25. Bohemia -- June 2014

June 2104• Bohemia • 1

woodstock music festivalart nouveau concert postersedible wedding cake June 2014

summerof lovepoetry & fiction

Bohemia Bohemia

2 • Bohemia • June 2104

summerof love

Bohemia Thank you cover modelsAllie Bridges, Nathan Weekley, Sheridan Rose

June 2014 Volume 4, Issue 6


6 Summer of Love First Sight Photography6 Love’s Price A.J. Huffman14 Dream Honey Gary Lee Webb17 The Naked Wedding Cake Lottie Donahue18 Woodstock Gary Lee Webb20 Remembering Woodstock Bewitching Photography22 Unbearable Love Rick Blum22 The Sound of Wave Joshua Quarles25 Woodstck Eyes Doug D/Elia26 Day on the Green Charles Souby28 Pearl Diving Charles Souby30 Good Night LC Moore33 Concert Posters Bob Masse39 The Story of Cannabis Gary Lee Webb43 Untamed Love Lorenzo Martinez43 Baby I Was Born to Run Cassandra Dallett44 Running Bare Feet Cassandra Dallett48 Morning Safwan Khatib

50 Tulsi Peter Able54 Freedom John Hearn56 Writing Tools: Subtle Signs William Blackrose60 Contributors

Table of Contents


Bohemia June 2014 Volume 4, Issue 6Editor Amanda Hixson

Assisting Editor Peter Able

Fashion EditorAoife Gorey

Bohemia is produced in Waco, TX. We take submissions

from around the world. Bohemia is a thematic submis-

sions based publication and self-produced magazine.

Our incredible writers include Peter Able, William Blackrose, Lottie Dona-hue, & Gary Lee Webb

Thank you photographers who have work in this issue: Marcel van Es, Jon Goddi, Bonnie Neagle, Cheri Schaffer

Thank you hair and make-up artists who have work in this issue: Shannan White, Tammy Shefa, Alex Williams


Bohemia


will always be death. The visceral bleeding, the sacrifice of self. Soul and body completely given as two incomplete halves try to force themselves into a whole.

‘

by A.J. HuffmanLove's Price


Love

Photgraphers Bonnie Neagle & Marcel van Es

ofsummer

of First Sight Photography





Together, Bonnie Neagle and Marcel van Es have over 15 years of experience. We love

getting to know our couples and being able to tell their story. With each story having its own style and grace that can never be duplicated, it is impor-tant that your photographers tell the story. We are there to capture hair and make up all the way to your grand exit. We capture all the little details that you spent months planning. To watch your special day unravel makes our hearts happy. Thank you for stopping by our little corner of the web. We look forward to making beautiful images with you.

First sightphotography

(254) 752-3351

(254) 772-0265

(254) 252-0140Bridal Makeup Tammy Shefa

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wolfe Florist

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Albert reflected on his long life. People had called him a ge-

nius, a geek, obsessed, and a dork. He supposed they were correct. He had made and spent three fortunes, putting together an innovative com-pany after each degree and then selling it, so that he could go back to college. People called his ideas crazy, but they worked! It was not his fault others could not see which crazy ideas were actually great so-lutions to real problems. Why, his invention of stainless-steel-jack-eted sodium wire was a godsend for the space industry. Granted it tended to explode if it got wet, but out in space there is no water. His inventions made him money, and that let him go back to study. There was so much to learn! But this time he had not done that. After getting his fourth Ph.D., this time he had accepted a profes-sorship. His research was exciting, but he knew there was no money in it. At least, not initially. So he let the university pay for it. The best part was that he could take all the

classes his schedule could fit. Whenever he was not teach-ing or researching, that is. Perhaps he would not have to quit work-ing to get his fifth Ph.D. So much to learn! So much he did not yet know! Chemistry, Engineering / Materials Science, Astrophysics, and now Entomology. What next should he study? When he was teaching, there were so many bright young faces wanting to learn from him! It was great: so many faces, blending to-gether in their numbers. But there was one face that stuck out, her enormous, all-seeing, dark eyes glowing as she drank in the knowl-edge imparted. Osmia was a truly brilliant student, intensely focused on insect social organization. Albert had to be constantly on guard, lest he show his feelings to-wards her in front of the other stu-dents. It was too bad that he was such a dork! He remembered an early girlfriend. Two years of hap-py cuddling, talking about what they would do after they got their doctorates. The house they would buy. His and hers laboratories for their research. But then one eve-ning she stayed past midnight, stayed till dawn. One of his fa-vorite memories: all the cuddling. But that was all. He had been such a gentleman, not daring to go fur-ther. Besides, he knew she wanted children *after* their degrees and house; he did not even suggest tak-ing a risk.

The next Friday when he showed up for their weekly date, she was wearing a big cross. “I never want to see you again!” What had he done?? She never told him. She never did talk to him again. About three months later, some-one asked him how it had gone. They had seen his girlfriend at Planned Parenthood three months earlier, getting a new prescription for the Pill. The light finally dawned … no wonder she had looked like a woman scorned. He supposed he had missed it that last night … she must have made a pass. And then there was the girl his friends *still* kidded him about. He was down in the Student Union, working on an assignment for his second Ph.D., chatting with friends, his General Relativity texts in front of him. A buxom blonde had pressed against him, talking about how she would like to get relative. So he had tried to teach her about General Relativity. He did not understand when she had wandered off, eyes glazed. But his friends still kidded him about the cheerleader on the make. Yes, he was a dork. This time it needed to be differ-ent … what could he do?

It had to be his research. If he was to have a hope of winning

Osmia’s heart, it had to be his re-search. Perhaps if he found a way to mitigate the mass deaths since 2006. He threw himself into his

Dream Honeyby Gary Lee Webb


new obsession, studying the virus-es and fungal infections known to affect bees. He studied the phero-mones, with which they communi-cate; perhaps he could guide them into a life safer from pesticides, fungicides, and electromagnetic ra-diation. He wanted to study ways in which various environmental fac-tors affected the bees’ memories, so he invented methods of testing bee memory. He was also able to invent tests and procedures to mea-sure the strength of their immune systems, and then devoted his new knowledge to utilizing these and other procedures to study bees in the modern environment In short, in four months, he learned everything he could about bees, especially what makes them ill.

It was the end of the semester, and Albert invited all of his stu-

dents to his house for a party. He also made sure to quietly invite his favorite student to stay after the party so that he could show her his special research. He had decorat-ed the place with hexagonal mesh, soft back lighting. Made sure that among the munchies were honey-comb and various types of nutri-tional nectar. Also a supply of tasty edible insects, including baked lo-custs for his Jewish and Islamic stu-dents. Most people did not realize that there are eight species of ko-sher locusts, edible when they are

Dream Honeynot swarming, and similarly there are several species which are halal. But of course, he knew. After all, he was a Professor of Entomology. For the others, he had a va-riety of edible butterflies, beetles, ants, termites, and dragonflies. He avoided insects with toxic stings: while many of them are edible, many people are highly allergic to their toxin. Best to avoid any risk. For the most part, he thought it a good party; although, he was dis-appointed that more people did not try the witchetty grubs, especially imported from Australia. He had them both raw and (for the squea-mish) lightly cooked. He, himself, preferred the almondy flavor of the raw grubs. But finally the party was over. He showed Osmia his work on reduc-ing Invertebrate Indescent Virus, his work on controlling the Nosema fungus, and his work on protect-ing bees from magnetic fields. He talked about how one could wrap a conductive mesh around a hive to help protect the bees, and men-tioned that he was working on com-municating his desires to the hive by using the same chemicals they communicate with. If they could communicate with the bees, they could teach them to be more versa-tile, and help them to increase, not decrease in man’s world. If they could not halt the impending ex-tinction of honeybees, much of the world’s food supplies will become drastically and forever more scarce.

But they could do it! He invited her to see his work in action. Brushing the wall in the ante-chamber, he pushed a hidden but-ton. Then he took her to see his garden. Osmia was delighted to see bees madly at work, building a new hive, on a frame he had set up across the garden, about 8’ above the ground. A light mist covered the area they were working. His frame was a little unusual: the usually peanut-shaped spaces for the queens (the brood box) near the base, had been elongated, making the hive … heart-shaped. She watched as the bees added layer after layer of hon-eycomb. Fascinated with the heart-shaped clouds of bees furiously working, it took her a few minutes to real-ize that the professor was down on one knee. In his hand was a ring, glittering with hundreds of tiny dia-monds in a honeycomb-pattern. It looked like the hive being built. He spoke … “Would you bee mine ?”


Lottie’s Cookies& Cakes!

Contact Lottie Donahue in Lorena, TX for tasty edibles and party treats. Known for her cookies for years, her cakes have been a smash hit in recent months. She is often found helping at En-chanted Cedar located at 100 Oak St. in Lorena, TX. Enchanted Cedar hosts parties, open mics, yoga retreats, drum circles, potlucks, book and small craft sales, as well as being a chaga tea and raw chocolate (etc.) “coffee” shop.

Contact Lottie (254) 214-5725

See story by Lottie (next page). Top pic, Lizette’s Woodland Fairy Party at the Enchanted Cedar. Bot-tom left, 15 dollars per dozen.


Go naked this summer. When it comes to wedding cakes,

a growing trend toward “less is more” can be seen, and in no season is it more evident than in the sum-mer. Forgoing the expensive and seldom liked fondant exterior, “na-ked” cakes are being showcased at the wedding dessert table, even sur-rounded by fresh berries or season-al fruit. Often times, brides are opt-ing to have a multitude of assorted flavored cakes in lieu of the multi-tiered cake as their focal point. To fully appreciate the in-tended simplicity of a naked cake, one can look back in history as far as the medieval times to see that the “wedding cake” began as a small loaf of bread made of wheat to represent fertility and prosperity. The Romans later baked these into small cakes and the groom would consume part of the bread and break the remaining pieces over his bride’s head. Medieval England in-troduced sugarless flour rolls which were stacked as high as possible be-tween the bride and groom, which would later become the famous cro-quembrouche, still featured at most French weddings today. It wasn’t

until the 1660’s that the first tiered cake was created by a French chef travelling through England who no-ticed the inconvenience of this pile of rolls and thus created a stacking system. In 1703, Thomas Rich, a baker’s apprentice who wanted to impress his bosses daughter, drew on inspiration from St. Bride’s Church in England and created the first known modern “wedding cake”. With excess thus equaling wealth, this multi-tiered extrava-ganza became the wedding focal point trend usually reserved for royalty, and often not even eaten. Since the creation of these master-pieces would sometimes take days, and due to lack of refrigeration at the time, cakes were covered in lard to preserve freshness. Once sugar became easily accessible, it was added to the lard for sweetness. This form of frosting is used to this day in most large bakeries allow-ing for mass production without re-frigeration. (You’ve been warned) Fondant was later introduced to help with freshness and give cakes a smooth flawless finish. Fast forward to social me-dia, Pinterest, etc. and today’s bride

is smart enough to realize the idea of paying $5-10 dollars per serv-ing for something that more often than not looks more beautiful than it tastes is a thing of the past. To-day, rustic, shabby chic and vintage weddings are the rage, providing guests with natural, simplistic des-serts that are full of character and more importantly, taste amazing. Go natural - go naked.

The Naked Wedding Cake

Royal Wedding Cake from 1858

Keep cakes moist by brushing with a glaze made of juice or water and powder. The consistency should be like syrup.

by Lottie Donahue, photos by Mickey Beyer


It was a pivotal event in rock and roll history: four days, 32

acts, and 400,000 fans in atten-dance. The Woodstock Music and Art Fair, 15 – 18 August 1969, was the biggest event of its kind to that date. Yet it nearly did not happen. Incidentally, it was not held in the town of Woodstock, 43 miles away. Instead, it was held on a 600 acre farm in upstate New York, south-west of Woodstock in the Catskills, owned by Max Yasgur. It was by no means the first rock festival in the United States. The first two rock festivals were staged two years earlier in northern Cali-fornia on consecutive weekends: the KFRC Fantasy Fair & Magic Mountain Music Festival on Mount Tamalpais (June 10–11, 1967) and the Monterey International Pop Festival (June 16–18, 1967). They were considered fabulous success-es. The first one was staged in a 4000-seat amphitheater; 36,000 attended, and featured 33 bands across two days, including such great names as Dionne Warwick,

Jefferson Airship, and the Doors. The pop festival had room for 7000; attendance estimates range from 25,000 to 90,000 for the three-day event. For up to $6.50 (best seats), the festival goers could enjoy 33 bands including The Who, Jimi Hendrix, Otis Redding, The Ma-mas and The Papas, Ravi Shankar, Simon and Garfunkel, and one of the first performances by Janis Jo-plin. Other rock festivals quickly fol-lowed: in the US, one later in 1967, six in 1968, and nineteen more in 1969, including Woodstock. As with early events, the organizers under-estimated the number who would show. They told officials they expected no more than 50,000, but they sold 186,000 advance tick-ets (at $18 each). At that point they quit selling tickets, expecting to deal with a crowd around 200,000. They actually had twice that count show up. Thirty-two acts per-formed during the four days; over half were big names in my opinion. However, 50,000 fans was too many for the first two towns they

tried to have the faire near. The town of Saugerties, New York turned them down first (although they did host a 1994 follow-up “Woodstock” faire). The organiz-ers then leased a 300 acre site near Wallkill, New York, for $10,000, but the Wallkill town council quick-ly passed an ordinance prohibiting any gathering of more than 5,000 people. Fortunately, the organiz-ers were able to make a deal with second-generation American Max Yasgur. Residents of the local town of Bethel tried to stop the concert, demanding a boycott of Yasgur’s business (he was a milk farmer), and attempted to halt construction of the stage. Unlike his neighbors, Yasgur believed in freedom of expression. He was not a rock fan, but he went to bat for them. Before the concert, he told the Bethel town council: “I hear you are considering changing the zoning law to prevent the festival. I hear you don’t like the look of the kids who are working at the site. I hear you don’t like their lifestyle. I hear you don’t like that

Woodstock 1969

Images from the festival courtesy of Wikipedia

by Gary Lee Webb


they are against the war and that they say it so very loudly. . . I don’t particularly like the looks of some of those kids either. I don’t particu-larly like their lifestyle, especially the drugs and free love. And I don’t like what some of them are saying about our government. However, if I know my American history, tens of thousands of Americans in uni-form gave their lives in war after war just so those kids would have the freedom to do exactly what they are doing. That’s what this country is all about and I am not going to let you throw them out of our Town just because you don’t like their dress or their hair or the way they live or what they believe. This is America and they are going to have their festival.” And two days into the festival, New York Governor Nelson Rock-efeller called the organizers, threat-ening to order in 10,000 National Guard troops. Fortunately for all of us, the organizers convinced the governor to not do this. In fact, the Air Force even pitched in to help with traffic control. It was a great festival. The acts went late into each night. Friday-Saturday featured such performers as Ravi Shankar, Arlo Guthrie, and Joan Baez (and six others). On Sat-urday - Sunday, the fourteen acts included Carlos Santana, the Grate-ful Dead, Janis Joplin, Sly and the Family Stone, The Who, and Jef-ferson Airplane. Sunday-Monday finished with ten acts including such greats as Joe Cocker; Blood, Sweat, & Tears; Crosby, Stills,

Nash & Young; fifties band Sha Na Na; and finally Jimi Hendrix. It was an event to remember, an event to be at. I wish I could say I had been there, but at 14 that was not an option. Fortunately it was well recorded, and immortal-ized by a 1970 video/documentary (“Woodstock”). The film won an academy award and has been re-released twice. Joni Mitchell also composed a song, “Woodstock,” which became a major hit for her and later for Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. And of course it has been written up, over and over again.

It was a landmark event epito-mizing the Aquarian counter-cul-ture: almost a half-million people and almost totally peaceful. There were two deaths: a heroin over-dose, and a person who was run over by a tractor while sleeping in a nearby field. There were also two births. All-in-all, it was a tremen-dous testament to the Culture of Peace. Compare that to any similar event. Little wonder that people of my generation remember Wood-stock ’69 as a landmark event in the history of rock and roll.

Images from the festival courtesy of Wikipedia


RememberingWoodstock

Photographer Cheri Schafferof BeWitching Imagery

Assisted by Jon GoddiHair & Makup by Alex Williams, Shannan White, & Aoife Gorey

Shoot features, from leftShane & Jenna WalkerTabatha SecreaseJocelyn FulbrightShannan WhiteKenyai O’Neal& Aoife Gorey


RememberingWoodstock

Special thanks to Sharon Moore Smirl

of Waco Furniture Hospitalfor allowing us to use

her property.


The sound of waves crashing against the shore was always peaceful to me. I look out at the sunset and it was a perfect moment. Everything was quiet. I could hear the laughter of my daughter, Luna, as she played in the ocean. I turned around to reach for my favorite guitar that I always bring to the beach. I looked back out at the ocean, and it was quiet. The beauty of the beach was taken away. She was gone.

by Joshua QuarlesThe Sound of Waves

Two young lovers bored in the ‘burbs yearning for freedom’s thrillsthumbing their way down Route 66 to the Californian hills.

“Where ya’ headed?” the droll driver rasped joint dangling ‘tween cracked lips“Same as you,” they chirped as if one. “It’s all a groovy trip.”

With Jimmy and Janis rockin’ the van for the wild they did departpast Tunnel View lookout and Bridalveil Falls into Yosemite’s heart.Deep in the Valley they pulled to a stop the van still a-smokin’, deciding to split, he slipped them a gift three j’s later for tokin’

Repelled by a crush of campers and bikes they fled up Snow Creek trailthen slunk off the path to a hidden glade well beyond the pale.As darkness crept down craggily cliffs on moss the lovers did lieentwining four limbs and two animas ‘neath a vast galaxial sky.

The midnight moon was blacker than pitch the air still as a corpseas dulled ears pricked up to a deafening din, a mount of monstrous snorts.

“A black bear,” he croaked, “rummaging the pack. The beast is scarfing our weed!”“Lay still,” she hissed, tightly gripping his hand. “Stay cool; just let’m feed.”

Like ancient mummies, stiffly they lay amidst the worrisome treeshoping the brute would not get a case of un-bearable munchies.

When the sun finally peeked o’er Sentinel Rock of the bear they found no tracessave several paw prints as massive as trucks just inches from their faces.Faster than light, they gathered up gear done with false temptationunpacked four thumbs to carry them both back to civilization.

Unbearable Loveby Rick Blum

originally published by Cyclamens and Swords Publishing




Woodstock EyesEvery soldier needs to come home to a Woodstock. Believe me. I know. It’s the

perfect re-indoctrination. Build a stage in the Adirondack Mountains; invite half a million interesting people, artists, musicians, actors, crafters, and poets. Bring the juggling sticks, Frisbees, and Hula Hoops. Set up the healing arts center with massage tables, the sacred circle, the meditation tent, and Gypsy Tarot readers whose prophesy isn’t, “You will die in tomorrows ambush!”

Give them drugs to enhance their senses, not to numb the pain of seeing burnt dead bodies, drugs that reveal the universal order and the connection between all things.Let them walk the woods without fear of mines and trip wires. Teach them about com-munity, about feeding 500,000, about taking what you need and passing the rest. Teach them to resolve conflict without a M-16 rifle.

Teach them to play in the mud like children, not to sit in ambush.

Teach them that they can wear a peace sign, or paint a flower on their face with-out fear of harassment. Teach them to wear love beads instead of dog tags, and to string amulets to their belts, not the ears of dead Viet Cong. Teach them that watching young woman in flowing dresses dancing among meadow wildflowers, dripping naked in the stream, is getting back to the garden, it isn’t about sex. Teach them that men don’t need to bully, possess, or abuse.

Teach them they don’t need to sit in a plywood-paneled basement, heartbroken about what they did, contemplating suicide. Forget the “Thank you for serving,” and “Don’t forget to take you meds crap.” Teach them to turn their swords into plough-shares. Teach them to work for peace and when they are readythey will talk about the war. Teach them first, to see the world through Woodstock eyes.

by Doug D’Elia


You stand there you regal messengers on a grey apocalyptic afternoon. Grizzly faced, faded jeans like riders on the storm; an electric current running through the band; an electric smile extending from Jerry’s ragged head. Music descending from the cosmos, playing the cosmos, Playing in the Band. Such authenticity; even stage props ring true. Your perfection shines brightly through all your irregular miscues. Shepherds of the flower children: the Ark of the American Covenant travels with you. They’re hidden in your song lyrics and space jams; hidden where no sick & weird Uncle Sam, flower-child-abuser can rewrite the contract of awakening. You troop across America year after year, together, (More or less in line.) Your songs echo the real Deal: the blood and spirit that flows through us all. When Jerry smiles the children know: Paradise waits On the crest of a wave though indeed; her angels are in flames.

by Charles Souby

Day on the Green The Grateful Dead Autumn


A graduate of The Upright Citizen’s Brigade school of improv in Los Angeles and BATS Improv in San Francisco, Charles now splits his time between writing fiction and performing improvisational theater. He published his first novel, Win-ifred with Author House in 2010 and has completed and will be pub-lishing his second novel, entitled A Shot of Malaria in the spring of 2014.

Charles Souby was born and raised on the Chicago North Shore. He became interested in writing fiction while in high school. In the fall of 1975 he moved to the SF Bay Area, where he graduated with a BA in English Literature from San Francisco

State University. The ensuing fif-teen years found him struggling in Alaska and California, living close to the curb. In 1999, relieved of his demons he moved to San Rafael, Califor-nia where he has been studying with poet and fiction author James Tipton and been involved in area workshops.

Charles Souby


Damn you were hot! Good God; cruising by in that yellow ’55 Cadillac down in the lower Haight. You slowed down, yellin’ out the window: “Hey you! Pretty boy! wanna f—k?” Good God when I recognized you, I knew you were serious! I was so innocent 20 years old just off the Greyhound living 10 blocks off Mecca. And there you were tits hanging out of a Cadillac window, pearl necklace, wild feathery boa draped around your neck. I didn’t know what to say; I was so shy, I just nodded real modest, slim smile creaking on my face

The car door opened, you literally pulled me into the back seat and shoved a bottle of Southern Comfort into my hand and then lifted the hand to my mouth. “That a girl,” said a voice in the front passenger seat – A biker guy in a ponytail, cowboy hat, goatee, I could just barely recognize the Hells Angels emblem beneath the word: “Honorary” scribbled on his leather vest I guzzled from the bottle to get up my courage and suddenly you grabbed it. “Open your mouth kid,” you said. You took a mouthful and kissed me That sweet, masked whiskey taste poured into my mouth warmed by yours; like a flaming shot of comfort You didn’t waste any time

you grabbed my belt buckle and undid me Pulling up your sequin dress You pushed me down on the seat and crawled on top. It was over so fast like a blast of cocaine I was embarrassed by the quickness, but you laughed and laughed your boyfriend laughed and I started laughing too. Two minutes later your driver pulls us over at Haight and Stanyan and you reach across me to open the door saying, “let’s do this again sometime luv.” The door closes behind me and you roll down the window. “How’s that for a piece of my heart?” Just then a bunch of hippies at Cala Foods recognize you and start waving and yelling and you blow them a kiss and drive off.

Pearl Divingby Charles Souby

Janis Joplin, nickname “Pearl” - Wikipedia

June 2104• Bohemia • 29Jon Goddi Photography


After Sound Tribe played the Farm, wow,the night got too good to even be clichéper se; it had a life of its own. Like before the show,you quoted the Tao te Ching and I really,truly pulled it out of my bag. Too goodto make up. And the singing. Thescatted buh-duh-duhs of the electronica,you singing guitar, and me the synth,them the drums, someone else the bass, allsmoking cigarettes and skipping on bricksexcept Parker, who smiled brightout of his eyes and simply smiled,smiled, smiled his jaw into everymoment. Too good to forget, likeyou getting your “Circus” encore andBlue thinking he had blood on his shirt,when it was only glow-stick goo. Plus the $25for the car overstaying its spot wasoverlooked, as we belted the Beatlesto the sleeping city with our eyesall entangled in each other’s,either too close for summer heat,or not close enough for my own.I’d live every night like that, too good.

by LC Moore Good Night



For Rockand Folk Acts

Bob Masse Studios


Above, an example of Bob’s work, see pgs 22-25

Produces Gorgeous Posters

Bob Masse is from Canada’s west coast and has been producing concert posters since the 1960s While attending art school in Vancouver, British

Columbia, he began his career doing posters for the folk acts that came through town, in exchange for free drinks, tickets, and the opportunity to meet the musicians. As folk became

folk-rock, and Vancouver was visited by such bands as the Grateful Dead, The Doors, the Jefferson Airplane and Steve Miller, Bob continued to produce memorable concert posters for

these bands, and helped pioneer the emerging psychedelic art genre. He was greatly influenced by the art and music scenes in Los Angeles and San Francisco, where he spent considerable time in the late 1960s. Bob’s designs reflect his interest in the art nouveau movement and the work of Alphonse Mucha in particular. While he employs many of the techniques ofthat period, his brilliant colour palette, unique lettering style, and bold composition give his art a signature look.

For Rockand Folk Acts

www.bmasse.com

Bob Masse Studios






The Waco Furniture Hospital

Repair, Paint, or Mend Your Sick Furniture

Or Walls

Donate your tired, delapidated old furniture and we will repurpose it into a work of ART!

Sharon Smirl is the Director of the Waco Furniture Hospi-

tal, a non-profit organization that benefits local charities. The Waco

Furniture Hospital repairs furniture and also takes donations of used or broken furniture and repurposes or repairs in order to keep large piec-es out of local landfills. The Waco Furniture Hospital is located at

2501 N. 18th in Waco. Mrs. Smirl has been involved in many civic or-ganizations around Waco for more than 20 years, including Waco Art Center, Historic Waco Foundation and Waco Cultural Arts Fest.

Sharon Smirl

2501 N. 18th in Waco (254) 855-4127 Open Wed - Sat, 10 am - 6 pm


Cannabis may have originated in the old world, but it has been

in the Americas since Columbus. Did you know that as an American colonist, you could get fined for not growing enough cannabis ? For five years (1619 – 1624), every col-onist in Jamestown was required to grow 100 plants, by order of King James I of England and the Virgin-ia Company. Of course, they were also growing tobacco (beginning 1613), and that is the crop we all remember. For clarity, let me point out that Cannabis includes both hemp and marijuana, the only distinction is the strength of the THC (tetra-hydro-cannabinol) contained in the product. If a cannabis plant (re-gardless of species) contains less than 1% THC, it is called hemp. If a cannabis plant contains more than 10% THC, it is called marijuana; the species does not matter. There are three species of genus Canna-bis: C. ruderalis, which is highly

cold tolerant, native to Siberia; C. indica, originating in the Hindu Kush mountains and India, which contains high quantities of canna-bidiol (CBD), a THC-blocker; C. sativa, known for having the high-est THC concentrations and widely cultivated throughout the ancient world (“sativus” is Latin for “cul-tivated”). The plants also contain approximately 100 other chemical components of interest to some, for example Myrcene, widely used in the fragrance industry. Cannabis cultivation spread across the American colonies: it made great rope, fiber, fabric, ed-ible seeds, and useful oils. It has also been known as a mild intoxi-cant since ancient times, and colo-nial sailors were known to smoke the rope. By 1645, the Puritans were growing it in Massachusetts, rather than importing it from Vir-ginia. Soon, Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania even allowed cannabis to be used in place of cur-

rency, including to pay taxes. By 1776, it was one of America’s most important crops. George Wash-ington grew both C. sativa and C. indica for rope and clothing: one of his top three crops. Washing-ton clearly appreciated how easy it was to grow: “The Hemp may be sown any where” (in a letter to Wil-liam Pearce). Jefferson also urged people to grow cannabis instead of tobacco. Benjamin Franklin used cannabis for paper production. By the mid-1800s, the US was the world’s largest producer, and in the latter 1800s (at over 40,000 tons), it was America’s largest cash crop. However, only after Irish doctor William O’Shaughnessy published a paper on the medical applications of “gunjah” did pharmacies take notice. He documented that can-nabis was very effective against the pain of Rheumatoid Arthritis and that the resin could be used to control the spasms of tetanus and rabies patients (1839). Subsequent

The True History of Cannabis in America

by Gary Lee Webb The Incredibly True Story of Cannabis: Marijuana & Hemp

The Waco Furniture Hospital

2501 N. 18th in Waco (254) 855-4127 Open Wed - Sat, 10 am - 6 pm


papers promoted the use of can-nabis for afflictions, and it became very popular in the British Isles and in the U.S. Beginning in the 1700s, there was a growing temperance move-ment, opposed to drunkenness, in-toxication in other forms (for ex-ample sniffing ether), and drug use. By 1840, the Methodists and other groups were widely preaching against intoxication. In the 1850s, Chicago required bars to close on Sunday. By the 1860s, a number of attempts were made to regulate the sale of pharmaceuticals, includ-ing cannabis. This finally resulted in the Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906, requiring that all products containing alcohol, cocaine, her-oin, morphine, and cannabis be

properly labeled. California was the first state to make cannabis il-legal (1906), followed by eight other states a decade later. In 1935, the Uniform State Narcotic Drug Act was approved in all 48 states, after the Federal Bureau of Nar-cotics launched a publicity cam-paign explaining how marijuana allegedly caused temporary insan-ity. In 1937, over the objections of the American Medical Association (AMA), the US Congress passed the Marihuana Tax Act (repealed 1970), requiring those possess-ing the substance to present it and pay for a $1 tax stamp (presenting cannabis would result in arrest, of course). And later that year, Sam-uel Caldwell was sentenced to four years prison for not paying for his

tax stamp. Marijuana possession was officially illegal under federal law, and movies like “Reefer Mad-ness” told you why. Making marijuana illegal obvi-ously did not stop usage, any more than alcohol prohibition (1920 – 1933) eliminated drinking. When I was a junior in high school, our stu-dent body president, Bambi Udall, announced an unofficial poll at one of our rallies: 75% of the student body used pot. I doubt if the school administration was too happy, but when the student body president is the daughter of your Congressman (Mo Udall) and the niece of former Secretary of the Interior, Stewart Udall, there was little they could do. Members of my class drafted mock legislation suitable for con-


The outer layer of pot stems consists of long fibers, suitable for cloth, rope, and paper making.

sideration by the Arizona Legis-lature to make pot legal and, with permission of the state government, debated both sides in the capitol building. It was an interesting time. Marijuana had been part of the

Detailed drawings of C. sativa from Franz Eugen Köhler’s Medizinal Pflantzen (1887).

music and art cultures of the early 20th century, and when it became illegal, its use simply went under-ground. The 1928 hit, “Muggles”, written by Louis Armstrong, is about pot use. Armstrong was an

enthusiastic user (it was still legal then). So was “If You’re a Viper” by Stuff Smith, written 1936. Ev-ery year saw new pot songs. Two of the most popular were not even jazz: “Mary Jane” by Janis Jop-lin in 1965 (blues) and “One Toke Over the Line” by Mike Brewer and Tom Shipley (rock). The latter reached #10 on the charts in 1970. The sixties and the seventies brought many changes. The Viet Nam war exposed a decade of American soldiers to an ancient culture which had had recreational pot since almost 10,000 BC. The federal government reacted by stiffening laws; some states reacted by reducing them. In 1973 Oregon decriminalized cannabis. Colorado, Alaska, and Ohio followed suit in 1975. In 1976, California reduced possession of one ounce of pot or less from a felony to a $100 fine, and made lesser reductions for larg-er amounts. The result? Califor-nia’s annual enforcement costs for those laws went down 74%. It was good for the state budget. In 1996, California took an-other step: voters legalized medi-cal cannabis. However, the US Supreme Court has sided with the federal government and declared that federal agents can arrest people for possession (2001) or growing (2005) “legal-in-California” canna-bis. Alaska, Colorado, and Wash-ington have since legalized posses-sion of small amounts of marijuana. And Colorado has come out openly for the legal sale of marijuana, col-lecting a 15% excise tax since 1 January 2014. Sales are expected to top one billion dollars, improv-ing the state budget by $134 mil-lion … better than expected. Clearly, the future of cannabis in this country is still in turmoil.


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Photographer: Lorenzo Martinez, Model: Jenica Jane, MUAH: Lindy Livingston, Assistant: Jesse Martinez

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by Cassandra DallettBaby I Was Born To Run

As soon as I learned to walk strip my clothes off and go into the woods my nakedness on the mossy rocks and the needle pine bedsMy parents were high a kitchen fool of fools with six packs and joints to smokeand I would be out there in the leaves the dappled light I knew the names of jack in the pulpits and columbinethe places where trees grew close around meplayed in empty hunting camps and abandoned cars my runaway episodes were legenda crowd of long hairs fanning out calling my name down the road and through the treesthey’d find mecurled in sleep under the ferns by the pond.

UNTAMED LOVE


This girl was over at our house a frizzy haired Shirley Temple with a ditzy hippie mom she had a mixed girl with her I think they were cousins maybe both from a communewe were having so much fun being real girly girlsI was wearing a half top as my mother called it with little puffy cap sleeves and my belly outwe hiked up the rocks at the end of the trail behind the springat the top we were suddenly covered in stinglike hitting an electric fence our bodies shot with ice goose bumpsWe couldn’t really see through the cloudand were just running as fast as bare feet could run down rocks screaming and thrashingall I remember is a blur of flying black the woods whizzing by and the soft bodies of bees in my hands as I crushed and threw them off methe chill of each stinger an arrow to my core We came bursting out of the woods my mother met us at the front door stripping us of our clothes and tossing us three girls into a tub of baking soda arms and legs pocked with black venom sacksThat’s how I started a new school marked and itching six inches taller and many pounds heavier than the other kids I was a freak that couldn’t read but relished the sound, and that unlike the straight kids, knew the meaning of the word fuck.

Running Bare Feetby Cassandra Dallett





A slave to nostalgia, she walks at each pillow-torn daybreak to the sun-bronzed, foot-stamped place before the front door mouthing “welcome” in her half-sleep at the indecent arrival of ten hundred grey-bluish specters brooding, greasy milk-men with new and shiny necks and eyes the color of faded saliva wading through lip shadows with loud, swishy mouths and gabbing gabbing, gabbing like always en route

Morningby Safwan Khatib


who speak very carefully about her husbands still pickling in rancid pools festering, dark, unreflective upon her floor tiles unmopped since 1970 whose immemorial faces she once splattered upon canvas in ’65 when she hid in a closet with tempera paint waving a hair brush and a distortion mirror for a palate when light drips in like candle wax it slathers the rough walls of the room with sun lending the strange, acidic ambiance of a freshly peeled orange so she grabs the whitewashed door knob so damn hard it disappears and her front door bleeds its cedar dust for want of a human word


Thaw comes like a sunrise. At first imperceptible, the dark

branches of a few spruce and pine trees peek out from underneath their frigid, cotton-white quilts, much as the sun’s first rays are only known by a subtle lightening of the sky’s black canvas. Stare and it will stay night forever. Look away for but a moment, and when your curious eyes return, God’s finger has drawn a pink line across the horizon. The mountains, frozen and majestic, let loose their waterfall tears upon the white meadows be-low, and the fishermen know the capillary creeks that carve through this region will be singing again soon. Ages before, when the great glaciers slithered down Forest Can-yon, they bullied the landscape, scraping trees clean, spreading out and finally melting, leaving behind thousands of tons of debris to fill the valley floor. Moraine Park, its vast ex-panse ringed by mountain ridg-es and peppered with gigantic boulders, carved in two by the Big Thompson river - itself fed by streams and lakes hidden for months underneath winter’s blan-ket - comes alive with the crackling ice and the steady whistling of a brave angler’s fly rod tracing the air between ten and two o’clock posi-tions. Most trout in Moraine Park rarely exceed 14 inches, but given that their home for six months of the year lies in 34 degree water, in-sulated as it were by the ice above and below, we can forgive them the meager growth spurt. All varieties

thrive; Rainbow, brown, brookies and cutthroats, each with their own color-scheme and temperament, each with appetites fluctuating as rapidly as the weather on summer afternoons when thundershowers routinely surprise the hundred or so campers vacationing there each day. The trick of course, is find-ing the right fly, the right bait, at the right time and in the right location. To those who know these waters, this combination remains elusive but obtainable. To strangers, it can be downright impossible, and many without proper patience, without the sustainable love that drives a man or woman to obsession, leave the park with broken spirits.

Colton sloshed into the Big Thompson. For the first time

in his nine years on the planet, he sensed a stoppage of time, a pri-mordial response to the rush and dull roar of the frosty stream and the elusive creatures that made it home. Despite his youthful pas-sions, or possibly because of them, he hesitated, allowing awe to take hold. His father treated the river with reverence, but practice casts in the meadow could not replicate the wonder of waters. Farther upstream he glimpsed his father’s rod disap-pearing behind a large family of chokecherry bushes at the stream’s edge. Finally, he could practice in peace, an art form that could ever and only be crafted to catch fish from the heart of the mountains. “All other pursuits are vain,” his father warned. Colton

agreed, but he was too young to know why, and he had not yet mas-tered the calmness of spirit required to draw heavenly pleasures from such an earthly, unorthodox mo-tion. He had much to learn.

The girl surprised him. Ahead, her body divided by the

low-hanging branches of a maple tree, she sat on a trapezoidal boul-der jutting out over a wide face of the river. He saw her reflection first, or rather the rippling shadow image of one long arm swaying back and forth in perfect rhythm before rest-ing on the surface. “Straight lines,” he heard his father say countless times. “You are point A. The fish are point B. The quickest way to the fish is through a straight line.” He could still hear his father’s voice, feel his rough hands take hold of his forearm, guiding it with firm, sure strokes. The girl’s rod bent forward, and to his amazement she promptly pulled in a good-sized trout. He splashed his way to her, the river pushing him along, pounding against his thin frame in the over-sized waders. Suddenly self-conscious, he pulled up short as she unhooked the healthy trout from the fly line. She was squatting now, not sitting, wearing blue jeans and a cream colored buttoned shirt with a curved collar, un-tucked. Her light brown hair dangled near the crease in her pants at her waist, the tips even disappearing behind the fabric. She turned to face him, fish in hand, and his pulse raced. He raised his left hand shyly. She set the fish loose and it vanished beneath the quick flowing torrent, likely headed for less trou-bled waters, at least for the day.

tulsiby Pete Able


“What’d you do that for?” he asked. “I let them all go.” “Why?” “I just like to catch ‘em. I don’t want to keep ‘em.” He noticed for the first time she did not have a satchel. “That was a real beaut. A brookie I’ll bet.” “Rainbow.” “That ain’t no rainbow trout.” “Yes it was.” “No, it wasn’t. My dad showed me pictures.” “Pictures can’t tell a damn thing.” Her curse unnerved him. “Well, it looked like a brookie to me.” “You’re just a kid, and you don’t know a damned thing, either.” She slid down the boulder and stood to her full height. He noted with displeasure she was tall-er than him by a good three inches. It unnerved him even more. Still, the gall calling him a kid. “You ain’t any older than me, I’ll bet.” “I’m ten. How old’er you?” “Ten,” he lied. Colton had no idea what compelled him to add one year other than he straight up did not want to get beat by a girl at anything, including an age war. “You don’t look ten,” she replied, miffed. “What’s your name?” “Colton.” “Well Colton, I can tell you’re not from around here. I sup-pose you’re camping?” “We drove up from Texas yesterday. We’re here a week.” The girl nodded impercepti-bly. “Well, you can have this

spot. I’ll move downstream a’ways.” She turned, rested the rod on her shoulder, and seemed to glide over the surface of the water like some nymph goddess straight out of a fairy tale. The sun broke from behind a strand of clouds and turned the river to diamonds, while the brightest jewel receded be-yond a clump of wild rose bushes. Colton swallowed hard and gath-ered his wits. “Hey! What’s your name?” “Tulsi!” she yelled. “Tulsi? What the hell kinda name is Tulsi?” But she was gone.

“Pretty sure that was a brookie yesterday.” Colton wiped sweat from his brow. His work on the new clinch knot Tulsi had demonstrated was painstakingly slow. She had readied her dry mayfly with a few strands of her incredible hair. In that same amount of time he man-aged to complete his second loop and secure a decent hold of the line without having it all unravel in his Neanderthal fingers. The sun was setting, and the mountain air responded with a brisk, reviv-ing alacrity. Still, the job was te-dious. Time to fish already. He had no idea why he tried to resume a day old argument, but he figured it might distract her from the fact that she was dealing with a rank ama-teur. “Did you catch any yester-day?” Tulsi asked. “Yes,” he lied. “It was a rainbow. Some people expect rainbows to look very different, but the pink really isn’t that noticeable most of the time.”

Colton accepted this, since on the one hand he had no idea if this was true, and on the other, most important hand, it gave him an out. So he replied. “Oh.” They fished standing only a few feet apart. Colton knew his father would not approve, but Tul-si allowed it. He felt alternating waves of thankfulness and embar-rassment. Her company sent a vis-ceral thrill through his body that his nine year old mind could not ex-plain. His casts often flopped ridic-ulously into the river, and her occa-sional smirks sent a balmy redness to his cheeks and neck. No doubt the fish were laughing as well.

“Tulsi is an Indian herb.” They sat near one another in the cool grass several yards from the bank of the stream. The blood orange sun sank below the moun-tain ridge, painting a sky that no artist rendition could ever capture in perfection. She poured some granola from a paper bag and of-fered it to him. Her fingers grazed his open palm, and the hairs on his arm stood on end. “It’s like basil,” she contin-ued. “Indians from around here use it?” he asked between crunch-es. “No, in India. The country. Some people worship it.” “They worship a plant?” he asked incredulously. “Some people are just plain dumb.” “You should use nymphs instead of dry flies.” She replied as if she had not brought up the pre-vious subject. “They are better for beginners. The trout eat mostly un-derwater anyway.” Tulsi looked at him and


smiled. She rose, dusted her blue jeans, and headed back toward one of the many tributaries of the Big Thompson. Colton rolled his eyes and returned to his campsite where his parents were preparing dinner. He could not be sure, but his father seemed disappointed his knapsack was empty. That night Colton dug through his father’s equipment and found a weighted pheasant tail nymph. He tucked it in his pocket before climbing into his sleeping bag for the night.

Colton caught several brown trout and a couple of brookies

over the next three days. He did not see Tulsi once.

Colton woke to the sounds of his parents packing away camping

gear in their trailer. With blinking eyes he peered out from the door-way of the small tent he had called home for the past week. His moth-er had not approved of him sleep-ing alone, but his father came the rescue as dads are wont to do when they feel any threat to their son’s developing masculinity. The morning sun had not crept into view. Far above, a hawk cried as it dove toward the dew-drenched earth and a small mam-mal scurrying for its burrow. For some reason, the sound turned his thoughts to Tulsi. He could see his fishing rod still leaning against the bumper of their 1958 Impala, its new front grill coated with dead grasshoppers from recent drives through the park. He pulled on some clothes, tiptoed bent at the waist to the vehicle, grabbed his rod and hurried downhill from the campsite toward the river. He found her almost immediately, working over a little eddy just be-

yond a series of small waterfalls. In his mind, it seemed like a terrible place to fish. He wanted to call to her but instead inexplicably tried to walk past without acknowledging her existence. Like an experienced trout, Tulsi did not take the bait. Colton stopped to watch her perfect casts. They were slightly different somehow, a subtle movement just as the fly line wholly extended kept the fly from fully touching the sur-face. Suddenly, a large trout leaped out of the current to take the fly. “Wow!” He could not stifle his amazement. Tulsi smiled but did not turn his direction. She had her hands full loosing line and re-spooling it around the reel to help bring in the aggressive fish. Colton sloshed his way to her and successfully soaked his pants and half his shirt before helping her secure the flopping fish against a smooth rock. “Now this is a brookie,” she said triumphantly. They both stared at the gasping fish for a moment, then their eyes met and they both laughed. “That was incredible. How did you do that?” “Do what?” “Get it to jump like that.” “I didn’t. That’s something they do. I just have to make it look real.” “Your cast kept the fly skimming the surface. How?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It just felt right. Sometimes you have to take risks to get a big reward.” They released the trout, carefully extracting the hook be-fore submerging it a few moments and letting go. It shot away like a rocket. “We’re leaving this morn-

ing.” Colton felt a heaviness de-scend on his heart as he spoke. “Thanks for coming to find me,” she said. Her words burned away the heaviness as surely as the sun was burning away the morning fog. They sat on the shore and spoke in quiet voices for an hour. Once, an elk splashed across the river only a few feet away and stopped to sharpen its impressive antlers on a small aspen tree. Fish-ing no longer held sway in Colton’s mind. He learned Tulsi lived near the park and therefore frequented these fishing waters much of the year. He also learned her mother had died the year before and her father was a hard man, prone to drinking, but an excellent fly fish-erman in any state of mind. She lived with her aunt, a fine, strong woman Tulsi hoped to emulate in almost every way imaginable. Colton allowed himself to believe the conversation would never end. His mother’s voice shattered the il-lusion. “I have to go.” “Will you come back?” “Maybe next summer.” She smiled. “Okay then. You can practice between now and then.” “I’ve gotten pretty good!” he objected. “At some things.” Tulsi leaned over and kissed his cheek, and before he could re-act she was up, dashing across the meadow like a fox after a rabbit, her long hair billowing behind her like a fantastic, waving, magical river.



Freedom, 1962by John Hearn

The train rolled slowly along the winding Kansas River. We

were sharing a boxcar with an old white-haired guy who appeared to be a tramp and who sat in a corner of the car, all tangled up in a bicy-cle that looked as old as he did. His thin limbs were threaded through the bike’s steel frame, as though he expected us to steal it and to beat him for good measure, as though he were a human lock or the bicycle were a shield, one protecting the other. Doc and I sat with our legs hanging from the open door. We were eating sardines. Long, low rows of warehouses and factories sat in front of taller brick buildings that ran along the base of a hilly cliff dotted with houses. Above that was an open, blue, cloudless, sky holding a bright yellow sun. “We’re in the middle of America now, Jackie Boy,” Doc said. “We’re in the heart of its heart. No more Boston bullshit for us. Fuck Ted Williams!” I was eating my sardines and watching the groups of men on the

factory loading docks who were eating lunch and smoking ciga-rettes. Suddenly a loud PING! shot off the side of the boxcar. Then an-other, and another. PING! PING! A rock flew by, grazing my raccoon cap, and ricocheting around the in-side of the car, landing under the hobo’s bicycle. I looked back to-ward the factories and could see the workers throwing rocks at us. Doc popped up in one motion, reached down, grabbed the hood on my sweatshirt and scooped me up and out of the open doorway and into the boxcar. “Why in the…” I began to ask once I had caught my breath. “They’re pissed off.” “At us?” “Not really, but they think so.” “Who are they really pissed off at?” “At their lives.” “Why?” “Think about it, Jackie. Those guys spend forty or fifty hours a week in a factory, probably stand-

ing by a machine they’ve become a slave to. The machine tells them when to move and how to move and when to have a break. The place is so noisy they can’t carry on a human conversation and so they spend all day in silence, trip-ping over their own thoughts. And the machine demands that they not think clearly, because that may interrupt its constant thumping, which is simply not allowed. Can you imagine what that must do to a man? To his brain? His soul? And add to that the fact that he knows this is what he’ll be doing tomor-row, and next month, and ten and twenty and thirty years from now. He knows there’s no escape, which is what he wants most.” “Why take it out on us?” “Because we’ve escaped! Look at us! We’re outside looking at the sky, traveling the country, eating seafood, without a fuckin’ care in the world! We are living like hu-man beings were meant to live! We’re free!”



In writing we often have relation-ships of many types but the most

prevalent seems to be romance. The true beauty in writing romance can be the little subtle cues. Things such as a gentle touch to the shoul-der as they stand beside you; trac-ing a shape with gentle fingertips on the back of your hand; there are hundreds of little cues that can be used to show affection. So many times, all you see is the overt signs and that can be a loss for the sto-ry. A secret love or unspoken love can make these signs all that much

more important. These subtle clues allow for the observant reader to notice the connection even before the characters notice it. While it is possible to simply have them de-clare their feelings, this is not al-ways possible at various points in a story. As an example, let us look at an adventure where the main char-acters have developed affection but are trying to hide it from the antag-onist. A smart antagonist could pick up on those little cues and realize he or she can use that as a point of leverage against the heroes. On the

opposite side of things, if your an-tagonist holds feelings for one of the protagonists of your story, sub-tle details such as using more re-straint or letting an opportunity pass which could have given advantage but would have put the object of af-fection in harm’s way. There are so many ways to use the subtle nuanc-es hidden in human feelings to the advantage in storytelling. All you have to do is remember that you are looking at things from the outside and look for ways to include those little hints in your writing.

Writing Tools: :Subtle SignsBy William Blackrose


Writing Tools: Subtle SignsLet us look at one image in our

minds. A young woman is at the window to her home as the man she cares for leaves to accomplish a dangerous task. A single tear falls from her eye because she is afraid she will never see him again. She has never told him of her feelings but secretly loves him. A secret and unreturned love can be both tragic and endearing. This can also be a reason for the character to leave and go after the object of her affec-tion. That is one thing to remember as well. You do not have to have the characters interact to show the subtle hints.

Examples of Subtle Signs• A gentle hand on the shoulder as the characters look at something• Tracing small patterns on the back of the person’s hand• Brushing a stray hair from the person’s face• Holding hands under a table• Simply a tender look at each oth-er in a stolen moment

There are so many more, it would take entire books to list them. Writ-er’s Digest Library actually has several books that could prove use-ful to writers looking to adapt this method.


Shannan White@magicianhair

Alex Williams@missalexmonroe

Find us on Instagram@bohemiajournal

Bohemia Backstage & behind the scenes: Bohemia Hair & Makeup Team; Waco, TX

Focus on Alex Williams (Makeup) & Shannan White (Hair)

Shanna & Alex at the Dance shoot.

Shannon & Alex did HMU for the Camelot shoot.

Shannan and Alex at our Russia shoot.

Alex at the Vampire shoot.


Valley Mills

Photography by David Irvin

Featuring Stephanie Rystrom

At Valley Mills Vineyard

www.valleymillsvineyards.comWinery

In the spring of 2007, Valley Mills Winery planted its first two grapevine varietals on a rocky hillside

in Valley Mills, Texas. The land, which is embedded with fossils, is harsh but their grapes have flourished there. In late 2010, they opened the Winery and Tast-ing room (halfway between Valley Mills and Waco). Valley Mills Winery takes great pride in assisting their grapes’ journey from vineyard to winery and into your bottle of wine. They are growing world class grapes and producing great Texas wines.



John Hearn’s publications have ap-peared in the Washington Post and Epoch, among other places. He co-au-thored, with a student, Shade It Black: Death and After In Iraq (2011) and earned an honorable mention citation from Glimmer Train in their Short Story Contest for New Writers (2013)

LC Moore is a poet and nonfiction writ-er living on the midcoast of Maine with her soulmate and 4 month-old daugh-ter Capri. They run a gallery/gift shop out of their home, a renovated freight-house, out of which LC sells home-made poetry books. She currently writes for New England-based Green Leaf magazine (Http://www.greenleaf-magazine.com).

Joshua Quarles is a two time Junior Olympic runner. He is the nephew of Darryl Quarles who wrote the movie Big Mama’s House who has inspired Joshua to eventually write a movie. In his future he plans to keep writing and to continue running.

Rick Blum has been writing humor-ous prose and poetry for more than 25 years. Currently he is holed up in his office trying to pen the perfect bio, which he plans to share as soon as he stops laughing at the sheer futility of this effort.

Doug D’Elia was born in Massachu-setts. He served as a medic during Viet-nam.He is the author of the chapbook, “A Thousand Peaceful Buddhas,” sto-ries inspired by Vietnam. He has been published in magazines as diverse as “Evergreen Review” and “Bete Noir.” He can be contacted at [email protected]

Cassandra Dallett lives in Oakland, CA. Cassandra is a storyteller with a short attention span. She has published in many journals in print and online, look for links and upcoming features at cas-sandradallett.com. Her new book Wet Reckless was released from Manic D Press spring of 2014.

Safwan Khatib is a 17 year old student and writer from Indianapolis, Indiana. His poetry has recently appeared in Surrealist Star Cluster Illuminations, The Literary Yard, Contraposition, Manic Fervor, and The Noisy Island.

Gary Lee Webb is a 17-year resident of Waco. He is just finishing up a year as the central Texas governor for Toast-masters International, guiding 29 clubs towards success. His credits include four decades of conferences and con-tests across the world, public events for three Texas cities, assisting at both high school and adult speech contests, and over three dozen publications.

Dallas area photographer Lorenzo Martinez has been shooting casually since the age of 10 and professionally since 2009. Normally a senior, fam-ily, event photographer, he has slowly started following more artistic pursuits into editorial and fashion shoots fulfill-ing his need for artistic expression.

William Blackrose says, “I grew up traveling a lot, so developed an early love of the written word. I eventually grew tired of seeing the same story and decided to start writing my own. After writing my first book at 12 years of age and having my poetry published at 13. Since then, I have never stopped writ-ing.”

Contributors

A.J. Huffman has published seven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and the win-ner of the 2012 Promise of Light Haiku Contest. Her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com

Pete Able has been writing stories and poetry for over 20 years. His screen-plays have been finalists with Scrip-tapalooza, PAGE International, and the New York Television Festival, among others. He lives in Woodway, TX with his wife, Melissa, and daughters Joan-na and Lila. His short story collection Strong Women and the Men Who Love Them is available on Amazon.


Where will you be singing Home Sweet Home

Find a forever home with Natalie Morphew

Natalie MorphewNatalie Morphew, [email protected] c | 254.399.7024 wwww.nataliemorphew.com

Waco, Texas is a beautiful place to live, founded in 1849 by the Huaco Indians that lived on the land in the present-day downtown area. Waco offers some ma-jor attractions, five historic homes, seven recreational venues, and nine arts organizations staging theatrical and musical productions, as well as art exhibitions. Waco is also brimming with Texas history, economic opportunity, and a rich variety of cultural experiences. With three college facilities including: Baylor Universi-ty, McLennan Community College, and Texas State Technical Institute. The city boasts one of the of the biggest and best municipal parks in Texas, Cameron Park. The 416-acre park is located in the heart of Waco, next to downtown, situated on the Brazos and Bosque Rivers. It hosts numerous races, triathlons, boat races and more.

Find a forever home with Natalie MorphewFind a forever home with Natalie MorphewFind a forever home with Natalie Morphew

Natalie Morphew

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