Sounds are the chameleons of the senses. They shift meaning, like the wild lizard shifts its color. They are inexplicit in truth, distorted by the mind of the listener, much like the sounds that awakened Timothy Corbett one morning in the hushed sobriety of dawn.
Corbett, his body lashed to the remnants of sleep, heard what sounded like the mating bellow of a dog, cat or a whore. He waited and the sound returned, unmistakable. It was the cry of a baby, his least favorite sound. It crossed the narrow alley that separated his flat from the building next door. Sluggish, ill-tempered, when he could take it no longer, he roused his lean, tan frame from Saturday sleep, pushed aside the heavy drape from his single window and stared outside. The cries seeped from a closed window across the alley, like smoke drifting from the start of a fire, little muted by a soiled drawn shade. The cries even masked the noisy Channel beach, which he could see from where he stood, the early boatmen transporting loud passengers to Brighton and east to Deal, across to Calais and Boulogne, any place their raucous hearts desired.
He wondered what the baby wanted that its mother could not provide. Babies kept well their thousand golden secrets, but he knew how simple the needs of infants were. The littlest ones thrived on milk and love and nominal comfort, modest enough needs for a mother to calm a fussy baby.
No one likes to hear a crying baby, but Corbett disliked it more than most. It resurrected a memory he long sought to forget, an event which occurred when he was fifteen. Beyond the memory, in a mounting aversion as he aged, he had come to loathe the assault of all noise, no matter how innocent or inconsequential, no matter how blameless the source. He craved the nourishment of quiet.
Weeks before, in the moments before dark, he glanced at the same window across the alley. Its shade had not yet been lowered and he observed a woman inside. She was petite, with chestnut hair, seated at a table writing letters. Wildly writing letters. There was, at the time, no evidence of a baby. He had stepped away from the window, then back again, and the shade was down, as if she had felt his eyes.
The infant’s cry continued. Corbett raised the window and yelled, “Let a man get some sleep.”
There was no response. He turned his thoughts to the late November air, cool and invigorating.
It had become his habit when the noise of Dover became unbearable to him, to take a walk, escaping the foghorns coming from the Channel, the hawking market vendors, the weeping widows mourning husbands lost at sea, the babies who weep for notions they cannot yet describe.
He was about to lower the sash on his window, when the letter-writer from across the alley raised the shade. Corbett hid in the folds of his drape. The woman glanced at the sky and shivered, pulling her shawl close. She had tawny skin and a lattice of ribbons which coursed through long sections of hair that drooped and curled on her chest. Her rugged beauty, wide eyes and course features pulled him closer to the window. He thought she belonged to the wilderness.
She rocked a cradle perched on a table beside her, to no improvement. The baby wailed.
He pounded on the ledge and slammed down the window. The woman stared at him. She lifted the infant from the cradle and held it close. Behind her, a dressmaker’s form modeled patches of a gown-in-progress. Remnants of fabric were scattered around her.
She loosened her blouse and steadied the baby at her breast. Modestly, she turned from the window, aware of his gaze. For a moment, the cries ceased as the baby sucked. Corbett watched the pose, envied the rapport between mother and child, the magical closeness. Soon, however, the cries resumed. The mother tempted interest with her other breast, as far as he could see, but to no avail.
Corbett’s stomach churned and he grabbed his jug of milk from the landing outside his kitchen window, gulped until the throbbing stopped. He would go see this woman with her chestnut hair and her baby.
He washed, dressed, and combed his hair, then walked the steps to the street. He climbed to the top of the building next door. Official papers were nailed to her door. He lifted the edge of the papers and saw that they covered the strokes of a single word, an epithet, sprawled in red: Gypsy.
He read the notice on the door. The woman, Martine Chabon, was to be evicted in a month, the week before Christmas. How like a landlord, he thought, to oust a tenant so close to the holiday.
To Corbett, however, the holiday meant little more than memories of sparse, chaotic meals and harsh admonitions from a stern, defeated father. It meant hearing his mother’s muffled sighs when she had no money to buy gifts for her children. A woodcutter’s wage and the earnings of a laundress were inadequate. Too many Corbett children.
The eviction notice made no mention of a husband. Martine and child lived alone. When no one answered his knock, he tried the door, found it unlocked and went inside.
“Is anyone home?” he called out.
The dressmaker form he had seen from where he lived guarded the empty room, a sentry with an hour-glass figure. He saw an iron and board, and a rack of dresses in assorted stages of completion. A sewing basket, its contents in disarray, sat on the bare, wooden floor. Inside the basket, there was satin bias in subtle shades, assorted thimbles and wooden spools of thread, needles with all-sized eyes packaged like a brood of growing children.
Corbett stepped close to the remnants of cloth he had noticed from his window, their mixed scents suggesting a tailor shop. Cotton, linen, taffeta, wool, silk, herringbone. He thought the remnants must have once composed thick bolts brought to Martine by the wealthy widows and wives who lived in grand villas on the edge of town. These rich women, troubled by their reliance on tradesmen, without whom they could not live, were notorious for not paying their seamstress bills when due, if they paid them at all. For a dozen years before she died, his mother did their wash. She came home from the mansions with colorful stories, payment enough, she would say, when the Corbett’s, too, were on the suffering end of bad debt.
In the corner of her flat, behind a three-paneled dressing screen rested a stack of exquisite baby clothes, like a spray of garden flowers, made, he assumed, by Martine Chabon from the fancy remnants; made for a baby girl, hers. The clothes were hidden, as if concealed from her clients, her own private stock. The pile contained tiny silk dresses in lavender, rose and ivory; there were caps and mittens and socks; white cotton diapers and slips; flannel and woolen sacks and little gowns. He touched a few pieces of clothing, the surface soft on his rough hands, the silks abraded by his dry skin. The items were lined with cotton or silk in a perfect marriage of texture, color and function, fashioned with delicate hand-embroidered flowers. Doll-clothes, too, and a stuffed doll with buttons for eyes and robin’s nest hair. Astonishing art, each stitch an affidavit of joy in her work and love for her child.
He noticed few possessions in Martine’s simple room. A letter spilled onto the table from its envelope and onto a medallion shaped from flattened coins, similar to adornment he had seen on the Gypsy caravan wagons camped by the sea. There were two stale biscuits and a jug of water.
Corbett stumbled over empty sacks he recognized from the market. Perhaps she was there now, he thought, buying milk from an ass, the cheapest milk, necessary since her own breasts were seemingly stalled.
As he crossed the room to leave, Corbett caught sight of his own window from hers. He sucked in his breath and his heart raced. He stared at the lining of his own soul. His possessions, as sparse as Martine’s, stung him from this fresh, unaccustomed view: a towering armoire which held more empty space than clothes, a short stack of books he had read, then read again: Shakespeare, Moliere, Dickens, an English/French dictionary, an iron bed with ragged coverlet, the bed of a pauper, he told himself, unlike the richness of the beds of the bourgeoisie with their Chinese satin and Indian damasks.
Nor was Corbett’s bed like Moliere’s bed, which he read possessed a dome decked with flowing aurora and green taffeta falling in the shape of a tent. The simplest beds, like his parents’ bed, were hung with woolens such as Aumale serge, red or dried-rose-leaf color, of Bruges satin with linen warp, sold on the Rue Saint-Denis near the gate of Paris. For his own bed to mimic Moliere’s, Corbett remembered how he had made a dome of thin, new branches he wrenched from maple trees, the wands twisted in loops while green, tied bedpost to bedpost, like a skeleton waiting to be dressed. He hadn’t wished to die in a pauper’s bed.
He gazed at his stark self-portrait, framed by the window of an aging building, and he saw that he lived a thin life.
He left Martine’s and searched the market, but she was not there. In the pavilion, vendors unfolded their tables of fruits and vegetables and meat and fish brought from nearby farms and from the sea, endive, apples, barberries, larks, turkeys, geese, crayfish, whiting, and trout. The scents merged into a banquet of leftovers. In season, the food in the market was plentiful and wholesome and reasonable in price. It drew people to the market, drew them to his stall and for that he was grateful.
Corbett was the only purveyor of pigeons and they were always in season. He was his own boss; he arrived and left his stall as he wished, knowing his customers would always wait for him.
He stopped at his stall, unlocked and opened one of the cages and held the plumpest pigeon.
“Ah, my little one,” Corbett said, with tempered affection. “How lucky you are to have such a reputation.”
He towered over his first customer, a frail shoemaker with worn shoes. Corbett’s attention drifted as he remembered how his father, as the tallest man he’d known, scared him, and how he, in turn, prized his inherited height for its control over people. The shoemaker cleared his throat and stared at him. He handed him the bird.
“You must not over-roast her,” Corbett said, pocketing the payment, and his customer went on his way without a word, Corbett still advising him. “Serve her with long-stirred gravy and the flavor is just like veal.”
The market stalls were ready and the customers arrived, choreography performed for generations. The hours passed as hucksters sang daily bargains, as children shrieked in play, as smart carriages hauling powdered ladies of uncertain age thundered over cobblestones and fat servants haggled loudly. Finally, he could no longer endure the noise. He locked up, and headed for the wheat fields.
He heard the faint guttural sounds of distant cows wandering in the meadow owned by the farmer closest to town. He listened to the space between sounds, where everything making a racket happened, by chance, to be quiet at the same moment.
He knew the pasture well. Summer weekends were boisterous on the street where he lived, and he would lounge in this same quiet pasture, a book in his hand. There was a farmhouse on the property and a barn. Corbett would read until night came and the Gypsies lit their fires. He would listen to the spittle of flame that jumped from their tiny conflagrations; often, he fell asleep.
Dream demons would visit each time he slept outdoors. The nightmare was this: a baby cried on Corbett’s fifteenth birthday, waking him. His infant brother, soaked with fever, suffered convulsions, and was dead before sunrise. Even in sleep, Corbett could not forget.
Awake again, and gray clouds and thunder and the musky scent of earth rose behind him and the rain came in torrents. He plodded his way up the hill to the barn. Inside, he dried his face and arms with burlap, and, as he searched for a dry spot to rest, he saw her. Martine, of the chestnut hair and rainbow ribbons. She was unaware he watched.
She lounged by a Guernsey. Her baby, bundled in cap and woolen sack, supine on a mattress of hay, rested between the cow’s four legs. The tiny form stirred. The animal did not move, apart from a mild ear tremor, as if it guessed the prudence of stillness.
Martine rubbed the cow’s orange velvet flank. She primed an udder and then massaged it, forcing long streams of creamy milk into the infant’s hungry mouth. The baby lapped and swallowed.
The bleak naturalness of the Gypsy’s act stunned him and he felt unsteady on his feet. Suddenly, a blast of gunfire lit the far end of the barn. The sound tore into his head. Martine turned; she saw the response in Corbett’s face and grabbed the baby and huddled in the shadows of the stall.
For a moment, surrounded by restless animals and coarse barnyard scents, their eyes met. Martine’s almond eyes softened. Corbett sucked in his breath, felt numb and flushed and the harsh smells vanished.
The gun blasted again and Corbett ran to a distant stall, to distract the farmer.
“What are you doing here?” the farmer said. His eyes blazed and he cocked his rifle. Corbett’s height did not intimidate the farmer, but, then, a gun gives men courage.
“Just coming in from the rain,” Corbett said quickly, his hands spread before him. “I meant no harm.”
The farmer’s eyes scanned the barn, deep vertical lines forming between his eyebrows, his lips angled in rage.
“Someone’s been stealing milk from my cows.” The man lowered his rifle. “Can’t be too careful.”
Corbett glanced behind the angry man and caught a figure outside the window. Martine had hurried from the barn, unseen by the farmer. She pulled the front of her skirt to her waist, shielding the baby from the rain.
“I am sorry, sir,” Corbett said. “I will leave at once, of course.”
“No, no, that’s fine. When the rain stops, then you leave. Can’t be too careful, that’s all.”
He thanked the farmer and waited for a pause in the rain. Again, he glanced out the window, but Martine was well out of sight. A new feeling of purpose took hold, a baffling plague which moved him deeply.
Martine was home when he knocked. Soaked with rain, her hair formed an ebony cap on her scalp. She greeted Corbett with a hesitant smile, lowered her eyes and head and blushed. Pointing to her breasts, she shucked her hands downward in studied motion. She spoke with her body, not her voice, performing a silent, yet luminous, conversation. She stared often at his lips, watching for the formation of words.
“In the barn,” he said, “you did what you had to do. You must not feel ashamed.”
She motioned him inside and led him to the table. She took a cup from the cabinet and served water from the jug, awkward in his presence. Still, she looked pleased that he had come. Her eyes said as much: lively, expressive. He watched as she fussed with the satin quilt that covered her sleeping infant. The room seemed different to him, now that she was in it.
“You are a seamstress, I see.”
She smiled and nodded. She offered him a biscuit; abruptly, she tried to retrieve it, embarrassed, but he had already bit into the stale, tasteless morsel. “It’s delicious. Really.”
He waited for her to speak, as one would expect during an ordinary social exchange, but she remained silent.
“What is your baby’s name?” he asked.
Her hands and face united in a grand, silent eloquence he had never before witnessed. Her messages moved toward him like the gradual scent of perfume. She lifted the satin quilt from the cradle and brought it to him. The name Nathalie was embroidered in vibrant colors of the rainbow.
“I have milk,” he said. “When Nathalie is hungry again, signal me from the window. Do not go the farmer’s barn anymore. He will kill you if he catches you near his cows.”
A sudden street sound roused the baby and it cried. The clamor disturbed him greatly. Martine didn’t hear the street sound or the child’s cry, but Corbett knew she sensed Nathalie’s needs.
Corbett fattened his pigeons, sold the most perfect specimen for a record sum, and all the time he pondered Martine’s welfare. For weeks, he awoke to silence across the alley, the shade pulled snug behind the woman’s window. Daily, he stared at the window, picturing her hair falling to her waist, imagining her almond eyes conversing with her daughter.
He drank his milk daily; put enough aside to satisfy an infant, should the request come, but the milk soured waiting. He wondered if Martine’s breasts suddenly filled with milk in some secular miracle which had everything to do with him, or maybe she resumed the dangerous visits to the farmer’s barn. Or, more likely, the baby died from the fever or the croup. This last thought made him dizzy.
The weekend came and he found himself at Martine’s building. The wind scraped his cheeks raw and snow fell, large flakes vanishing as they reached the ground. In the front of the building’s crumbling stone facade, on the narrow brick sidewalk, he recognized Martine’s scattered furniture. Her table and chair, her small straw mattress, bundles of fabric twirled and twisted, damp from the snow and from rain puddles splashed from passing carts.
An old, stooped woman tripped on her muslin skirt, struggled to push the mattress from to the curb.
“I’m old,” she said, her face beet red and puffy, her nose a perfect triangle. “Don’t stand there staring, help me.”
He hesitated, and then asked, “Where is the girl?”
“The girl who belongs to all this. Where is she?”
“How would I know? Give me a hand.”
“I want the mattress and fabric.”
“As you wish,” she said.
The old woman watched him lift the mattress, watched him drag it to his building. When he returned for the fabric, the old woman was gone and so was the fabric.
The mattress secure in his flat, Corbett took the road to the barn, passing sturdy poplars which stood in formation. The Gypsy wagons were gone, moving on to another village. Martine had lived apart from them but they were, perhaps, her kin. Their absence weighed on his heart.
The cows were out to pasture, some turning to stare as he breezed by. The barn was empty. There was no sign of the farmer, Martine, or her baby, no sound but the crackle of aging hay below his feet. Then he heard it: irregular spurts of soft sounds coming from the loft. A baby’s breath, audible in the silence of the barn.
He grabbed the sides of the ladder and made his way to the loft. Black flies buzzed his ear and he fanned them away. Martine slept propped against the wall, Nathalie awake and alert on her mother’s belly. Beside them, the stack of baby clothes she could not leave behind when evicted, the top layer poking from the open end of a worn satchel.
Corbett, breathless with affection, felt uneasy. He wanted to leave the barn, race home and resume his life-before-Martine, but she awoke at that moment. It was as if she sensed his complicated thoughts and wished to caption them before he raced into the refuge of himself. Her eyes were persuasive, eloquent, and he lay with her.
Corbett and Martine strolled the pavilion in late November, Nathalie slung on her hip.
“One pomegranate left, Mr. Corbett,” the stout fruit vendor said, winking, “then none until next October. I saved it for you.” He winked again. “If you share it with your lady, you’ll be lucky in love.”
That evening, they sucked the red berry juice out of the fruit’s flesh and smiled at each other as they lay together in his bed.
A sign made of solid cedar sat propped beside his armoire read: Martine’s Quality Children’s Clothes. He had stayed up long after she had gone to sleep, carving each letter deep within the wood’s rich grain. In his youth, he was known to be good with his hands, and he regarded his finished work, unashamed of the pleasure that he felt.
“It’s an early Christmas gift,” he said.
She pointed to each word; she inhaled deeply, released firm gasps of breath; she cradled the sign and kissed his cheek.
Her response renewed his sense of pride. He could imagine a shop for her, north of the village where rents were cheaper. She could shed the wealthy widows and wives, unless they had children to clothe, and she could sell her handmade pieces, cash in advance.
One night at twilight, despite the chill in the air, Corbett and Martine left Nathalie asleep in the flat, and picnicked in a snug grassy nook near the pavilion. The market was closed for the day. Food, for a man like Corbett in the habit of eating alone, is functional. Before Martine, his noonings and suppers were meager. Water from the well or milk, a wedge of mutton, a helping of bread. Although he had always appreciated the beauty and sense stimulation of foods, he needed little. Now, food was a bright beacon between them and he grew accustomed to its ritual.
They shared the last of the dark country bread as twilight turned to night, having stretched the bread for days until the first tincture of mold appeared. They ate the yolks of hard eggs, lit a candle to distinguish between chicken and sausage, shared a Savannah rice cake, drank a rich, pleasant wine, and Corbett told Martine about his admiration for Moliere’s bed.
He told her stories of the beds of the rich, the hyperboles in velvet, how the bed in the King’s chamber remained a four-poster until the Revolution. A hundred years later, bedrooms were small, he told her, less open to the winds and better heated, and the beds, modeled after the arctic bedchambers of the sovereigns at Versailles, no longer needed the tight enclosures of drapes. Still, he longed for the richness of the beds of old times, he said, not the bed of a pauper, not the Aumale serge of a modest man, but flowing aurora and green taffeta which fell in the shape of a tent. He still wanted to sleep in Moliere’s bed. He doubted she understood him, but she was attentive and seemed pleased by his company.
Lamb was plentiful at this time of year and Corbett traded four pigeons for a great shank of lamb, and he and Martine feasted.
That evening, he sketched drawings of Martine’s Quality Children’s Clothes and together they planned the layout of the shop.
Martine made drapes from her remnants for a dome on Corbett’s bed. She had understood him, after all. She pushed aside the drapes, bringing him the morning sunrise. Long beams of daylight badgered him awake, angled, as they were, through the flowing aurora and green taffeta which fell in the shape of a tent. He no longer slept in a pauper’s bed.
Martine’s hands were chatty. Corbett smiled at her, pulled her to him and they lay together beneath Moliere’s dome. He could feel her beating heart. It was resonant; it evoked the words she couldn’t say and he felt it as something new, exciting, peculiar.
Nathalie lay in a roomy basket on the floor by the window. She played with her own small hands. Martine retrieved milk from the outdoor landing and fed it to the child.
Corbett yawned and stretched. Martine was a patient teacher of the language of silence and he learned to understand her gestured speech. He stared at her graceful movements, wondered what her voice would sound like if she could speak. He imagined a melodic, reassuring tongue.
Martine moved easily around Corbett, sharing thoughts by her expressions, by her wild Gypsy eyes, by a shrug of her rounded shoulders. She sensed his chronic tug-of-war between living alone and with someone, and told him so, in her own way. She conveyed her fear that the silence of one new citizen in Timothy Corbett’s life, namely herself, might not offset the everyday noise of the second citizen, Nathalie. She spoke this with the silent symphony of her light, bright heart, mouthed by her smooth ballet of hands. She asked did he want them to leave.
She stared, waiting. Instead of an answer, he gathered the items for his shave, effectively changing the subject.
Corbett glanced into a small mirror and soaped the day-old stubble on his face and neck. He pulled the long razor from his cheek to his chin, caught sight of her in the mirror, watching him. He rinsed the soapy dollop in the basin of water. He examined these last months of what had been, to him, the unimaginable occupation of his room by persons other than himself. Alone for so long, he realized it was unthinkable to awaken to the presence of another. There had never been moisture on his sheets, except for his own sweat. Now, the woman’s scent and the odor of mingled fluids invaded his dreams, bruised his appetite for seclusion. No place defined him to himself except in solitude. The solitary life which had always renewed his spirit was now transformed, altered not so much by noise – Martine was mute, after all, and when Nathalie cried, Martine walked her until she fell asleep – as by the undeniable fact that his days had been changed by the primal obligation to another human being. Corbett, to his great misfortune, now believed he couldn’t share his life with anyone.
When he was a boy, a sudden pastoral compulsion struck his father, a convert to the teachings of St. Paul, the saint who said, “It is a good thing for a man to have nothing to do with women.” Without warning, his father left his mother. His father had been repulsed by the act of love, sickened by his own carnal desires, relinquished all notions of physical love, and could no longer relate to his wife as a human being. After Corbett’s mother died, the children were taken in by the rich and by the poor. Corbett had siblings he hadn’t seen in twenty years and it didn’t trouble him.
He shifted his weight at the mirror, cleared his throat, and imagined his words: I’m sorry, Martine, but you’ll have to leave. It was a mistake, that’s all. I’ll help you find suitable lodging.
He felt the scorched heat of her eyes watching him shave and knew that if he turned and looked, he would witness her anger, or worse, her disappointment.
Corbett spent increasing hours at the pavilion tending the pigeons, feeding them, cleaning the cages. He would arrive home late, eat supper, and fall asleep.
On the coldest winter morning, he awoke to an empty room. Martine and the child were gone. Missing, too, everything she brought with her and the sign he had made her. The room felt as if the sun hadn’t shined for days.
He threw on his clothes and rushed to the farmer’s barn, but Martine was not there, nor was she at the pavilion. He walked to the beach. The damp morning mist and wind invaded his bones like superstition.
On the fishing dock, a boatman, one of dozens that made their living servicing the Channel, answered his questions.
“Yes, a young woman and infant. She crossed with me to Boulogne, long before dawn. She didn’t say a word, but my wife understood what she wanted.”
The boatman informed him she left something in his boat. “You’ll take it?”
He handed Corbett the sign, Martine’s Quality Baby Clothes. It was too much for her to carry, the old man told him, what with the infant, a satchel, sewing basket, and a mattress made of straw, folded and carried on her back.
“You can have it,” Corbett said. “Use the sign as firewood.”
“I would have helped her carry the load,” the boatman said, “but I couldn’t stay long on the other side.”
Fish wives pulled nets on the water’s edge. They glanced his way and spoke to each other in whispers.
Corbett smelled brine on the old man’s clothes and on his hands. He smelled the cedar sign, aromatic as incense. Durable wood, the sign would outlive him.
He recalled the soft scents of Martine and the sounds of the child. The water took them as if they had drowned in a storm.
He turned and walked from shore. The boatman called through the wind, holding the sign in his hand. “What shall I do with this?”
Corbett stopped on the pebbled beach. He took the sign from the boatman’s hands. It was a work of art, after all, his personal creation. The odor of sweet resin lingered in the air. He imagined the sound of a baby’s cry. Nathalie’s whimper drifted north across the channel and landed beside him on the beach. The waves slapped the shore but he couldn’t hear them. He watched the flapping wings of the gulls in flight, but they made no sound. The boatman prattled to the fish wives, but Corbett heard nothing. He brought the cedar scent to his nose and deeply inhaled.
“Solitaire” was originally published and broadcast by Quiddity.
Gerri George, WRR Literary Editor, writes stories, which often portray the human side of outsiders, have appeared in Literal Latte, Penn Review Literary Magazine, The Bucks County Writer, Quiddity International Literary Journal, and elsewhere. “A Rose by Any Other Name” was a Pushcart Prize nominee. “Night,” read by a professional actor before a literature-loving audience in London, Soho, also appears on the Liars’ League website, under the Sex and the City theme. She received a Barbara Deming Memorial Fund writing grant for women artists. Her article, “The Benefits of Chocolate,” appeared on Futurehealth.org. WEBSITE: www.futurehealth.org
Penn Review Literary Journal reprinted her story “Watching Belle’s Daughters” in an anniversary issue, chosen as a staff favorite, and read aloud at a University of Pennsylvania event. The story, a woman stopping her car for children in a crosswalk and deciding whether she and her husband should have children, was acknowledged by the listening audience as an important issue.
She worked a stint in California, long distance, as Associate Producer on several award-winning short films and web series, She studied screenwriting techniques and texts via the cyber world including theory by Robert McKee, Aaron Sorkin, John Truby, and Hal Croasmun. She’s written screenplays such as an adventure for children, and dramas for grown-ups, and a short script adapting one of her stories, A Rose by Any Other Name. In this story, a man struggles to come to terms with his grandchild’s gender reassignment decision. Screenplay and other awards along the way. She co-wrote with William Eib a TV series bible which was optioned by a trio of Hollywood producers.
As Literary Editor of WRR, she solicited both original work and reprints which included unique content by talented writers. A few examples: pieces such as “Three Myths About Art and Success” by singer-songwriter Carsie Blanton; a rare interview with the Dalai Lama by Edie Weinstein; and “Our First Language: Why Kids Need Poetry”, a wonderful essay by Jade Leone Blackwater, a Washington state poet.
FACEBOOK: Gerri George