Metaphorical Ink - Submit Your Writing



	Thank you so much for . . . conducting a very poignant writing workshop. I was very impressed by your approach of using several activities to stimulate our thoughts and connect pieces of memories or ideas to write stories. This is a great start and you've just given us a key to a door. I am so looking forward to seeing what there is behind the door. We are currently working on two book manuscripts. We invite your submissions to these projects. Please see below for project descriptions, guidelines for submission, and samples of writing. Harvest Baskets of the Heart Newsletter Poster Gossamer Journals

	Harvest Baskets of the Heart Edited by Josephine Carubia and Michele Glorie Harvest Baskets of the Heart is a compilation of gem-like anecdotes, reflections, memories, and narratives that record the influences of the women in families near and far. Everyone has a memory so vivid that they can still smell the cinnamon or cardamom, or reach out and touch a fabric or piece of furniture, or hear a voice in conversation, shouting, or singing. Some are memories that linger as puzzles to keep working over and wondering about. Everyone has an inheritance of these moments. We are collecting hundreds of such vivid word pictures in this anthology. Harvest Baskets of the Heart: Guidelines For Submission Men and women are invited to submit a short narrative, poem, letter excerpt, etc. documenting a specific recollection of a woman in your family. There is no minimum length, but suggested maximum is 500 words. You may submit one photograph in addition. All submissions will receive a response. You may send your submission to submissions@metaphorical-ink.com. You may also email the editors at jo.carubia@gmail.com or mgp0506@gmail.com. Samples: (from our previous anthology, Women in the Family) “Layer by Layer” Nina Snyder With each layer of wallpaper that I removed from the 19th century kitchen cupboard, a new design of color, flower, and charm was revealed. While I worked at peeling and scrapping , my thoughts evolved from a mindless jumble to memories of my mother. It all started with the thought that the old wallpaper patterns were so exquisite and somewhat feminine. From there I just knew that it had to be women, most likely mothers, who had adorned this simple kitchen piece. I could sense the presence of those before me. I was doing with my hands what had been done over and over on this wood before. A transformation to a new richness and beauty was often due to a woman’s special touch. I know that because it was my mother’s way. My mother had many “special touches” that I thought about while I worked on this “spirited” piece of furniture. I felt her love as a child by her actions. When a tooth fell out, there would be a demitasse cup to hold the treasured object until the tooth fairy picked it up (always on time, too). A made-to-order prom dress would be created with the requested bows and trim. My mother would hug and kiss me in such a way that I could truly feel how important I was to the world around me. She would go through catalogs with me hunting for the perfect bedspread and curtains to make my newly painted room complete. On Thursday afternoons she would have a “coffee clutch” with her female friends and bake special desserts to treat her friends and her family too! It goes on and on. She would come alive with excitement when relatives planned a visit, and her anticipation would fill me and become my excitement too. When we had company, she prepared gourmet meals, reminisced in a more carefree way about the special family moments of her youth, and greatly contributed to an atmosphere of extended family bonding. I could tell that my cousins loved her because she would hug and kiss them in that special way. She had a special touch. All these warm thoughts about my mother flowed through my mind while I stripped away the layers of wallpaper. Thoughts surfaced about her “special touches” into my adult years. She remembered special occasions, she spent time with me and my family, she cooked special meals for us with plenty of leftovers to bring home, she visited me, she cared for my children, and so much more. She was someone who would take the time to wallpaper the inside of a kitchen cupboard to add a special touch to the atmosphere in a home. She was the one who taught me how to be a mother. My daughter Taryn, totally unaware of my mind’s journey, came down to the cellar to see how this project of mine was going. Out of the blue, she asked me if she could keep this cupboard in her room. Immediately, I knew that this cupboard had a destiny to be in our home, and that Taryn was to be its next caretaker. Something was set in motion, and we were in the midst of an instinctual mother-child dance. In brief seconds I envisioned going with my daughter to pick out her wallpaper pattern of distinction and teaching her how to measure and paste. Through this piece of furniture, I could transmit my love and skill to my daughter while she created a “special touch” for her living space. What started out as a dull task for me that Saturday morning was transformed into an emotional bowl of chicken soup. I recognized that the continuity and heritage of women helps me bear the grief I still feel from my mother’s death. When my mind is open to it, my mother’s special touch is close by. I feel her presence lingering among the layers of wallpaper. “Gramma and Barbie” Taryn Snyder “Gramma, wanna play Barbies?” It was the typical question for the typical five year-old. My world of Barbies was my world of happiness, and to share it with Gramma was even better. “Sure, Sweetie Pie,” she would reply every time. I would drag out my box of Barbies, then return to the playroom for the box of clothes. It was our normal routine and it had been forever. As the years passed, I was somewhere between wanting to become a teenager and desiring to remain a kid forever. I wanted to grow up more than anything, but I didn’t want to leave my Barbie world behind. None of the cool middle-schoolers played with Barbies anymore. Barbies had gone out with a vengeance and now makeup was what all the cool girls spent their time with. Yet, every time I went to Gramma’s house, it was okay to play Barbies. And, that’s just what we did. When I was eleven or twelve, I was still young enough to need to go somewhere when I stayed home from school and my parents had to work. It was convenient to drop me off at Gramma’s house. That’s where I was happy, and my parents need not to worry about me. Once I got there, Gramma and I would watch the morning talk shows; then the Barbies would come out. All of my Barbies were older. I had none of the neat, modern Barbies that came out because I didn’t have spending money and even if I did, I wouldn’t be caught dead in the Barbie aisle of the local toy store. Barbies were the last thing I needed to think about when I wanted to improve my cool, junior high status. So, Gramma and I would use the time I spent at her house to go through the WalMart flyer and circle the Barbies that I would like to have. Gramma would take care of the shopping, and by the time the holidays came around, it was assured that I would go home with at least two or three new, fun Barbies. Gramma and I had so much fun with Barbies. When we played, I was in a fantasy world with not a single care in my mind. The only thing I had to worry about was whether Gramma would remember the difference between Barbie and Skipper. And, when she forgot, it was always me to remind her, “Gramma, Barbie is the oldest; Skipper is her younger sister.” And Gramma would play along every time. It’s funny how life turns out. It was a fact that I loved Barbies, and it was quite clear that Gramma loved to play with me. When I got a bit older, my passion that I shared with Gramma for Barbies wore out. It’s ironic that when Gramma died, my love for Barbies suddenly did too. “Sisters” Shae Shenefield We bound ourselves against intrusion Seriously expecting to do without them. They hung in the air like Fall odors on a rainy day. We took turns inviting them in. I left once in search of my own (when yours stayed too long). Our tears mingle on aged cheeks. We take each other back as if They, and grown children did not exist. Embraces secure the loss binding us again— and we ask: Need we mourn lost impotent lovers? “My Mother’s Arms” Ann Seltzer Pangborn I remember climbing into bed with my mother in the early mornings as a small child, and cuddling with my face on her arm. Her skin was warm, and olive brown, fragrant and sweet like almonds, and so soft. There is a photo of her, taken in 1960 in the kitchen before we remodeled. Her arms are raised in surprise or in mock protest. There is a stack of paper cups on the table: company must be coming, company which was a constant delight. As the oldest child of six in her family, and the only daughter with five younger brothers who all lived nearby, our home was often filled with the wonderful sounds of their laughter and stories. Now the house has been sold. So many and so much are gone. But we can become those we love and lose: my grandfather feeding the birds in the park, sparrows on his hands; my grandmother growing orange trees from seeds on a Bronx windowsill; my father telling jokes and then laughing until tears ran down his cheeks; my mother’s grace and her warm arms. We are all of the people that we love and lose. In our arms we carry their gifts, our minds are filled with their jokes and stories, we have their good company always near us. Lingering in bed one morning not long ago, resting my head on my arm, I was reminded of a warm and familiar scent. Here it was, like almonds, my own arms. Back to top

	Gossamer Journals: A Migration of Butterflies Gossamer Journals is a thematically structured travel memoir aimed to motivate and guide anyone who wishes to attempt reflective travel writing. The book will include chapters such as Getting Ready, Getting Around, Lingering, Collecting, Eating, Comparing, Being Alone, and Returning. Gossamer Journals: Guidelines For Submission We invite you to submit a short (250 to 500 words) narrative based on an actual experience during your travel. Your submission should have a beginning, middle, and end. It may be about something that happened to you that was funny, scary, puzzling, surprising, transformative or otherwise noteworthy. We envision using twenty to thirty of these vivid anecdotes throughout the book. All submissions will receive a response. Send your short narratives to submissions@metaphorical_ink.com. Gossamer Journals: Samples “Bicycle-Friendly City,” Ferrara, Italy Ferrara defines itself as a city “friendly to bicycles.” We read the welcome signs as we follow arrows towards “centro” on our first day in Italy. At first the streams of bicycles are just one more category of vehicle, one more vector of motion on the crowded streets. We concentrate all of our effort on avoiding collision, adjusting our courtesy and consciousness as they glide into spaces we routinely assume are vacant between the car and the curb to the right and also to the left . . . .it wouldn’t surprise us to realize that a bicycle was suddenly inside the tiny Fiat with us! The bicycle experience in Ferrara is nothing like what we would assume to be a parallel experience in the U.S., say for example, if a city like Philadelphia transformed itself into a bicycle friendly city. It appears that bicycle transportation agrees with all ages of riders, not just athletic youth showing plumage. In fact, we have seen very few adolescent males riding in in the city thus far. The riders we see are women and men going about their daily occupations with a briefcase, a loaf of bread, a newspaper, groceries, and other assorted hand baggage of the moment. The elderly women, some even in the stereotypic all black garb, seem to ride with more alacrity than they walk. It is more remarkable to see an elderly woman pedaling than any other demographic group, and I think about all the ways we create mental limitations on women as they age. The bicycles themselves are remarkable; that is, they are remarkable in their ordinariness. These are unadorned, plain and simple bicycles of functional form. Even in my childhood, I prized a new fluorescent turquoise machine! No, these are mostly of spare frame and muted colors, many with a wire basket on front or back for carrying useful items. Almost entirely without “bells and whistles.” We did hear some of the old bicycle bells that ring out a metallic b-r-r-r-i-n-g to alert pedestrians. These bicycles are transportation, not toys, not status symbols, not accessories. The riders of these bicycles are purposeful and ordinary citizens going about their routines. They are not wearing clothes for cycling, but for the many occupations of their lives. I wonder if this is this a vision of the past, or possibly of the future? “From Voodoo to Video,” Salvador da Bahia, Brazil Our German/Brazilian friend told us not to miss the Feria Sao Joaquim authentic market in Salvador da Bahia. For this you need a local friend because it is wild and dirty, and not ever included in tourist itineraries. We were fortunate to have a new friend, Celeste Almeida Wanner, who offered to drive us to special, off-the-beaten-track places. It was a dry day and thus we were spared the green slime puddles described so vividly in our travel book. Celeste parked across the street and we entered the market in a region of fruit and grain stalls and were immediately immersed in unfamiliar elusive scents that we learned later may come from the cashew fruits that were stunning in their oddity to our eyes. One of the excitements and visual attractions of a market is the plenitude of offerings, so piles and piles of grains and nuts, mounds of bundles of herbs for healthful bathing, and basket upon basket of handcrafted household items, like my favorite wooden spoons (2 Reals each x 5 spoons). Celeste’s student friend from Spain was seeking a particular artifact at the market on this day, a 2 foot by 2 foot plaster statue of St. George on his white horse, lit from within through lines of small holes emitting light when plugged in. We found St. George at various stalls for different prices before Juan made his final purchase on our way out of the market, possibly at the very first place he looked. The main aisles of the market were thoroughfares with carts traversing between teeming stalls and slowly moving crowds. Some carts carried small goats lying on their sides with their legs tied together, chickens crammed into wooden crates, pigeons, and rabbits. In one booth, there were three or four video machines set up with young men avidly playing imaginative games in the midst of a more colorful and dramatic reality than that on the screen. The specificity of animal body parts for sale was the most difficult sight for my eyes. A section of the market was devoted to the sale of meats, but I have never witnessed, even in my farm days when I helped slaughter cows, such a display of tongue, or liver, or snouts, or tails, or intestines, or stomach, or other organs I couldn’t identify. It was possibly the grouping of so many snouts or tongues or hooves together that was disturbing. There were also stalls selling what I can only describe as “bits and pieces” of unidentified stuff, not quite meat or bone or gristle. I don’t recall seeing any ice in this section to chill the meat either. I couldn’t quite guess what offerings at the market were fodder for voodoo ceremonies. Was it the baby goats? Or the beads? Or some of the herbs? I did see what appeared to me “voodoo dolls”, small red stuffed figures that seemed to be exactly right for sticking pins. Although they were quite inexpensive, I didn’t touch or purchase any. Just in case there really is a power in voodoo, I didn’t want to mistakenly activate it and then think of someone quite casually and then accidentally crush the voodoo doll under a book in my bag and thus contribute to the mysterious illness or injury of anyone I know. Just in case voodoo is real. Just in case. “Café Serendipity,” Imatra, Finland After our last scheduled event today, we went directly to the train station to purchase our tickets for tomorrow and then walked the three kilometers back to our hotel. The walking path followed the river and was just delightful in the mixed sun and shade, heat and cool breeze. We had a sense of “what could be nicer than this” reminding us of the quotation from Kurt Vonnegut at the banquet earlier in the week. The last of our companions diverged from us at the hotel. We continued into the village looking for a café table in the sun/shade to enjoy a beer marking closure of the forced itinerary and the beginning of several days of unstructured time on our own. We found a table at “Martina” on a corner across from a small public stage where a troupe of young performers was entertaining children with a sophisticated puppet show. One performer had full white sleeves from elbow to shoulders and bare lower arms and hands (the legs of an ostrich with fluffy white feathered thighs and skinny shins and feet). A second performer wrapped a feather boa around one hand, and her/his second arm and hand were positioned to be the neck and head of the ostrich. In the skit, the ostrich finds a balloon and explores its properties, passing it from beak to foot, from foot to foot, and so on. The ostrich tries and learns to balance standing on the balloon, but soon bursts it and then improvises with the bright red elastic remnant to create a bow tie around the top of the long, skinny ostrich neck. With the rest of the bodies in black in front of a black curtain, the illusion was really magical. It took only a 17% suspension of disbelief (and a full glass of beer) to actually see an ostrich playing with a balloon. The children managed with far less suspension and also without the beer! How much suspension of disbelief are you capable of on short notice? Do you see horses galloping in the cumulus clouds? Or dolphins playing in fountains? Can you connect the dots to see full figures when a sculptor gives you only hints? Or imagine hunters by the fire, and druids dancing, and Hesperus at his forge with sparks flying every which way? Back to top

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