvonne Rainer, and (surprisingly) Robert Morris, with sculptures by Ronald Bladen, Donald Judd, Sol LeWitt, Morris, and Andy Warhol, exploring the dialogue surrounding concurrent ideas of minimalism in dance, performance, and art.

“Musee des Beaux Arts” by W. H. Auden (read by Tom O’Bedlam) + “The Fall of Icarus” by Pierre Breughel.

Villa Lobos & Ballet

Love in Damascus [music as antidote to conflict]

PROMPT: Think of an artistic event or work that has inspired your creativity in writing or in another form of expression–or see what comes up as you look at these bits that captivated my attention recently. I particularly like the comment cited in the Hyperallergic article, “Sitting in on a rehearsal, the-soon-to-be-sculptor Robert Morris…commented that the best moments were when they weren’t dancing.” I think I feel a poem coming on.

Anecdotes are the Antidote by David Stone

My daughter stormed to bed because she wasn’t getting her way.

“Don’t let the sun go down on your anger, ” called her brother in concern.

“The sun’s already down. It’s dark outside,” she retorted.

Electronic devices with photo and video capability may be ubiquitous, but too many classic moments go uncaptured, whether because they are too dependent on dialogue for a photo to portray, or because they pass in less time than it takes to finger a passcode and press record. Anecdotes are the antidote.

You remember anecdotes? Those short, amusing stories popularly featured in Reader’s Digest’s “Humor in Uniform,” “Out of School,” and “All in a Day’s Work.” Or maybe you think of one of your favorite English teachers or writing textbooks suggesting anecdotes as an attention-getting option for opening an essay.

If you’ve recently listened to a political speech, a sermon, remembrances at a memorial service or a toast at a wedding, you’re more than likely to have heard an anecdote.

I believe the time has come for anecdotes to find as consistent a place on our desks, coffee tables, bookshelves, and screens as photos do. It’s time for us to sharpen our storytelling skills and to store our memories in anecdote boxes.

Selecting a box to store your anecdotes can be as much fun as writing your stories. You can browse thrift or antique stores and find a classic wood or metal card box or maybe a library card file. A search on the Internet on sites like eBay or Etsy will offer you hundreds of creative options. If you’re crafty, you might enjoy making or decorating a box for yourself. You can purchase basic card boxes at office supply stores or in the stationary aisle of a big box store.

Index cards, first utilized by the eighteenth-century naturalist Carl Linnaeus to record and organize information, continue to be an inexpensive and effective choice for writing small amounts of information.

My family records our anecdotes on colored 4″ x 6″ cards, organized by each family member’s chosen color. My fourth-grade daughter enjoys writing hers on pink. My fifth-grade son likes green. My wife writes hers on orange. I like plain, old white cards. We use yellow cards for stories from extended family and friends.

Anecdotes capture a single moment like a haiku. The story of most specific events can be effectively told in three sentences. The first sentence provides the context and establishes the conflict. The second sentence creates anticipation through complication. The story’s essential twist and resolution occur in the third sentence.

My wife told me of her grandmother’s confusion when she immigrated to Canada from England after World War II. “Why have they put the tea in these tiny little bags?” she wondered. She cut apart a box full of teabags every week to fill her canister with loose tea until a friend finally explained to her how teabags worked.

When you prepare to write an anecdote, tell it out loud to someone first to see if it makes sense and has your desired effect. If you don’t get the response you’re seeking, try telling someone else. Begin making changes until you get your desired response.

Make sure you begin where your specific story starts and leave out any earlier events. Be sure you limit yourself to a single incident. Create context in the first sentence or two.

Although I usually prefer the succinctness of anecdotes in three sentences, many people use more. Reader’s Digest seeks stories of 100 or fewer words.

Determine the central point/turn of the story you’re telling. Leave out everything that does not bear on this point/turn. Include only the essential characters. Stop immediately after the story’s central point or turn.

I prefer to keep my anecdotes in a box instead of a journal. I can revise an anecdote as many times as I want. Since I write them on paper index cards, I can simply throw the card from an earlier draft in the recycle. The box also makes it easier for our family to keep our memories together.

Recently, my daughter wrote, “Near the end of recess, I sat down with a friend to talk. Suddenly a bird pooped on my arm. “Eww!” we yelled, and then burst into giggles.”

That’s the version that she put into our anecdote box. She told me the story first on the way home from school. She retold it to her mother and brother at home, and then we worked through a couple of drafts together after supper. I love the pride she takes in crafting her stories and signing and dating the back of each card.

I hope you’ll share one of your anecdotes with me in response to this column on the PE Inlandia Literary Journeys’ blog.

On Glen Hirshberg’s Motherless Child by Victoria Waddle

Glen Hirshberg is a Shirley Jackson Award winner as well as a three-time International Horror Guild Award winner. Motherless Child makes clear why he has been thus honored.

I might have passed up this October must-read except that I was familiar with the author as a short story writer. And I might have missed those stories except that I often seek writers who are connected to the Inland Empire in some way. Previously, Hirshberg was a professor of fiction at Cal State San Bernardino and helped to launch the MFA program there.

It’s not often that readers have the joy of finding genre fiction of literary quality. Add to that a vampire who uses his Twitter base to hunt his prey and this tight piece of writing (it’s well under 300 pages) is a great read for any horror fan, teens included.

Bad girl Natalie doesn’t immediately realize that her wild night with pop singer The Whistler and best friend Sophie has done her damage forever. That’s really forever rather than a lifetime; she has been turned into a vampire. The Whistler hopes to make Natalie his eternal companion. As he sees it, she is his Destiny. He turns Sophie just to give Natalie someone to hang with while she figures out what has happened to them both, while they finish their transformation.

When Natalie does realize what has happened to her and Sophie, both women give their babies to Natalie’s mother with instructions to take off and never let the women know where she has gone with the children. The ensuing loneliness and desire would be enough to keep the reader charmed, but when ‘Mother’–the woman who turned The Whistler–figures out that her eternal companion hopes to forsake her for another, she is having none of it. Mother is amoral, cunning, willful, and violent. In the midst of all the grief and longing, we are thrust into spine-tingling episodes and suspenseful cat and mouse chases.

Not your typical vampire book, Motherless Child is about many things, and most surprisingly–if you allow the title to color your guesses about the nature of the book–it is a book about the ferocity of mother love, its limitless nature.

Through well-drawn characters and continual suspense, Hirshberg pulls the reader in quickly and never lets go. With the story very nearly concluded, he manages a final plot twist that both shocks the reader and leaves the reader deeply satisfied.

A sequel, Good Girls, is coming in February 2016. I’ll leave the light on.

On Dr. Clifford Trafzer’s A Chemehuevi Song: The Resilience of a Southern Paiute Tribe by Ruth Nolan

The story of Willie Boy, a love struck young Southern Paiute-Chemehuevi man who murdered for love and eluded the San Bernardino sheriff’s posse for days, is a true and timeless and living story, one that’s colored the storied inland southern California landscape where it occurred in late Sept.- early Oct, 1909.

It’s a tragic story of young, forbidden love that reaches “Romeo and Juliet” proportions and whose tellings and re-tellings in the decades since—through books, articles, theater productions, and film, told largely by Anglos—have continued to evolve across the cultural and geographic divides that comprise the Inland Empire and Mojave Desert as well as the Anglo-European worlds of the early 20th century and the ancient culture of our region’s Native Americans.

Now, a compelling and exciting new book about the Willie Boy incident, “A Chemehuevi Song: The Resilience of a Southern Paiute Tribe,” published this year by Indigenous Confluences Press, has risen on the horizon, written collaboratively by Dr. Clifford Trafzer, distinguished history professor at UCR who was appointed Rupert Costo Chair in American Indian History in 2007, along with members of the 29 Palms Band of Mission Indians in eastern Riverside county, who are descendants of the family members involved in the Willie Boy incident.

“The Willie Boy incident in 1909, which played out across the national media, was a watershed event in the history of the members of the Southern Paiute-Chemehuevi tribe who lived at Oasis of Mara (now 29 Palms Oasis) at the time,” says Trafzer, who presented a lecture at the UCR-Palm Desert campus this past October 5, to discuss his new book. “A Chemehuevi Song” is, he says, a song in itself, a song which began for him when he came to participate in tribal activities with members from the 29 Palms Band of Mission Indians in 1997, and has continued to emerge as he’s worked with tribal members to this day.

The book, while giving Native accounts of the heretofore highly disputed story of Willie Boy—especially the claim made by the San Bernardino sheriff’s posse in 1909 about Willie—also sheds light on how the incident forever and radically changed the lives of the extended family members and other Chemehuevi living at 29 Palms in 1909, as well as shaping the lives of their descendants to this day. In fact, the Oct 5 lecture was attended by many members of the 29 Palms Band of Mission Indians who worked with Trafzer to complete their book and who also spoke at the lecture, including elder Joe Mike Benitez, Dean Mike, and Jennifer Mike.

More than anything, according to Trafzer and Chemehuevi contributors, “A Chemehuevi Song” stands as a testament to the power of perseverance of this small, nomadic band of Native people, who have been largely marginalized by European settlers, other Native groups, and until now, their stories have been largely overlooked. The book reveals how members of this Southern Paiute band have survived the past two centuries without rights to their Mojave Desert homeland, or any self-governing rights, and in fact were largely “forgotten” until the creation of the 29 Palms Reservation in 1974. Since then, the tribe has formed its own tribal government and now a thriving gaming industry.

Trafzer worked with the Chemehuevi for more than 10 years, gathering stories from the tribe and other Chemehuevi across the Mojave that demonstrate how they’ve survived using sacred songs and other cultural practices to persevere with strength and independence, in spite of great odds, including the tragic and family-shattering Willie Boy incident.

By focusing on individual and family stories, “Chemehuevi Song” offers a new structure for how tribal histories can be presented and shared, and also, critically, offers firsthand indigenous accounts of the events surrounding the Willie Boy tragedy as well as how this crucial event has impacted tribal lives, even to this day, and strong evidence presented by the tribe as well as by other historians and other Native leaders in recent years has presented strong evidence that Willie Boy got away, escaping the posse not through suicide but on foot, and lived for many years afterwards in remote parts of the desert.

“A Chemehuevi Song: The Resilience of a Southern Paiute Tribe,” is a compelling and necessary read for all who are interested in Inland Empire/desert regional literature, as well as those with an interest in our region’s American Indian history and cultures and their emerging, strong voice in shaping the literature here. For this powerful new publication brings together a chorus of voices, present and past, to tell the story of the tribe’s persistent efforts to gain recognition, independence, and also to tell their own stories of their history and landmark cultural events.

This is more than a book. This is a song, comprised of many voices, a song that rings out powerfully as it’s sung across the land.

(Never-ending?) “Cognitive Passes” by Judy Kronenfeld

I reminded myself, this past week, just how faulty first drafts of poems can be, when, a few days after I wrote it, I looked again at a new poem I had been somewhat excited about. As I set to work trying to remedy the poem’s flaws, feeling that sense of chagrin that so often accompanies early, uncritical excitement, some part of me thought Be kind to yourself, be patient. It so often takes numerous “cognitive passes” over the developing draft. The idea that any work of the imagination, intellect, or both, gradually gets worked into shape has helped me so much, both in teaching—of expository writing, creative writing, and critical writing on literature—and in my own writing of all of these kinds, and I think it has helped students, too. I recall encountering inexperienced students in composition classes, whose underlying idea of the essay was that it should spring whole from their minds, like Athena from Zeus’s forehead, and who were stymied by that belief. The inception of an essay, poem or story (if not the actual beginning of the finished work) may be more like trying to grab the tail of a dream as it scampers off in the light of dawn. My advice: grab anything you can, and set it provisionally down. Don’t abandon it because it’s utterly incomplete, its purpose and potential development obscure. A will lead to B, then maybe, yes, a cross-out of A, but B leading to C, D and E, along with many indirections that may find directions out (to apply Hamlet’s words to our purpose). The notion of “cognitive passes” recognizes that there is just so much the mind can take in at one time, it reminds us to be kind and patient with ourselves. Successive layers of underbrush may have to be cleared away before one can see the shape of the ground. In writing an essay, sentence grammar may have to be clarified in order for the writer to understand her own thinking about cause and effect. Diction may have to become more exact before the writer really senses what she is writing about, and once diction and grammar are more precise, the larger structure the whole should have may become more clear. And there’s no necessary order of march. What’s heartening is how improvement in any aspect throws another necessary step into relief. Time is the writer’s friend in this process, although, so often, especially for students, it’s hard to build it in. Even a few days between messy rough draft and the next try can radically improve the writer’s perception, and start her on the path to becoming her own editor.

There is a sort of opposite to this messy, but ultimately cumulative process. Sometimes, when we are struggling with something we have written before it approaches wholeness (I have experienced this with poems), we can feel so ungrounded that the structure, or an image, or the rhythm or sound of a phrase appears to need changing every time we look at the work, and we find ourselves re-configuring one of these elements, and reverting to the status quo ante the very next day, and we keep doing this over a period of time, flailing. The mind is so flexible; it is all too easy to see the “rightness” of conflicting possibilities at different times. Maybe this is all part of the process—of poems, at least—finally a process of not having it every which way, of eliminating some paths, as well as of preserving the mystery and richness of the ones we choose.

It is amazing and intriguing to me, that the process of rereading one’s own work (especially if one is lucky enough to be able to put it away for some time between reads) seems to glean continued insights, new nuances. I find this to be true as I reread the new poetry manuscript I have begun to send out. Every change (such as a recent removal of some of the poems) has the effect of highlighting an aspect of the manuscript that was not quite fully illuminated for me previously, of throwing something else into salience. At the moment, thankfully, that new nuance I perceive feels as if it enriches the manuscript, rather than making me want to edit it further. For the moment, at least, I am at peace.

Inlandia: Past, Present, and Future by Cati Porter

People poured out of the elevators and onto the rooftop of the Riverside Art Museum last Friday night for the Totally Amazing Kickoff Event for the Marion Mitchell-Wilson Endowment for Inlandia’s Future. The invitation read, in part, “Marion would want you to attend.” With a 60″ banner of Marion flying at the entrance, she was definitely there, watching over all of us. Marion had many friends, and it was my privilege to be counted among them.

This was an event to remember.

With a drink in their hand, old friends and new listened to live jazz. Emceed by the #1 New York Times bestselling author Teresa Rhyne, and with speakers Heyday founder and publisher Malcolm Margolin, acclaimed photographer Douglas McCulloh, and award-winning local treasure and inaugural Literary Laureate Susan Straight (“There should be a statue!”), there was no shortage of talent present, and the space buzzed.

When the night was over, Marion’s wish had come true: We reached our goal of $100,000.

This is the power of friendship, and of community. I am in awe of all of you.

Some have asked what this endowment is going to do. In short, it will ensure the future of the Inlandia Institute and further the good work that Marion, Inlandia’s founder, set out to do.

Inlandia, since its inception, has provided hundreds of programs, and served many thousands, including creative literacy programs for youth.

SCIPP (Students and Coyotes Instruction in Poetry and Prose) at Bryant School of Art & Innovation in Riverside, a program created by Inlandia’s third Literary Laureate Juan Delgado, helps kids learn to write their own stories, songs, screenplays, and poems, present them in front of an audience, and allows them to see their work in print in a small book.

Other in-school presentations have included authors like Straight and Gayle Brandeis, inspiring the next generation to read and to write.

We’ve also brought puppetry programs to schools through Puppet Palooza, and writing workshops and readings to at-risk youth through a partnership with the Women Wonder Writers program.

Inlandia isn’t just for children, though; Inlandia offers creative literacy programs for adults, too. Our free creative writing workshops program has grown from one held in downtown Riverside to a half-dozen held at local libraries across the region, as well as an annual Family Legacy writing workshop for seniors and a Boot Camp for Writers series of workshops.

Inlandia also publishes books of local interest and national importance. In November of last year, we published No Easy Way: Integrating Riverside Schools – A Victory for Community by Arthur L. Littleworth, which tells the story of the 1965 voluntary integration of Riverside Unified School District, which spurred a series of community conversations that brought people together to talk through tough issues.

Coming in 2016, look for more books by local authors including the local signing sensations The Why Nots, an all-women’s musical group that has been performing together for forty-five years, and one on noted and noteworthy architect Henry Jekyl, who left a legacy of beautiful Riverside homes, and a few mysteries, by Dr. Vince Moses and Cate Whitmore.

In addition to those, we will also be publishing the winners of inaugural Hillary Gravendky Prize, an open poetry book competition with both a national and a regional winner, judged by award-winning CSUSB faculty poet Chad Sweeney. We are thrilled to announce that Kenji Liu (Monterrey Park, CA), was awarded the National prize for his manuscript Map of an Onion, and Angela Ina Penaredondo (Riverside, CA), was awarded the regional prize for her manuscript All Things Lose Thousands of Times.

Inlandia is also proud partners with local libraries and other arts organizations to provide other opportunities for literary engagement including the Riverside Public Library, where Inlandia recently began an outdoor summer reading series during Arts Walk, Literature on the Lawn; Poets in Distress, a performance poetry group, will be presenting on October 1. We also have a brand-new partnership with UCR’s Barbara and Art Culver Center of the Arts, the Conversations at the Culver series where just this past week we kicked off the series with Pulitzer Prize finalist and UCR professor Laila Lalami.

We also take pride in participating in community activities, from Riverside’s Day of Inclusion and Day of the Dead festivities, to the Native Voices Poetry Festival in Banning at the Dorothy Ramon Center to Western Municipal Water District’s Earth Night in Garden in April. Inlandia will also be a part of the upcoming Long Night of Arts & Innovation on October 8 and the Riverside Festival of the Arts on October 10, with interactive literary activities, including a Long Night of Arts & Innovation-sponsored Poetry Box: Bring a poem you wrote at home or write one on the spot and drop it in the box for a chance to win the Long Night Poetry Contest. One poem will be selected for publication on the Long Night of Arts and Innovation website.

Marion once said that Inlandia was “on the cusp”. I think whatever comes after the cusp: we’re here. Welcome to the future. Inlandia means a lot of things to a lot of different people. But to me, Inlandia means all of us. We are all Inlandia. Thank you.