#CWQJ Spring 2019

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Somos Por Alma Quintanilla Castillo

Para Maia Tú y yo somos. Somos de magia Escondida en las montañas; Somos de agua Y de lodo; Somos el barro Y el humus. Somos de masa orgánica Y materia cósmica. Somos de luz Y somos sombras Somos la corriente fría Que viene de arriba Somos la arena ardiente Del desierto Somos el aire seco Y el sereno Tú y yo somos Somos de aquí Y somos de allá Venimos de lejos Y nacimos aquí Somos cruzadas Somos revueltas Somos mojadas Y somos secas Somos raíces Y somos ramas Somos la hoja Que nace y hace vida Y luego se seca Somos comida Somos pasta Somos el venado Y el coyote Somos las plumas Del colibrí Y las garras del halcón Tú y yo somos El pinche colmo Y la más grande maravilla Somos la astilla Y el suave ungüento Somos demasiado Y nunca suficiente Somos angustia Y somos la calma De todos somos Para todo somos Somos la sangre De muestro pasado Y los huesos De nuestro futuro Tú y yo somos Esta tierra Y esta luz

Alma Quintanilla Castillo is a bilingual educator, artist and poet in the Rio Grande Valley. As an artist and educator, her passion in life is to share the love of art and language to little souls. She currently teaches in Harlingen, Texas, where she lives with her husband and two sons. Her daughter, Maia, lives in Austin, Texas.

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FLICKR/JASON CARGILL Bluebonnet photo

bluebonnet beauty | wild like her mother | here awhile then gone like wind

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Four Poems By Vivian Wagner

April

Tree swallows dive

the lake’s still surface,

while placid ducks

watch from shore.

Snowdrops bloom.

A breeze blows.

Winter retreats 

then returns, 

then retreats again.

Flowering

We’re settling into spring, the buttercup sun rising over robins rustling in new nests, the sky violet with expectation, the oaks bloodrooting themselves deep into clay soil, fanning their mermaid-weed hands to catch obedient light. We never believe it will stay, spring, but it always does, preaching from its Jack-in- the-pulpit about the world’s beginning and end,  which comes when summer ragworts itself into view, and again when fall finally goldenrods through it all.

Sheltering in Place

The robin sitting in a nest in my white pine knows that isolated thunderstorms will develop late, with strong winds possible, and showers again in the morning. She’ll sit, because that’s what she knows to do, there on her four pale eggs nestled in a bed of soft grass. The rain will fall, and she’ll deflect it on waxed feathers, with an understanding that branches might bend and twist, but she’ll remain steady in her nexus of bark.

Foraging

The woods are a supermarket, shelves filled with dandelion leaves and violet flowers, turkey tails and oyster mushrooms, ramps and water, everything restocking each night, each season, our conscience the only cashier.

Vivian Wagner is an associate professor of English at Muskingum University in New Concord, Ohio. Her work has appeared in Slice Magazine, Muse /A Journal, Forage Poetry Journal, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Creative Nonfiction, The Atlantic, The Ilanot Review, Silk Road Review, Zone 3, Eyedrum Periodically, 3QR, and other publications. She's also the author of Fiddle: One Woman, Four Strings, and 8,000 Miles of Music (Citadel-Kensington), The Village (Aldrich Press-Kelsay Books), Making (Origami Poems Project), Curiosities (Unsolicited Press), and Raising (Clare Songbirds Publishing).

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THE VOLVO AND THE BIKE  By Toti O’Brien

    I see it parked besides my car, in the library lot—the old Volvo with a scratch on the side. Strange to find it here. It addresses my attention as if it were an acquaintance. A part of myself, to be exact.

    Well, it was part of my dream-self—a wish from my early teen years. I wanted to buy such a car as soon as I’d grow up. I knew little about it, still I wanted it. Not immediately or soon, but sometimes.

     For a long while I had no car at all. I was broke and necessarily so. When things slightly improved, my car (like everything I possessed) wasn’t what I would choose but what I could get. Second hand, cheap bargain. My car—like my job, clothes, home… my partner as well, I suspect. I was happy that way.

       Thus the Volvo slipped in and out of my consciousness. For decades I forgot about it. If I thought of cars I worried about keeping mine going, possibly until eternity. In rare moments of fleeting enthusiasm or irrational hope—when I envisioned money and luck would come visit me—I recalled the object of my longing. Used, pre-owned by a friend perhaps. No matter how kinked or bumped, no matter which color. Sturdy engine. Strong Swedish parts. Spacious, stretched like a train or a boat. Oh my, what couldn’t I carry within it!

     I suspect this was the secret core of my passion. What sparkled my feelings must have been the Volvo’s capacity in such a slim body. As I pictured myself at the wheel I smiled, thinking of what trunk and seats might contain.

    Not a bunch of children... well, a few. Equipment and artifacts! Paintings, sculptures. Easels, canopies. Music stands, amps and microphones—all the elements of my traveling trade, multifarious and marked by an abundance of cumbering accessories. They would fit in the Volvo together with roadmaps and food, raincoats, swimsuits, of course books and notebooks.

    The car’s magic proportions would allow yet another accomplishment: I’d be able to pick from the sidewalk all those relics I transmuted into art, stage décor, or home furniture. No shelf case, no ripped Japanese shade would be left behind with nostalgia. There would be no limit to the size of my rescued Christmas trees.

    And the Volvo would prove my career went in the right direction. Making transportation proper and safe, it would justify the slight oddity of my perambulating lifestyle.

    In the library parking, at once, I realize how the perspective has changed. My desire has shot down without me noticing. I can sense it while in front of its object: nothing lights up, nothing fires. Time has run out, I guess. Now I wouldn’t be able to lift the goods I wished to stuff in. I no more crave early setting of market booths. I’m fed with performance. I do the same things—with less enthusiasm, especially no expansionistic views.

    On the contrary, my views have become quite reductionist. Not that I’d want to change. I have kept the same loves—in fact I have deepened into them. Only, tiny concentrates are what I can stand. What I need now is lightness.

    I have reached and surpassed the Volvo phase, though without the Volvo. I’ve carried a lot in the cars I could afford. I’ve picked from the street as much as I could handle. I’ve done things and been places. I have exhibited and I’ve been exposed. I have been quite fulfilled… maybe I didn’t realize it. Maybe I felt it in portions, installments, without guessing the installments made up the whole. I thought my finish line was ahead, while I was past the finish line.

    I have taken the sweet path of return, wavering through the countryside, amazed at the beauty of wild flowers. What I dream about on this evening dusty road is to leave my last car for a bike. I know—it sounds as going back to the beginning. A bike…

    Should I tell about the first one I rode without training wheels? An instant of panic, then Dad hit me—because of my fear he mistook for cowardice, without giving it more than thirty seconds of trial. Father struck me. My lips hit the handle and I got a small cut. Unavoidably blood makes emotions escalate or collapse.

   I gave up. Dad went for an afternoon nap. Mother hushed me into my room. There, mechanically, I started bumping my head against the wall. I’ll never forget that hour. I kept banging my forehead against the concrete, though I didn’t and still don’t know why. Was it weariness, was it self-loathing? Wish to justify my dad’s opinion of me?

    I eventually stopped, then went out in the torrid mid-august sun. Daddy slept. Quietly, I hopped on my bike, concentrated, and rode. Easy. I mastered it in a minute or two. What a thrill! I became a bike lover until my belated first car. I guess I shall return momentarily to that cheap, darling locomotion. To that skill earned with some loss and some glory. It should be my next goal, my closest horizon.

   Do I think I betrayed myself not getting the Volvo? The name sounds like “I want” in my native tongue. It has fragments of the word “revolution” in more than a language. Sure, I “wanted a revolution” in my teen age, and I promised I’d get it no matter the cost. Did I?

    If yes, I didn’t receive a mention about it. No degree, no diploma, not even the diplomatic vehicle—so to speak—I aspired to ride in. No signs of rebellious achievements were earned, or extremely faint—they are vanishing, while I pedal away.

Toti O'Brienis the Italian Accordionist with the Irish Last Name. She was born in Rome then moved to Los Angeles, where she makes a living as a self-employed artist, performing musician and professional dancer. Her work has recently appeared in Mizmor, A Migration Anthology, Crossways, and Colorado Boulevard.

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Kolks Food For Folks

Here are some recipes for yummy baked goods to share with friends and family. Happy Spring!

Gluten Free and Dairy Free Blueberry Scones

Adapted from A Saucy Kitchen

INGREDIENTS

• 1 3/4 cup | 220g gluten free all purpose flour blend

• 1 1/4 teaspoon xanthan gum OR 1 teaspoon psyllium husk

use only if your flour blend does not already contain any

xanthan) (Soak psyllium husks for a few mins in milk)

• 1/4 cup | 50 g coconut sugar (can sub with cane sugar)

• 1 tablespoon baking powder

• 1/4 teaspoon salt

• 1/4 cup | 55 g coconut oil (creamy and somewhat solid – not

melted or in a liquid state)

• 1 cup 170 g fresh blueberries

• 1 cup | 225 g coconut milk, full fat & from a can

• course turbinado or cane sugar, optional for sprinkling on top

of the scones

Maple Glaze (optional)

• 1/2 cup | 56g sifted powdered sugar

• 1-2 tablespoons | 15-30 ml maple syrup

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Whisk together the flour sugar, baking powder and salt

together in a large mixing bowl and combine.

2. Add the coconut oil to the flour and use a fork to mix into the

flour. Mix until the coconut oil is well combined. Your mixture

should be powdery & dry.

3. Add the coconut milk to the bowl and stir until a soft dough

forms. Fold in the blueberries.

4. Turn the dough out onto a sheet of lightly floured parchment

paper. Mould the dough into a round disk, about 7 inches

wide and 1 1/2 -2 inches tall. Cut the dough into 6 wedges.

5. Place the dough in the fridge for at least 30 minutes. Don’t

skip this step – the coconut oil needs to harden up so the

scones don’t spread too much while baking.

6. Preheat the oven to 400°F/200°C. When you’re ready to

bake transfer the dough to a baking sheet, pull the wedges

apart leaving space between each wedge (at least 2 inches).

Sprinkle with course sugar and bake for 20-22 minutes until

the scones have risen and are golden in colour.

Maple Glaze

1. Mix together the powdered sugar and maple syrup in a small

bowl until you get a thick glaze. Start with 1 tablespoon of

maple and add an additional tablespoon if you need a more

fluid glaze. Drizzle the glaze over the top and enjoy!

RECIPE NOTES

Prep times includes 30 minutes of chilling the dough.

If you use xanthan gum just mix it in with the rest of the dry

ingredients. If you use psyllium husk mix it into the coconut milk

and let sit for a couple of minutes before adding the coconut milk.

These are best enjoyed fresh the day you make them. If you have

any leftovers warm up on a low heat in the oven before eating.

Brazilian Cheese Rolls (Cow Dairy and Gluten Free)

• 1 large egg

• 1/3 cup olive oil

• 2/3 cup coconut milk (or rice)

• 1 1/2 cups tapioca flour

• 1/2 cup sheep feta

• 2 tsp salt

• cooking spray

Preheat oven to 400 degrees

Add all ingredients except cooking spray to a blender and blend

on low to combine. Scrape down the sides of the blender to

combine all ingredients.

Spray a mini muffin tin with cooking spray. (I used regular size

and filled half way)

Divide batter evenly among 24 cavities and bake for 20 mins., or

until rolls rise and are firm to touch. Serve immediately.

Vegan Almond Flour Shortbread Cookies 

No added sugar (GF)

Inspired by HolyCowVegan

• 1 cup super fine almond flour

• 1/2 cup medjool dates pitted and raisons mixed. Soak in

water for 30 minutes and drain.

• 1 tsp pure vanilla extract

• 3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

• A pinch of sea salt or pink salt

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

2. Place the dates and raisons in the bowl of a food processor

and puree until you have very small pieces.

3. Add the remaining ingredients to the food processor and

process until the dough comes together.*

4. Divide the dough into 12 portions and roll each portion into a

ball.

5. Arrange the dough balls on a baking sheet, about an inch

apart. Then, using the tines of a fork, press down on each

ball once and then once again at a right angle, to make a

crosshatch design.

6. Place the cookies in the oven and bake for 13-14 minutes or

until they turn lightly golden on the sides and the top.

Remove, and let the cookies cool on the sheet.

*If you don’t have a food processor, puree the dates coarsely in a

blender and then mix with the other ingredients in a bowl using a

spatula.

For more recipes, her visual art, and a peek into her world, go here: SARAH KOLKER

Sarah Kolker, a graduate of Sarah Lawrence College and Moore College of Art and Design, was born and raised in Philadelphia and has studied health and wellness practices in Philadelphia, Jamaica, SF Bay Area and New York City. Sarah is an Artist, Educator, Chef, and Certified Yoga Instructor.

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Cloud Women’s Quarterly Journal ~ Spring 2019

Welcome ~ Ximopanōltih!

     Yes, Spring is definitely here and somehow many of us still feel the urge to continue to hunker down in our nests and protect ourselves from the forever chill of winter climes we experience by the constant bombardment of the so-called president of these United States’ outlandish behavior .        Sadly, the stench of his hate permeates the country as his followers become ever bolder. Believing that they can berate others, with their constant English only and go back to your country diatribes, with impunity.  We’re all so sick of it. And many of us would rather not deal with it at all.      45′s behavior is much worse than that of his followers, because he fuels racism and xenophobia from the highest level of our government.  He gives impetus to people like Allison Johnson, 45, who was recently arrested in Norman, Oklahoma for vandalizing the Chickasaw Nation’s regional office in Oklahoma City and two Democratic party buildings in Oklahoma City and Norman, Oklahoma. Chickasaw Nation staff arrived to work to find that their offices had been vandalized.  The words “Indians will be gassed” and “lamp-shaded” were spray painted on the property.  “Savages HH” plus anti semitic statements which included Nazi symbols, and other graffiti supporting Trump’s re-election were also found. Johnson has turned herself in. But we shake our heads and ask, in what kind of mind does such a fanatical level of hatred fit. And in 2019 no less. What is to be done to heal this nation?      We here at Cloud Women's Dream Society and the quarterly journal that we publish, hope that in our efforts to include the rich creative work and diverse voices of our nation’s women that we will be able to plant more seeds of solidarity, hope, and beauty. We need them.      This is National Poetry Writing Month and we are proud to feature  poems from many talented writers – we love poetry! We also offer some wonderful fiction, creative non-fiction, photography, and some great recipes. Please enjoy!

Ma Xipactinemi, (Be Well)

The Editor

p.s. The deadline for submissions to the Summer Solstice issue of CWQJ is June 10th. Thanks to Redearth Productions & Cultural Work for sponsoring our submissions process. Please go there to submit work. Our issues are loosely themed on the four seasons. We accept articles, interviews, essays, poetry, short fiction and creative non-fiction, original artwork, herbal and natural remedy recipes, food recipes, and yes, political commentary on what’s happening in our world.

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Three Poems By Trace Hentz

photo “Earth is in Prison” by the author

#45

Tyrants hate critics.

Some crooks hack people to death.

There will be blood.

This is war.

Masks

We wear the measure of our beauty

We wear our disappointment

We wear the words and opinions of others

We wear our parent’s opinions

We wear our grandparent’s smiles

We wear our neighbor’s gossip

We wear optimism and fear

We wear inner turmoil

We wear our partner’s words of love

We wear our children’s needs

We wear our kindness

We wear our anger

We may wear masks of arrogance

We may wear our pride

We may wear our indifference

We wear our lives: some hard, easy, sad

We wear our promises, oaths, titles

We wear ourselves out   

When a trickle… becomes a river…then a flood

…When People of the First Light saw ships and strangers disembark

…When the conqueror ran out of the woods firing loaded guns

…When they loaded us onto slave boats in shackles

Then a trickle becomes a river then a flood

…When an Indigenous mother loses her child at gun point

…When her child is kicked in the neck by a nun as punishment

…When her child dies in residential school, buried in an unmarked grave

Then a trickle becomes a river then a flood

…When a black sedan enters the rez , children run and hide

…When a Cree adoptee has a Bat Mitzvah and is told Indians are savages

…When a Navajo adoptee is taken at a hospital and disappears, raised by Mormons

Then a trickle becomes a river, then a flood of blood and tears.

Trace Lara Hentz (made an honorary member of the Talligewi Sovereign Nation) is an award winning journalist.  Her memoir One Small Sacrifice (2nd edition, 2012) was retired in 2018 and she plans to work on it more and un-retire it eventually.  Known for her in-depth interviews for national Native newspaper NEWS FROM INDIAN COUNTRY, she won many awards, authored many academic papers, and co-edited the acclaimed book series Lost Children of the Indian Adoption Projects. [www.blog.americanindianadoptees.com] In addition to her own chapbooks of poetry, Trace has also contributed to a number of publications.

She is a multi-genre author, poet, journalist and activist.  Her work is heavily focused on Native Americans and Native American adoption issues. [www.blog.tracehentz.com] and [https://laratracehentz.wordpress.com]

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Three Poems By MariJo Moore

To The Aztec Dancers Whose Dancing Is Spiritual Labor

From mountaintop

to mountaintop

you dance…

Praying                          stirring the souls of your ancestors

and mine,  moving all…

Teotl 

Fantástico

U wo du hi

Feathered colors blending

Brightening the sun

Dark fingers swaying

Making their way upon a long-remembered journey.

Drums                beating inside and out

Your savored hearts

Pounding… pounding… pounding…

White Eagles watching 

Winds swaying    praying bodies   awakening bones    rattling campanas    ringing  fueling  fanning flames.

 Nothingness forbidden.

  I can see you.

Once knowing you

Long before you began to dance 

on these 

North American mountaintops.

Teotl 

Fantástico

U wo du hi

Notes:

Teotl is the Nahuatl word for wonderful, awesome, terrifying.

Fantástico is Spanish for fantastic.

U wo du hi is Cherokee for beautiful.

In These Mountains

As dreams begin to dance themselves awake

after a day of full flushing rains in these mountains

the bronze hands of women reach from beneath the earth,

their bones glowing like neon fishes in cave waters.

Droplets pelt the under fur of delicate wild flowers

steam rises to kiss moistened lips of falling leaves

while I wander around inside the past

hearing the bronze women calling my name.

Memories unfold from around these glorious ancestral mountains

positioning themselves into low hanging fog

touching the soft breasts of those who pay attention

as the rains fall down into running waters

stopping only when instructed so by the Thunder Being.

Sweet tobacco smells rise from the white water falling

and I taste the aroma as it floats into my being.

This is when the memories come close enough to smell

but not close enough to touch.

Just close enough to taste

but never close enough to touch.

And sometimes late in the afternoon

after it rains all day in these mountains

If I know in just which direction to tilt my head

and if I listen intently through the raindrops

I can hear gentle, sleepy, rhythmic sounds

of small rounded pebbles clicking inside tortoise shell rattles

strapped to the ankles of the bronze women

as they dance the Green Corn Dance reminding me

I am never alone in these mountains.

They Dance Round Still

The drums are dead

They beat the drums to death

The people are dead

They shot the people to death

There are drum beats still

Beats from the dead drums

The people are dead

But they do not know this

They believe still

They believe still

They tend to their young still

They tend to their young still

They dance round still

They dance round still

They dance round still

They are ghosts who do not know they are dead…

MariJo Moore (Cherokee/Irish) is a poet/author/anthologist/editor/seer/medium. The author of over twenty books, she is the recipient of numerous literary awards. Books to be released this year are Crow Quotes Revisited and a novella titled I Sing A Song of Woven Lightning, I Sing A Song Of Storm. She resides in the mountains of western North Carolina. mairjomoore.com

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many birds and mice | I live in this house sometimes | we’re more wild than nice

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Welcome to the Dawn  

Copyright © Kim Cunningham

Kimberly Cunningham has published three books and has 24 published pieces of work. Beauty is where it is found.

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My Kinda Worship By Tami Shaikh

     When I think of the word worship; many thoughts come to mind. I immediately get a visual of people crying at the Vatican in Italy or praying in Makkah, Saudi Arabia. I have been to both places, and even though they were supposed to make me feel closer to God, I honestly didn’t feel it. Don’t get me wrong, of course, I believe in God or a higher being or the universe, but I don’t see that going to holy places increases or decreases the value of my worship in any way.

     I learned at a very young age that worship meant rituals to most people around me. But it never made sense, how could "something" that created every inch of this earth be locked up in a house in some random country?  And all of us had to travel there to find Him? But when I voiced my opinions I was told, I would go to hell if I said such awful things.

     So, I worshipped God to please people.

     I also had an issue with the word “worship,” why does an Almighty Creator need me to worship Him or Her? Is God that arrogant? That thought I kept to myself.

     Eventually, I realized that I had been given my own way of appreciating God; through my writing. When I sit to write, I can go up to 20 hours a day without eating or sleeping. It’s literally like someone is pouring words into me and I am putting them on paper. As cliché as it sounds, its an outer body religious experience for me, where I feel most connected to God.  

     My writing is my prayer and worship.

Tami Shaikh is a mom, a storyteller and a citizen of the world. In 2015, she self-published her first book, and two others followed after that. She’s have written numerous articles for the Huffington Post, Mind Body Network, Medium, and Thrive Global. In the past year, Tami traveled to eight different countries, to work on her next book which is about the refugee crisis worldwide.

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Three Poems By Cindy Rinne

Wilderness

Native soil

Old roots

Worn stones

Saguaros march

Birds gather

Raven floats

Canyon ash

Hummingbird surveys

Dead branches

Red hills

Tears swell

Eyes sting

I drink from the well,

Swallow ancient

Language, earth fire.

Lunar Halo

I am the white-lined sphinx moth with brown head and thorax

flying like a hummingbird. My body too large for its wings.

By a placid lake I perform a moth ritual each morning

before the night travelers sleep. A prayer written

and burned thanking the night for moon and stars

that help navigate my path. I bring healing to others

by drinking

the moon’s halo.

At dusk wildflowers speak of seeds blown to the sea.

They tell of a face in a mollusk shell who shares a story:

A young mother battled cancer for years,

and will be reborn. Her sister lives in the rocks by the ocean,

has a baby—

they sit in the sand and

rock to endless rhythm.

The energy of mountain rocks gathers experiences

of the generations. The story reminds of a friend

gone, where I touch her in nectar memories.

A shadow song:

Safe. Small. Once I was small. Hidden in earth.

Nature is large. I want to feel small again.

Mirage

Love alone is the fountain from which all virtues fall

as drops of sparkling water.  

Bowl of Saki, October 8, by Hazrat Inayat Khan

Angel cries out / from a well,

Come for the water blessing.

She stands knee-deep in holy water / while streaks of diagonal

clouds diverge. Water drops plop and echo / as she rises.

Crystal eyes reflect / in the filled bowl.

                                               I approach / in silence,

eyes downcast / and wait to be cleansed. Incense permeates.

The angel / chants and prepares / with care. / Blesses thyme

flowers, rice, and well water.

She pours / the sacred fluid

over my head / into the fertile canyons of my body. Sun blinds

my drenched eyes. I wake to dry heat / and a Tri Dhatu bracelet

on my wrist / to resist disaster.

I am girdled by granular,

transparent crystals / like Salacia, female divinity

of the calm and sunlit sea, / once a verdant place.

Our child would be / half human, half fish.

Cindy Rinne creates art and writes in San Bernardino, CA. She is Poet in Residence for the Neutra Institute Museum and Gallery in Silver Lake, CA. Cindy is the author of seven books: Mapless with Nikia Chaney (Cholla Needles Press), Moon of Many Petals (Cholla Needles Press), Listen to the Codex (Yak Press), and others. A finalist for the 2016 Hillary Gravendyk Prize. Her poetry appeared or is forthcoming in: Anti-Herion Chic, Outlook Springs, Storyscape Journal, The Halcyone Literary Review, several anthologies, and others. www.fiberverse.com

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So Fresh and So Clean By Nahui Ollin Paredes

It’s that time of the year again National Poetry Writing Month, you know, the tortuous — a poem a day for thirty days, and, it’s also Spring cleaning time. Yay!

Time to go through those closets and gift or recycle anything you haven’t worn for more than a year, to store the winter clothes, and to get out the lighter weight ones… that’s of course if you live in areas where the weather is at all predictable anymore, but I digress.   This article is more about what we use to clean with and some suggestions of natural cleaners to use as alternatives to the more noxious and toxic ones we all grew up using like bleach, oven cleaner, that blue toilet bowl stuff and on and on. The same products we’ve always been told are the only effective cleaners to get out grime, odor, and germs.  But exposure to chemicals used to make these household cleaners can have adverse effects on our health. A recent study by Scientists at Norway’s University of Bergen, which tracked 6,000 people over two decades, found that lung function decline in women who regularly used the products, as in those who worked cleaning for a living, was equal to those with a 20-cigarette daily smoking habit.

Household cleaners can cause mild irritations but have also have been linked to asthma, cancer, and hormonal imbalances. They are responsible for thousands of poisonings every year, mostly of children. There are other good reasons to stop or at least limit their use, and that is that these chemical filled cleaners pollute our air, water, and earth. They pack landfills and contaminate water sources and marine habitats after being washed down sewer systems. Petroleum-based cleaners and plastic packaging also help deplete nonrenewable natural resources.  

So here’s a list of some alternatives you probably have in your fridge or pantry that you might try this Spring and on into the future.

Lemons

Lemons are natural disinfectants because of their antibacterial properties. For many, the refreshing citrus smell exemplifies cleanliness. ( Use lemon juice on cutting boards - kills bacteria, in garbage disposals - throw in the rinds to freshen, and in the laundry - ½ c. lemon juice added to rinse cycle brightens whites.)

Salt

Good old-fashioned table salt can be used as an abrasive cleaner. (Again on cutting boards - you can mix with lemon, for caked-on foods on baking pans, and as a soak for pots/pans.)

Vinegar

So powerful and economical, distilled white vinegar is one of nature’s most versatile cleaners. Its odor can be a bit overwhelming, but the smell goes away after it dries. (Use for countertops, sinks, windows, mirrors, appliances, floors, tubs, and showers - you name it.)

Baking soda

Baking soda is used in many refrigerators because it helps absorb odors but used in water it can also help dissolve dirt and grease. Like vinegar, baking soda has a wide variety of uses. (Refrigerators, ovens, cupboards, anything that needs scouring like pots and pans, use in your laundry to remove grease/dirt.)

Tea tree oil

Australian tea tree oil is well-known for its medicinal purposes, but the antibacterial and antifungal properties of this essential oil can also be useful in the home. You can make an all-purpose cleaner by filling a spray bottle with a quart of warm water and then mixing in 15 drops of tea tree oil. I spray down the shower after each use with this mixture. For areas that have mold, or if you need more concentrated strength for cleaning - like toilet bowls - you can use a more concentrated batch of 2 teaspoons to two cups of water and pour in, brush and voila!   In the case of mold on shower or bathroom tile use the spray and leave on to dry, it may not make the discoloration to fade completely but the mold will be gone.

It’s April, so if you’re not going to Spring clean - write poetry instead, or better yet — do both!

Happy Spring!

Reprinted with permission.

Nahui Ollin Paredes is a world traveler, dreamer, writer, and wise woman. She loves to brew up herbal concoctions, cook for family and friends and finds comfort in the alchemy of the kitchen. ♡

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please no more dumping | fish no longer live in peace | your garbage is death

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Store Street By Elena Chapman

photo © Onasill ~ Bill Badzo  Some rights reserved

Store Street

     It was a cold Saturday morning in October. Whilst the usual herds of workers slept in their beds, Kitty Page was heaving herself to Store Street. Friday morning, Kitty was galumphingly searching for her keys, sieving through her puddle of clothes, opening moaning cupboards and slamming timid drawers. She was already ten minutes late for work and spied the set of keys lying on the kitchen table. An hour after slipping behind her desk, her hands ran over the familiar fluffy feel of her keyring in the back of her bag. The borrowed set was quickly forgotten about and remained on her desk. That evening, Kitty was chugging down her vodka lemonade in GAY when her phone rang. She picked up on the third ring. She bellowed over the music that she’d get them first thing tomorrow morning, hung up, and made her way to the dance floor.

     A light drizzle fell from the pregnant clouds parading the dark October sky. A breeze touched the trees and whisked autumn leaves around Kitty’s ankles. Store Street’s rusty coloured bricks reared against the darkened sky and Kitty made her way over to the oak door chiselled into the bright bricks.      As Kitty fumbled in her handbag for her work fob, a wad of last night’s receipts dropped into a puddle. She fetched a sigh, plugged her stained Oyster card in her mouth, bent over and picked up the receipts. She winced at her reflection in the murky water – black circles ringed her eyes and her straightened blonde hair was spiking at different angles. 

     Leaning on the oak door, she placed her fob on the sensor, smoothing back her hair, and waited for the familiar beep before throwing herself into the reticent building. 

     When you enter Store Street’s narrow square entrance, in the middle sits a heavy square lift that has sat there since the 1930s. To your left is the open mouth of the stairwell, spiralling up like a snake up to the top floor, choking the lift’s frame. From the stairs you can spy on the lift’s car and the mechanics through large dusty windows. The once white walls of Store Street are now blemished with dark scratches and paint stains. Like most days, a lonely plastic bag patiently sat by the door, waiting for a volunteer to take it out. Kitty plonked the soaked receipts on top of the bag, wiped her hands against her jeans and started up the stairs. 

     She climbed just shy of the last set of stairs when she stopped. Last night’s vodka slushed around in her belly, threatening to crawl back up her throat with every step. Her hands planted on her knees, she regained her breath, then carried on up the stairs when, suddenly, a screech like a tortured child rattled up the building. Terror leaped in her and she stood dead still. With a tortured whine, the lift lurched into life and crept up the rail. She gazed in fixed concentration at the approaching car and the strained ropes and wires. Red lights winked through the dust as the lift rose above her.

     Kitty gave a measuring glance as the lift stopped on her floor and crept up the last few stairs. The doors creaked opened. Kitty waited a few seconds, but when no one got out she lugged herself through the office door. The lift stood silently, just as it had when she walked in a few minutes earlier.      

     She stood with her back to the door, short sharp gasps of breath escaped her mouth. She paced her way to her desk and grabbed the abandoned keys. She stole one last glance over shoulder before making her way out of the room. 

     Daring to look from the corner of her eyes, Kitty’s gnawing intuition made her etch slowly towards the tenebrous mouth of the lift. She plucked her phone from her backpocket and ran the torch around the dilapidated lift. Deep scrapes scarred its wall, splatters of white paint lingered on its floor and a dim bar of flickering light suffocated in its dust and fly-filled coffin. 

     Her eyes descended to a small wet patch on the dull thin carpet. She dropped to one knee then inched herself back, glanced at the ceiling, then clapped a hand over her mouth. A humming noise began to tickle her ears. There was a moment of silence before plumes of red spray spurted from the walls. Cacophonous snorting laughter and tortured and ululating screams boomed around her. Kitty pressing her hands against her ears and snapped her head following the sounds. Kitty caught a whiff of an iron scent seething from the lift. 

     A slow repetitive thump began to compete with the choir of screams which seemed to rattle Kitty’s ribcage from the inside out. A red fog drifted from the stairs and coalesced around her feet. The heavy and monotonous thump thump thump grew louder. A muddy pair of feet were spuming up hazes of fog as it marched around the corner. Kitty slowly got up from the floor and gazed up. A woman stared at her.

     Her face dead white, the woman’s grey eyes were vacant and inhuman. Half her face was peeling off, exposing raw and pulsing flesh. The woman’s frail body was dressed in a low collar shift dress coated in dirt that hung just above her knees. Her legs and neck were dotted with purple bruises and mud. Her mouth drew back into a grimacing smile and blood leaked from her upper lip. Kitty noticed a hint of scar from her philtrum down to her chin. 

     The bashing of rushing blood and erupting screams roared and echoed off Store Street’s walls. The woman shifted her eyes and slowly held out her hand. Overwhelmed with dizziness and languor, Kitty only managed to shake her head. Her rubber soles whistled as she took a large step away, anchoring herself against the banister. Then, with a snap, the lift returned to its quiescent state and the woman, fog and blood all disappeared. The sudden crescendo made Kitty trip down the stairs and her head connected with the cold floor. She blinked back the pain and barreled her way out of Store Street. 

     The next morning, the sun was cowering behind the clouds. A heavy shadow made Melissa Smith look up from her clutter of papers. Fear and panic was scrawled on her colleague’s face. 

     Hunched over, Kitty fiddled with her fingers and her eyes were shimmered with tears as she relayed the events of Saturday morning.

      “I haven’t got time for this silly story, Kitty.” Melissa put her hand up and returned to her pile of invoices. 

     “I’m not making this up!” Kitty’s voice was thin with fury. Melissa sent Kitty a single peremptory dour look. Kitty locked eyes with her then straightened herself up, her face fervent with anger. She did not have the temerity to argue any further so made her way back to the desk and it was not spoken about again.

     Kitty harboured the hope it was all some sort of mind blip or belated illusion from the night’s concussion of drinks but still took Store Street’s steps two at a time. Kitty was also assiduous on removing her shoes, so she could surreptitiously whisper across the floor to not wake the lift. Quickly, her thigh muscles began to tighten and bulge and her breathing began to gain a slow capable rhythm.

     Three weeks after that cold Saturday morning in October, the lift cracked and hissed to life again. Kitty was hefting a folder full of reports on a lazy Friday afternoon when a scream ricocheted in her left ear, making her jump. Kitty cut her eyes in the lift’s direction just as its door opened. The same lulling humming rhythm began to brew and the cold prick of fear returned. 

     Kitty dropped the folder and turned for the exit when she stopped. Her eyes widened. An impregnable power engrossed her. She eased her way closer, her face dead white. The screams and snorting laughter began to crackle like an out of range radio before spurring into full pitch. She began to creep up and then peered in. It was a roaring bloody windstorm. Blood was seeping through the walls and ceiling, now in thicker sprays. A gale was howling, twisting the blood around in crimson sheets. 

     A shadow of fear fell on her face then an inimical force pushed her in. Her mouth peeled back in a scream but suffocated from dark red blood sliding down her throat. Blood snaked across her and the wind twisted her red matted hair in front of her face. The lift jolted. She looked around in dazed incomprehension. The door was closing. She ran for the door, the treacle texture below pulling her back. The woman from before appeared in front of the door. The peeled part of her face flapped with the wind. She gave a single shake of the head and her face split into a bleak grin cracking her face like a fault line. She shouted over the contending vociferous wind and choir of screams. When the lift’s lips finally sealed, a fire alarm rolled throughout Store Street, swallowing up Kitty’s screams.

     Melissa was slumped over her laptop and rolled her eyes when the alarm rang. Knots of workers spilled out of the office and leisurely descend downstairs. Herding the remaining people out of the office, she heaved her bag onto her shoulder before checking the emptiness of the office. As she shut the door, she saw the folder sprawled to the side of the stairs.

     A momentary coldness crawled up her spine as she remembered her conversation with Kitty. She darted her eyes at the lift. The sign above her crackled to life: In case of fire please use the stairs. Melissa backed away, balking the idea, and headed down the stairs.

     Kitty’s wails began to weaken. Her panic and fear had shifted gear. With her shoulders slumped, she knelt in despair as the blood surged around her. She stared up at the single light and closed her eyes. A single tear cut through the blood on her face as the last person left Store Street.

With several years of academic writing behind her, Elena Chapman saw an opportunity to express her creativity through short stories. Elena was raised in Bristol and now lives and works in London. An avid reader, Elena has always enjoyed writing and hopes her stories will become a strong voice for females by challenging society’s stereotypes. Elena’s passion for running often features in her work. Elena's first short story was published in STORGY Magazine, November 2018.

Photo Creative Commons License Some rights reserved by Onasill ~ Bill Badzo

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a rose by this name | a whole world flowering | beauty for the soul