Bright by Mary Paddock, published by Dreaming Big Publications
Reviewed by London Koffler
​
About the Book:
            Hannah Whitfield is tired of living a lie. She's been so caught up in hiding her affair from her husband, Jeff, and her three children that she cannot remember the last time she was honest with anyone, including her lover, Clint. Telling Jeff the truth is the hardest thing she's ever done, but she expects Clint to understand when she ends the affair. After all, he's the one who said "When it's over, it's over." Instead, he spends months stalking and intimidating Hannah. At last, Hannah believes she has finally convinced him to give up, and she and Jeff go camping. But Clint follows, and his actions alter the course of Hannah's destiny forever.

My Review: 4/5.
            While from the synopsis I predicted Bright would simply detail the breakdown of an unfulfilled marriage, it delivers much more. This book supplies an inspirational message as well as some twists that truly took me by surprise. I became immersed in the world Paddock created and felt as if I were a part of the story. Although the narration jumps among several different points of view, I found it to be appropriate for the story. Often multiple narrators can be confusing or disorienting, but Paddock clearly distinguishes each as a separate voice and seamlessly weaves them into a cohesive story. Her characters are dynamic and real, and I found myself becoming invested in their well-being.
            I gave Bright a four out of five rating because the story is held back by its pacing. At times I was unable to put it down, but at other times I felt myself wanting to skip over some of the slower passages. The plot and my investment in the story kept me reading, however. I would recommend Bright to fans of crime drama, suspense, the supernatural, and the spiritual. It is a compelling piece by a truly talented storyteller.
            Disclaimer: I received a copy of this book for free in exchange for writing a review. I was not obligated to give a positive review, and all thoughts are my own.

About the Author:
            Mary Paddock lives with her family in the Missouri Ozarks. To date, she's written four books, and numerous short stories. Her short work has been published in a variety of venues. Mary's an avid gardener, loves long walks, and good books. In her spare time, she rescues strays, flea market china, and abandoned ideas.
 
https://www.amazon.com/Bright-Mary-Paddock-ebook/dp/B074ZNT4BH/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1509068450&sr=1-1&keywords=bright+paddock

I started with these flasks https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00GWRC65W/ref=oh_aui_detailpage_o04_s02?ie=UTF8&psc=1 and an assortment of Jolly Ranger candy flavors. The first batch contained WATERMELON, BLUE RASPBERRY, CHERRY, GREEN APPLE. The second batch I tried cinnamon, and some other really weird flavors that I don't recommend. They're nasty.

STEP ONE:  I picked out about 8 or 9 jolly rancher candies for each flask.  Other online recipes I've seen do not have this much candy ratio per alcohol volume, but I like mine really sweet. Simply unwrap the candies and put them in the bottles. 
​

STEP TWO:  Pour vodka into the bottles, fill to the top. Any kind of vodka will do.  No need to buy expensive vodka. I normally use a different brand, but pictured is what my husband brought home this time. Like I said, anything will do. 
​

In a very short amount of time, you can already see the vodka taking on the color of the candies. The pictures shown are of different batches with different flavors, but no matter what the flavor you choose, the outcome is the same. 
​

You need about 24 hours for the candies to be completely melted and dissolved.  I've seen other tutorials who say it isn't necessary to shake the bottles. However, I have found that it is necessary. Shake the bottles as often as you can. Otherwise, the candies settle to the bottom and get stuck, and they don't mix well.  Shaking will ensure a more even distribution of the candies in the alcohol. 
​

FINAL STEP:  Put your finished drinks in the freezer. They will not freeze over, but will become very cold. The liquid will become almost syrupy in consistency. Yum!

DRINK as shots or ship shooters straight.  Very sweet. You can hardly taste the alcohol.  
Alternate recipe:  Mix your Jolly Rancher alcohol with cold sprite for a sweet mixed drink! Substitute seltzer water if you want something not as sweet. The jolly ranchers make it sweet enough already, so cut that sweetness by mixing with seltzer water.

​Enjoy!

Jimmy Carter
Jimmy Carter was our school’s rooster of the hen coop. He’d strut his stuff through the hallways with a swarm of girls, hair up in pigtails, swoonin after him in a swish of pink overalls and frilly colored dresses. A stream of giggles echoin behind him.
Us guys would be leanin in our corner, the section where the busted water fountain met the dust of the lockers. With graffiti and slang that the teachers didn’t [AD1] bother to cover up at our backs, and the smell of dank water around us, we’d stand there in our little huddle, and as soon as ol’ Jimmy would see us he’d salute the doe-eyed crowd before sidlin up next to us.
We had an interesting relationship with Jimmy, us guys.  We couldn’t tell if we hated him or if we loved him. He was the kinda guy that was such a picket fence sitter in emotions that anyone on the outside lookin at us couldn’t fathom how we didn’t sock him one in the kisser. But adults are dumb, they don’t see the complex inner workings of our group and even if they did, they’d still be missing out on the important stuff (‘specially them new teachers, they don’t know nothin).
See we guys didn’t mind scarecrow Jimmy. Sure he was sweet with the ladies but he never tread on territory that never belonged to him.  Ya see, Jimmy had keen ear, even keener for when things were goin down the grape vine. If he heard that poor, acne riddled Joe was interested in sweet-tooth Sadie, Jimmy backed off as much as he could to make sure that they got an opportune chance. Hell, there was a time that Lee Honson, shy boy in room 2B, somehow let out that he was crushing on bookworm Sammy Suester; and as soon as Jimmy heard of the news through the vine he orchestrated an event where the two shy lovebirds had a chance—we all thought it wouldn’t work, but were proved wrong when three months later the two were still goin strong.
Jimmy had a heart of gold, but you’d be wrong to think that Jimmy’s life was all peaches and cream. Despite his gelled hair and lanky clothes he knew all about unfairness. It followed him like the stench of his mother’s stubbed out cigarettes.  Mummy dearest lost in the bottle, Daddy afeared for the buckled belt ‘round his hips, and little Finch who was taken away by women in straightjacket like dresses and slicked back hairdos. Jimmy knew all about unfairness and it was one of things he wouldn’t tolerate at school. He was always sayin how we needed to stick together, protect our own, stuff like that.
Jimmy was the glue in the school, he held us together. He was the guy that punched bully B. Jones and sent him to the hospital for picking on little Tanner. He was the one that shared what little of his lunch he had with scrawny Timothy Finks who wore holey hand me down tees and ripped up sneaks.
Jimmy was a good guy, and our relationship with him had the push and pull of man and his beloved bottle (cause sometimes even we ended up at the other end of his tongue lashing or fists).
But Jimmy was strange.
And there was one thing we never could understand about him. It was his one secret, his one strange flaw.
You see, Jimmy couldn’t use the bathrooms at our school. He didn’t always have this fear. Before, he could use the toilet just fine (guess nothin meant proper whizzing more than old rinky-dink toilets, stained urinals, and drippy faucets) but when the government ‘membered we existed they decided we needed an upgrade. Somethin ta show we weren’t forgotten in the mass of low test scores. In and back out they came, and nothin seemed any different ‘cept them automatic motion detector paper towel dispensers. You know, the ones that are sleek, black, and with a red light. Not much of a change, but enough of one that it rose the hair on the back of Jimmy’s neck and made it next to impossible for him to enter the bathroom ‘less someone was there with him.
We never understood this fear of his, but we never dragged him down for it.
Never.
We tried to protect him just as much as he tried to protect us. You see, it wasn’t just that Jimmy didn’t like going inside the bathroom, he couldn’t even go to the bathroom when he was by himself.
During class he’d sit there for hours, cramped chair digging into him while his legs crossed tightly, face scrunched discomfort. As the minute hand would tick by his body would start twitching and a flush would spread from his neck and up to his ears and across his nose. His whole body an uncontrollable squirm.  
When this happened all of us, ‘cept the girls, knew he had been holding it longer than he was showing, suffering silently until it had become unbearable. It was then that all of us, from our individual corners of the room would meet one another’s eyes and then, quietly, secretly, one of us would volunteer to help Jimmy. Sometimes we caused a distraction so that one of us could separate from the chaos and take a shakin, sweatin Jimmy to the bathroom. There, while the class was being suitably distracted, one of us would guard the stall or stand in the urinal beside him as Jimmy relieved himself.
It was embarrassin to do, listenin to Jimmy whizz. But when we would hear his anguished gasps and hiccupped sobs we would construct our red faces into ones of utter blankness and offer Jimmy as much privacy as possible while still giving him the comfort of our presence.
Despite the comfort we offered he still refused to use the paper towel dispenser. No matter how many different ways we tried to give him the paper—from handin it to him, to activatin the motion sensor, nothin worked—he’d turn an awful shade of white and adamantly refuse to dry his hands on the tanish brown paper. Instead, he’d slap his hands against his jeans, leaving wet handprints behind, and exit the bathroom in a hurry with us followin in a bewildered sort of way.
Despite all this we never questioned what we considered an irrational fear. We didn’t want to draw any more attention to his discomfort.
We had sworn that we’d protect him and that meant keeping his inability to use the bathroom secret. That is, until one day we didn’t and instead used it against him.
We were gathered in the playground, seventh graders that ruled the monkey bars and measured out calluses. It was late, the sun setting in a bloody line across the sky. School had been let out a long time ago and we had all huddled here to escape the different messes goin on at our homes.
That meant Jimmy was there.
He stood a small ways off in the cornered area of the school wall. Red chipped brick and smudge graffiti to his back and rings of smoke circling to the front of him. A stolen cig that Jimmy had swiped from his mother in his left hand. The embers burnin and the smoke circlin his mouth casting shadows ‘cross his face. He had just let out a small exhale when his face warped into one of slight discomfort. It was a look we had come to recognize long ago as the one where he had just barely a few moments before he had to go. As his body began to wriggle part of the group had begun to play truths and dares. I watched as he squirmed a little more before he trudged reluctantly closer to where we was truthin and darin each other.
“Guys,” he called out before snubbing out the cig on the ground, “um, can you—“
“Oh, Jimmy it’s your turn! Truth or dare?”
I watched as Jimmy’s face tightened, it was Greg who had asked. Greg was the only one in our group who held no sympathy to Jimmy’s problem with the bathroom. Recently, though, he was holdin a grudge against Jimmy for stealin the wandering eye of his on and off girl, Rebekah, and had begun to whisper scathin remarks about him behind his back. Many of the guys in the group were a little leery of Greg as he had a volatile temper and was prone to slingin punches.
“Well, I don’t really want to play---“
“Are you chicken, Jimbo?” Greg asked before climbing his way on top of the metal bars and letting his legs sway freely in the space, “Come one just pick something. It’s just a little game of truth and dare. Shouldn’t be too hard. Ya only have two options.”
Jimmy shuffled and his blush spread further across his cheeks and nose. “I really don’t want to play. I was actually hopin that—“
“Bawk! Bawk-bak! Bawwk! Ya hear that fellas? Jimmy don’t wanta play! Guess he’s too ‘fraid of choosin dare!”
“I ain’t no chicken! And I ain’t afraid of choosin dare!”
Greg laughed and it wasn’t a nice laugh. High pitched and cynical it bounced through the skeletal playground, “Sure ya ain’t Jimbo. I mean that would be just embarrisin.” His voice dropped and his eyes cut like steel, “I mean, already a seventh grader and ya can’t even whizz in the bathroom without one of us there? What are you, some kind of girl? Do you need us to be your little girly friends and giggle with you in the bathroom while you take a whizz?”
Jimmy’s face was tight and his mouth was a quivering line. His usually dark skin was pale with anger and his eyes glinted furiously, “No! I don’t need ya! I don’t need any of ya to hold my hand. I ain’t scared.”
“No?” Greg taunted as he slid off from his perch on the bars and sauntered over to Jimmy, “Prove it.” He poked a finger into Jimmy’s chest, “I dare you to go to the bathroom then. Alone.”
The group was silent as we gazed at the standoff that was happening. My body was shaking. This was unfair, it wasn’t right. Jimmy’s face remained blank but his eyes flickered nervously from one face to another before his lips thinned further and looked like they had been drawn on with white chalk. With a spin of his heel and one last look at us he stalked off towards the school.
We were silent as the closing school door echoed loudly through the playground.
“Greg,” I started.
“Give him a few seconds and he’ll be runnin back.” Greg snapped back.
We waited. A few of the guys shuffled anxiously. I knew we were all thinkin back to the last time that Jimmy tried to use the bathroom on his own.
I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans as some of the guys fidgeted.
The door remained closed.
“Greg.” I said as I took a hesitant step towards the school.
“What?”
“I’m gonna go check on him.”
“Then go! I’m not yours or Jimbo’s keeper!” Despite his annoyed tone he looked worried. I could tell by the way he was gnawing his bottom lip and plucking at the ripped pocket on his hip.
I nodded back before sprinting into the school.
It was dark and creepy. I had never been inside the school when it was closed and the florescent lights flickered. My sneaks squeaked on the floor. The white linoleum roiling beneath my feet as my steps began to falter. A trickle of sweat slithered beneath the collar of my shirt as I felt like the walls were getting closer. The lights began to dim further until some sections turned off completely. Mouth dry, I nudged closer to the boys bathroom.
I was only a few feet away when I heard a shrill scream.
Heart leaping up to my throat I darted the last bit and threw myself at the door. The sharp edge of the handle dug painfully into my stomach as I grabbed for it blindly while shouting Jimmy’s name. Before the door was even halfway open the entire hall was bathed in pitch black.
“Jimmy?” My mouth was too dry, his name was barely a rasp across my tongue, “Jimmy?” Nothing. No answer. My eyes couldn’t adjust to the darkness. I swallowed drily as I continued to move forward with my hands outstretched. Reaching the tile of wall I began to slowly turn when a flash of red caught my eye.
SKKKKKKRR
I screamed, the sound of the automatic paper towel dispenser echoed in the tiled room and all at once the lights flicked on. Turning around in the bathroom I yelped when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror—freckled skin pale and clammy looking with whited out eyes. Pulse still pounding and ignoring my reflection, I continued to look for Jimmy.
He wasn’t there.
BANG! BANG! BANG! Each stall was flung open only to reveal their stained toilets and horrifying emptiness. Body shaking, I turned in our little bathroom and froze.
Distantly, I could hear the worried voices from the rest of the group yelling out, by now realizing that we had been gone for too long. Their voices warped in an unpleasant way in the hall as their fearful questions reverberated off the walls. I could hear their sneaks slapping on the linoleum as they sprinted towards us. I could hear and I was aware of all of this, but I couldn’t answer.
In front of me the red eye of the automatic paper towel dispenser gleamed.
And hanging from it was a paper towel the exact shade of Jimmy’s skin.
Hands shaking and a cold sweat forming on my body, I tore off the piece. It felt warm and soft.
Bile rose up in my throat and I darted into one of the stalls.
It felt like skin.
 
Edited by: Anna Grace Dulaney

​Bright by Mary Paddock, published by Dreaming Big Publications
Reviewed by London Koffler
About the Book:
            Hannah Whitfield is tired of living a lie. She's been so caught up in hiding her affair from her husband, Jeff, and her three children that she cannot remember the last time she was honest with anyone, including her lover, Clint. Telling Jeff the truth is the hardest thing she's ever done, but she expects Clint to understand when she ends the affair. After all, he's the one who said "When it's over, it's over." Instead, he spends months stalking and intimidating Hannah. At last, Hannah believes she has finally convinced him to give up, and she and Jeff go camping. But Clint follows, and his actions alter the course of Hannah's destiny forever.
My Review: 4/5.
            While from the synopsis I predicted Bright would simply detail the breakdown of an unfulfilled marriage, it delivers much more. This book supplies an inspirational message as well as some twists that truly took me by surprise. I became immersed in the world Paddock created and felt as if I were a part of the story. Although the narration jumps among several different points of view, I found it to be appropriate for the story. Often multiple narrators can be confusing or disorienting, but Paddock clearly distinguishes each as a separate voice and seamlessly weaves them into a cohesive story. Her characters are dynamic and real, and I found myself becoming invested in their well-being.
            I gave Bright a four out of five rating because the story is held back by its pacing. At times I was unable to put it down, but at other times I felt myself wanting to skip over some of the slower passages. The plot and my investment in the story kept me reading, however. I would recommend Bright to fans of crime drama, suspense, the supernatural, and the spiritual. It is a compelling piece by a truly talented storyteller.
            Disclaimer: I received a copy of this book for free in exchange for writing a review. I was not obligated to give a positive review, and all thoughts are my own.
About the Author:
            Mary Paddock lives with her family in the Missouri Ozarks. To date, she's written four books, and numerous short stories. Her short work has been published in a variety of venues. Mary's an avid gardener, loves long walks, and good books. In her spare time, she rescues strays, flea market china, and abandoned ideas.
 
https://www.amazon.com/Bright-Mary-Paddock-ebook/dp/B074ZNT4BH/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1509068450&sr=1-1&keywords=bright+paddock
 
 
 

​Episode Two
By: Anna Grace Dulaney
 
I asked him what his favorite subject in school was. He told me he loved poetry. I marveled at the situation: an eight-year-old boy with a passion for poetry. I asked him whether he preferred to read or write it, to which he replied that he did both. He then looked up to me and recited one of his poems, his eyes bright with excitement. I have no idea if it was one he wrote previously or if he made it up on the spot, but either way, it was music to my ears. Another boy turned around as I was applauding his recitation and told the first boy that he was weird for liking poetry. This boy said poetry was for girls and nerds. I looked at the first boy, expecting to see pain in his eyes. Instead, I saw pride. He looked straight into the eyes of the second boy and said, “Poetry is cool. I don’t care what you say.” I admired the young boy for his dedication. He had just experienced stereotyping, and it did not seem to faze him in the slightest. I hoped that this resilience would last him throughout his life.
Edited by: RaeAnna G

​Episode One  
By: Anna Grace Dulaney 

I skimmed the racks of clothes with my five-year-old sister. She picked up a shirt with kittens and bunnies on it. We went into a fitting room to try it on. She removed the shirt she was wearing, then paused to examine herself in the full-body mirror. I witnessed her innocent eyes take in for the first time the image of her small, exposed body. I watched as her small fingers prodded about the damaged skin. She had suffered from a common childhood rash that had left holes in the skin of her upper torso. She looked sad as she discovered these imperfections on her body. I stood and watched her image in the tall mirror. I felt my heart wrench for her and I wanted more than anything for her to be able to see herself through my eyes. I thought to myself how sad a society we must live in for a five year-old girl to see her body and identify all of its flaws without even being told what they were. I wondered who she must be comparing herself to. Is there an image of an “ideal” five-year-old girl? Who told her she was not perfect?

Edited by: RaeAnna G

​In Defense of Creon: A Man on the Way to Virtue
Creon in Seamus Heaney’s The Burial at Thebes is a complicated character that can be interpreted as anything from tragic figure to antagonist who gets what he deserves. When examined through the lens of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, Creon is shown to be a flawed man who becomes more virtuous throughout the course of the play.
Creon is flawed according to Aristotle’s ethics because he is not acting with the virtue of courage. Aristotle describes virtue as “a kind of mean,” meaning that virtue is an intermediate between two extreme forms of action (Marino 73). A deficiency in courage leads to cowardice, and an excess in courage leads to rashness where a person fears “nothing at all” (Marino 68). Creon exhibits rash behavior by preventing the dead of the enemy to be buried. As Tiresias points out, “no earthly power…exerts authority over the dead,” since that is the prerogative of the god of the underworld and no one else (Heaney 61). If rashness is being afraid of nothing at all, Creon certainly is rash when he places his word above the god of the dead. This rashness is a significant excess of the virtue of courage, making it, according to Aristotle’s writing, not courage at all since it is not within the ethical mean.
Though Creon begins the play quite flawed, he reaches a turning point where he becomes more virtuous. This turning point comes when the prophet Tiresias tells Creon that a great tragedy will befall his people if he continues preventing the dead from being buried (Heaney 61). He is reluctant, but acknowledges that “fate has the upper hand” and knows in his “heart of hearts” that freeing Antigone and burying her brother is the right thing to do (Heaney 63). If he were still acting rashly and feared nothing, he would not have reversed his decree. He would have stayed on the path he was on. By admitting that fate has the upper hand and changing his actions because of it, he reveals he is at least somewhat afraid of what repercussions could come if he does not alter his actions. At the same time, he is not stirred into a frenzied panic at Tiresias’ words, which indicates he is not cowardly either. Creon’s change of heart does not come from cowardice, nor does it come from rashness. Instead, it comes from the courage to measuredly decide a course of action in the face of fear. According to the Nicomachean Ethics, “it is by doing just acts that the just man is produced,” and this is the same with the temperate person or the virtuous person in general (Marino 71). Following this line of reason, by Creon acting courageous, he himself becomes more of a courageous person. And since courage is a virtuous trait because it is a mean between the extremes of rashness and cowardice, Creon also becomes more virtuous.
Creon’s action is virtuous because it is voluntary as much as because it was a mean between two extremes. Aristotle’s work says that only voluntary actions are the ones which receive praise. If Creon is going to be praised for becoming more virtuous, it is important to show that his action was made of his own volition. The Nicomachean Ethics says that if something is done out of fear of a greater evil, like wrathful gods, it can be debated whether it is voluntary or not, but that they are more like voluntary actions if they “are worthy of choice at the time” and the “end of an action is relative to the occasion” (Marino 81). In Creon’s case, reversing a decree may not be a good thing for a king to do since it shows indecision, but relative to this occasion, it is the right thing for him to do to keep his people safe from godly retribution (Heaney 63). Because his action protects his people, it also worthy of choice at the time. Since Creon’s actions are relative to the occasion and worthy of choice at the time, this indicates that they were voluntary and therefore worthy of praise and truly virtuous.
Creon is certainly an imperfect person, but, in his defense, he takes clear steps towards virtue throughout The Burial at Thebes. He recognizes his error and ultimately tries to correct it. It is the nature of tragedies that he just arrives too late.
 
Heaney, Seamus, and Sophocles. The burial at Thebes: a version of Sophocles Antigone. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2004.
 
Marino, Gordon Daniel. Ethics: The Essential Writings. Modern Library, 2010.
 
Edited by: Anna Grace Dulaney
 

​The Librarian
By: Theresa Ellsworth
 
Anyone who loves to read
Comes smiling to the library.
At the desk he stands so tall
With books to give and hearts to thaw.
 
Unsuspecting customers come
To see, to read, to have some fun
In books that have them grinning wild
They’re added calmly to the pile.
 
With blushing, red hot, sweating cheeks,
The girls are taken to the peak.
He lends the books so casually,
No thought to care, no heart to speak.
 
To them, the books are like a gift
With smooth bound spines, without a rift.
Their hearts skip with strength and joy
They place a claim upon the boy.
 
They come back, their hearts so sure
To start a love, to read, to purr.
To their grief, he pays no heed
And takes their book with no more glee.
 
They didn’t know the book was his
He only lent and couldn’t give
They feel cheated by the trick;
The librarian shrugs, no sense of guilt.
 
Edited by: Anna Grace Dulaney

​Messages on Shirts
by Anita Stafford
 
When I'm in a public place I always notice kids, and I observe how they're dressed. Unless it's an older kid or a pre-teen, I have to assume the parent makes the clothing selection for the the child. Much of children's clothing involves some kind of graphic from television or movies. Some shirts glorify a school or sports team.
 
Other shirts sport a bold message across the front, and some of these have a sweet or positive message. But, there are a few that make me do a double take. Here are some of the more disturbing t-shirt messages I've seen recently that have left me wishing someone would turn the shirt wrong side out:
 
Rule Breaker
 
I May Be Small But I'm In Charge
 
Wild One
 
Rules? What Rules?
 
Warning I Bite!
 
Why would a parent want these messages plastered on their child's clothing? Where do they even find these things?
 
The designer likely intended the messages to be humorous, but I can't laugh at these. Maybe I'm wrong, and I hope I am, but I believe these messages go deeper than just some ink on fabric. I'm afraid they reflect the adult's attitude toward parenting. All these shirts say the child is in charge. If this is the case, the cute youngster wearing the t-shirt today will grow up to fulfill those messages tomorrow.