The Bluestone Review 2025

The Bluestone Review 2025

Foreword Take a deep dive into the minds of the young and old individuals that mirror the Appalachian culture. From the mountain peaks to the valley floors, readers will experience poetry, short stories, and photography created by those that call Appalachia home. Thank you to the people who took their time to submit to The Bluestone Review , this would not be possible without you. We found great pleasure in reading your submissions and hope others enjoy it as much as we did. — Editors of The Bluestone Review

The Bluestone Review 32nd Edition - Spring 2025

Editors: Jonathan Collier Liberty Wolf

Layout and Design: Jenny Mitchell

Faculty Advisor: Dr. Irene Rieger

Front Cover: “Beautiful Bluefield at the City Park Ridge Runner Train Station.” By Wayne Pelts

Back Cover: “Tower of Baaable” By Nathan LePere

Table of Contents

Children’s Section Beyond The Bank Abigail York Lights Gone Dark

10

11

12 12 12 13 13 14 14 15 16 16 17 18 19 20 20

Royce Reedy

Dear Dad Livy Stamper Wavy Trees

Presley Lewis The Classroom Chatter Mason Monday The School Experience Kayleigh Dalton A Little Bit Warmer Ayden Pickett My Dear Old Friends

Brylee Shockley

The Tree

Dusty Broyles The Comfort of Cotton

Addison Billings Thunder Skies

Grace Williams Slow and Sweet Like Honey

Annette Edwards What Is Love? Isabella Lawson

Keys

Jace Gravely A Dream That Never Ended

Olivia Glossop The Workbench With The Upcoming Engine

Brady Sark

I Am From

21 22 23 24 25 25 26 26 27 28 30 30 31 32 32 33 34 35 36

Andrew Hicks

The Fields

Liliana Dunford The Finish Line Molly Stoots Education Is Key Dakota Blanchett The Commitment Liliana Dunford The Story of Leo Eli Stoots Spring Is Coming Houston Jackson I’ll Get It Done Judah Viars Dinner At 5 Isabella Ference Skies of Gray Parker Waller Teddy

Mason Cox

Faith

Karleigh Bolton Free One Day Alexis Cline Dirt and Sweat

Melanie Gravley Walls of Separation

Luke Monahan

True Flier

Dawson Beasley Children of the Fields Madalynn Gwisdalla Shattered in the Cold Ella White All Summers End

Laken Blevins

Photography

37 38 38 39 39 40 40 41 41 42 42 43 43 44 44 45

Old Man of Storr Nathan LePere Tower of Baaable Nathan LePere Cliffs of Skye Nathan LePere Dolphins of Skye Nathan LePere Fossil of Skye

Nathan LePere Torn, Battered, but Still Strong

Wayne Pelts

Classic

Tony Funk Powerful, Beautiful, Enduring Lines

Wayne Pelts Life Pulses Love Kimberly Moon Chrome and Steel Tony Funk Bridge Crossing Jenny Mitchell Mountain Man Judy Jenks Thorns of Grace Amber Leigh Lipscomb Echos of the Rails Amber Leigh Lipscomb

Log Rooftop

Jenny Mitchell Our Creators Beautiful Artwork With East River Mountain

45 46

Wayne Pelts

Respite

Cate Thornton

Beautiful Bluefield at the City Park Ridge Runner Train Station

46 47 47 48 48 49 49 50 51 54 56 58 60 62 64 64 53

Wayne Pelts At Dusk... Cate Thornton Orange Bee

Jenny Mitchell It’s All About the Light

Wayne Pelts At the Pond... Cate Thornton Harman Chapel Blake Carter Joining Waters

Jenny Mitchell

Prose

Learning to Dance

Larry Ellis Novel Excerpt

Larry Ellis Segment from Forthcoming Novel: The Secret of Hill Grove

Larry Ellis Sideshow

Teresa L. Matney & Brian F. Shortridge The Legend of the Dogwood Tree

Amy Presley Pretty Posies

Linda Hoagland ‘Til Death Do Us Part Linda Hoagland No Strings Attached

Linda Hoagland

No Fun

Linda Hoagland

The End of a Boom Town Gene Dunford The Flood of 2024, Aftermath of Hurricane Helene

66

67 67 69 70 71 71 72 72 73 74 75 75 76 76 77 78 78

Gene Dunford Buzzard Spit

Devonne Brown

Poetry

My Grandfather’s Prayers

Joshua Deweese

My Jesus Cate Thornton Revelations

Amy Dunford Funk

The Earth

Danielle Saunders The End of the Beginning Danielle Saunders Made the Day My Religion Mark Vogel The Work of Minor Gods

Mark Vogel

The One

Michael Vichiola Moonlight Divine Amber Leigh Lipscomb Sincerely Poetry Amber Leigh Lipscomb Patiently...For You Amber Leigh Lipscomb What Love Is... Aaliyah King The Beautiful Woman

Matthew J. Spireng Still Life with Opened Envelope

Matthew J. Spireng

Gold

79 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 88 89 89 90 91

Matthew J. Spireng A Tear Escaped

Allen Kade Self-Aware

Allen Kade

Davis

Devin Nelson A Ever Unanswered Call

Oliver Lovern Getting Through

Jessica Manack In the Mountains of Me

Barry Pyne The Bone Picker Lisa Underwood Twisted Roots

Kimberly Moon Dreams of Becoming Warm Blooded

Paul Jones Dresser of the Dead

Paul Jones Streetlight Paul Jones Atlantic City

Paul Jones It Ends Like the Trumpet & the Maiden

James Stitt Contributor’s Notes

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Children’s Section “Bloodroot” Kimberly Moon

The Bluestone Review

Beyond The Bank Abigail York

The sunlight bores into my skin, rays of intent to melt me right then and there, but yet I’ve made my settlement under the shade with the trees. The shade promises comfort and a shield from the malicious intent of the booming sun. The sound of the water draining the sounds of all my problems with the world, the gentle breeze of the wind following suit with the splashes of the content stream. The ants and dirt squishy, yet dried mud seethes through my fingers. The leaves form my own nest surrounding me. Comforting me from all the issues that circulate around me, but in the fate of nature’s palm, I am comforted by the wildlife that surrounds me, the creepy crawlers, down to the acorn eaters that hibernate in the hollow trees. Birds calling out in the midst of silence. The buzzing bees added to the noise. The bushes hiding me away from publicity, acting as my walls of protection. Thorns shaped out a trail in, and out. Black berries assisted with the spikes. The beautiful blue stream of its dance fills my ears, my gaze falls onto the wild rifts in the water. Like a beast through, calm but wild, yet vicious animal.My gaze meets the hundreds of weeds that form a path of mystery, and guarantee leaving me with a boiling sense of adventure that bubbles up inside me. I stumble up from my resting place of the spot of nature’s palms. When I glide throughout the wonders of the forest of memories. My eyes glaze over the dirt path that withholds my childhood wonders, my fathers footsteps engraved into the ground, along with a small pair of tiny feet behind. I can’t help but think of how much I’ve grown since then. The stream of crystal blue water follows the path behind, a million words speak in silence, this world around me watches generations grow into the people they are today, but still awaiting their return. Spider webs reside on the leaves that droop down in a sad manner, but the wish of the wind makes them look full of life once more, brightening up the long beaut of the man made walkway, but also with the use of the wild animals that lurk in the bushes, and trees, the beaming sun rays illuminate the pathway in small chunks.

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Children’s Section

Though the hurtful sun has intentions to leave my skin red once it’s done with me, the feeling of such on my cold cheeks is like a breath of fresh air to my pores. I stomp on the acorns, and walnuts on the ground for the satisfying crunch of the dirt and the possible squirrel food beneath my feet. My sight follows the weeds, wild flowers, and blackberries in the bushes beyond.

Lights Gone Dark Royce Reedy

Wavy Trees Presley Lewis

All goes dark A boom is heard No light anywhere In the entire universe There goes the sun Shattered in pieces One by one Our planets are gone

The trees like the wind Flaccid in the air with ease Waving its branches.

Dear Dad Livy Stamper

Dear, dad, I love you even through all the things you’ve done to me. I love you. After all the months it’s been since you passed it still feels like yesterday. Dad, I can’t wait to be with you again and see you again, I love you

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The Bluestone Review

The Classroom Chatter Mason Monday

The Classroom Chatter The interruption in the room The one person making the sound The teachers face after The kid who did it Mostly me Out to the hallway where trouble starts The teachers stare when they come out to talk

Back in the room no more chatter Teacher got mad moved me over The last time made a chatter

The School Experience Kayleigh Dalton

Perfume covered hallways Floral and sweet This definitely has the classrooms beat Dusty books in the musky air Gum stuck to the bottom of my chair Pencils tapping, Someone’s in the back napping,

Computer keys clicking, The clock keeps ticking

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Children’s Section

A Little Bit Warmer Ayden Pickett

Winter breeze, oh so cold. Snow blazing through the air. The star on the tree, oh so gold. A blizzard, ripping through with such violence. It knocked out the power.

There was a moment of silence. Gathered around the fireplace. Everybody freezing cold, With a mean look on their face Everyone is bored.

We started telling stories, Our happiness restored Even though it was frosty, Sitting and talking to people I love Made this cold night just a little bit warmer.

My Dear Old Friends Brylee Shockley

My dear old friend, How I miss you so;

How we used to run through the fields, not a thought in our minds, But the seemingly everlasting freedom, that never held us back from our binds.

My dear old friend, How I miss you so;

How we used to sit by the river, for hours at a time, Picking through the waters’ stones, the color of thyme.

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The Bluestone Review

My dear old friend, How I miss you so; How we used to play in the woods, hiding behind trees, and picking up sticks, Not a thought in the world about how the time ticked. My dear old friend, How I miss you so; How I remember the last words you’d told me, as you lied in my arms; “Fly, fly away, like a bird in the sky. See the world on my behalf, to the heavens my you fly.”

The Tree Dusty Broyles The tree was tall and wide and it was starting to die off.

It had at least two summers left.The winter ended so spring was beginning and the tree started to bloom there was leaves on every branch but one. June came around and the tree was looking good until there was a bad storm that come through and the branch that had no leaves fell now the tree looked even worse than it did before. Its Fall now and the leaves on the tree are starting to die off if looked like it had no life in it look dead we wouldn’t know till summer came back around. Well spring is here now and the leaves came back but then. There was another storm that came through and the tree sadly fell.

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Children’s Section

The Comfort of Cotton Addison Billings Cotton like a soft pillow Pinched between fingers, I realize that we never get to experience, The softness that our labor creates.

Back to work is as imprinted into my head As scars are lashed into noncompliant skin How is the pink of my brain, just as teeming with thought, Manipulate me all you want I will one day be out of the fields,

sitting in my home, reading my books, and eating all the food

you have never blessed us with. The fruits from our labored bodies Will be as dark and beautiful From one day to the next. I will feel the soft pillow. I will feel the comfort of cotton.

Thunder Skies Grace Williams

I am a sky before the storm, someone who everyone fears not knowing how much chaos will come their way if they stay in my presence for too long. They run in horror thinking I will tear down buildings and cause floods when really I want to make it rain so the flowers bloom again after everyone picks them. But I understand why they pick them. The flowers have beauty, something I can only wish for, but there’s always that one person who isn’t afraid of the clouds but more curious about me. They come closer and once they finally see the sun my thunder strikes through and scares even the bravest souls away. So how do I get people to stop running even when life gets messy and I fall apart. I begin

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The Bluestone Review

to silence my thunder. Keeping those feelings and thoughts deep down inside and just let them consume me while letting the sun shine through hoping that someone won’t catch on. That they’ll just enjoy a sunny smile no matter what thunderstorms hit me. I don’t want to scare people anymore so I just stop and never show anyone my true clouds.

Slow and Sweet Like Honey Annette Edwards

I am from blankets . From baking powder and syrup. I am from the gravel soot down the lane, (dusty,rocky, like a sneeze on an early spring day) I am from pokeweed berries and zinnias whose dark purple and Pink color reminds me of paint. I am from ornaments to stumbles. From boots and barns. I am from making a mess,cleaning a mess and moving with Purpose. From reading a book to playing outside. I am from God so I love the world. He gave his own and said thanks For my blessings. I am from Dorthy and Wythe, From yoopers and pastries I am from these mountains and hills, From these trees with beards, A where time seems slow and sweet like honey.

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Children’s Section

What Is Love? Isabella Lawson

We all got told love is a feeling you feel up to three times. That those people will be with you forever. That love is holding hands and getting married. A feeling that will be amazing and never have anything go wrong. You get told that saying I love you is enough. You get told it’s rainbows and unicorns. You get told there is no such thing as a solmate and there’s other fish in the sea. But that’s not true. Love is a feeling you may feel once. You might lose that person. Love is not just holding hands and getting married It’s the pain and love that you use to fight for eachother.

The way you can’t breathe without them. The way you can’t think without them. You are nothing without them. Like they are your water, your food, your air. Love is something you’ll do anything in your power to stay with them. Saying I love you is nothing. You need to show it through the words you say, the time you spend and the touch you give.

It’s the blood, sweet, and tears you put in the relashionship that will truly show the love in your heart out to the world. There is one person just for you, it’s your solmate. So when you feel real love hold on to it like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do

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Keys Jace Gravely

So many keys On a small chain Most get used Everyday There is always One key That’s your last option The one you could care less about Im that key The one that is last I’m only needed When someone needs a laugh Most ignore me Like i’m nothing Which I guess that’s all I am Is nothing I learned

That’s just life Maybe one day I’ll be more than A sight

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Children’s Section

A Dream That Never Ended Olivia Glossop

When I’m in a reverie it feels like imagination like in illusion in a dreamworld Where I tend to control everything that is fantasy and where everything in there is made of dreams Somewhere, I always manage to come back to when i’m in a deep slumber or mange while I’m in whimsy daydream Some say my mind is just a haze But went i’m in dreamland the way it feels like a warm home full of love I could just sleep forever, and keep dreaming among the stars.

The Workbench With The Upcoming Engine Brady Sark

The workbench blanketed in smokey copper rust With the engine being restored on the head of it The bolts, and screws laying beside it With the life slowly returning The red truck with luscious snow on each side And the bright green tree hanging just off of it

The old man with the goodWD-40 Coating it from every single angle

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The Bluestone Review

I Am From Andrew Hicks

I am from football. From cleats and gloves. I am from the football field. The smell of fresh cut grass and the white lines. I am from the pond with monster bass, algae, and big bluegill. I’m from cookouts and happiness. From my mom and brother, the other half of me. I’m from the loving feeling of happiness. The presents from Santa and arrows from Cupid. I’m from the church on Sunday, and cookouts on easter. I’m from West Virginia. Beanie weenies and mac and cheese and pizza on friday evening. From the play fighting with my brother. The creeks deep in West Virginia. The dirt roads. It feels like warm hot chocolate on a cold winter day, All of these memories, scattered around me.

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Children’s Section

The Fields Liliana Dunford

I am from muck and manure From slop boots and Case Tractors I am from the frozen driveway snow kayak race.

Cows yelling, goats talking, and the feel of thorns in your feet. I am from prickly weeds in the field that hit your legs as you walk. Green thorns, that if you walk across, I clammer out in thistles and bugs. I’m from a shrimp fry yearly and everyone in my big family yelling and screaming, with their big mouths. From my mother’s homemade cooking and my dad’s western horseback riding. I’m from the family dinners almost weekly and riding on a side-by side in the fields, dodging cows. From being told not to listen to the bullies and that doesn’t fit you right, you are

sticking out your stomach and leaning your back. I’m from sitting in a stand, to shakily shooting a deer with a big gun, BOOM! I’m from Barren Springs, just off Primm Lane. Shrimp, hush puppies

From the taste of Rock’s homemade rolls and pizza. The tuna casserole my Aunt Kasey made that everyone called cat food. The yearly picture scrapbooks my Aunt Kala makes for my grandparents. The pictures in the books resemble and remind me of good times during the years. These memories are hard to make again, actually impossible, so in the scrapbook, are memories that were made that I can never forget, or touch again.

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The Finish Line Molly Stoots

They thought we couldn’t make it, I’m the one to prove them wrong. They’ve tried to go against me, I’m showing them I’m strong. I always work my way up Even when they knock me down. I am more than them, More than they could be. I’ve been home through it all, Still running to the finish line. Pushing through it all, Just keep saying I’m fine. As they tear me down, I try to get back up. As I fall apart I get lifted back up.

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Children’s Section

Education Is Key Dakota Blanchett

For 9 years, I rattled my chains, Unafraid to bark at the end, For my collar of slavery

fell, And the mind filled with all that could be House is to hope as I was to a welcome mat. Little hands grasped at salt bags, so heavy on the ground, Then.. My hands were all crackly and bloody And my mouth was dry and it was hard to breath After that I spent the next 16 years, Listening to the teachers give us lectures. So that way when I grew up I could be one of those teachers I was knocking on the doors Next thing you know I was helping slaves, Knowing how to trade

and, They are now listening to me lecture on how to help them. As the sun went down and the moon was coming up, You could hear the katydids chirping, While the adults was coming to school and, The children were going home. In the end while I was hunkered down to listen to them yap But, It worked out in the end I founded the National Negro Buisness League I helped mature Tuskegee University In the end, Education is always gonna be your way to find light. With it, we place the key into the lock Which clamps our chains, Off come the restraints, Yet still we hold on to Education’s key.

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The Commitment Parker Waller

The smell of gasoline next to white penny loafers Squeezed to black skin,

Rubbed a blister. Small blood Exchanged for a bus ticket’s Price to freedom. The long slow walk to the back Refusing to give up her seat For what she believed, Everyone the same as another She Didn’t want to be separated For the color of her skin, For her commitment and many more We finally stand side to side Not looking down at each other We are finally equal.

Teddy Liliana Dunford

I still remember his beautiful mane, the way I would braid it wonderfully into 20 different braids, his trot, a smooth ripple, his kindness to stop my inexperience. His name was Teddy. He would always make it easy for me, so I wouldn’t fall off. I miss the way the saddle leathers smelled and the gloss of his coat. Age takes everything away from us at some point or another. Teddy was 15, missing teeth, and slowing down on the knees. One morning in the field, a mighty yellow mound lay and Teddy thundered in the sky overhead.

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Children’s Section

The Story of Leo Eli Stoots

Lionel Messi a kid never heard of turned to a legend The game that changed his life which was remembered forever When he came to Barcelona he was overlooked Very small and frail no one thought he was capable of scoring in his first ever match he went against Porto in a friendly He was subbed in no one payed attention Over the games he was subbed in people started catching on Over the games he was getting better and better Until he scored his first goal During a match against Albacete He scored in the 90th minute to win the game He was subbed on more and more until his breakout game Subbed in after the second half The score is 3-0 and the other team is ahead 3 goals later Lionel Messi scores a hat trick to tie the game After that he was started more and more until he was a full time starter Over the years he was recognized as an amazing talent In 2012 he scored 5 goals in a game against Bayer Leverkusen Lionel Messi even though was small made history in the most popular sport in the world He has won 46 trophies in his career and the world cup He is now considered the most popular soccer player in the world and will stay there forever.

Spring Is Coming Houston Jackson

Flowers in the Sun Swaying with the Spring-time wind A fresh start for all.

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I’ll Get It Done Judah Viars

Segregation is a problem. I’ll live to see it done. No blacks allowed. Won’t stop me. I’ll get it done. The color of my skin shouldn’t matter.

No matter what, I’ll get it done. Things can change. I’ll get it done. Baseball is my life. Anything to get it done.. Watch me climb, I’ll get it done

They said I couldn’t play. I laughed and instead said, I’ll get it done. I played for the Kansas City Monarchs. I’ll get it done. The Dodgers called. I answered. I said I’d get it done. I stepped up to the plate. I’ll get it done. The pitch came fast. I’ll get it done. I heard the crack of the bat. I’ll get it done. I rounded the diamond and stepped on home. I’ll get it done. My name is Jackie Robinson. And I got it done.

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Children’s Section

Dinner At 5 Isabella Ference

Plates are placed All shiny and clean The white table cloth Set for the feast of the wanted, And the welcome. The napkins are folded. Folded in equal parts, but uneven edges, An illusion of equality. The use to clean a mouth Should not act so highly, That it might be stained by the brown lips. Frowned upon by the conceited Mind the three different forks One for unity One for liberty One for Equality How deep can they be thrust Into the hopeless chicken carcass Lifeless laid on the table by the stewards

The carrion of our democracy Mind the three different spoons. One for solidarity

One for rights One for peace

One engraved with an I One engraved with an E One engraved with a D They have been placed But in the wrong order

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Why do our trembling hands Find it so hard to gather Up all the hues in one concave Golden Spoon.

They set the table Starting at noon, Round and welcoming

as conquest continues to moon. We have been served 3 courses, Prejudice Racism And Hatred, All tasting of crow

With the hope that desert, Sweet and soft of heart Tempers the course they have served. Take it from a vicious boil to a soft simmer. Finally allows us to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

Ring the dinner bell. Freedom is hungry.

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Children’s Section

Skies of Gray Mason Cox

The clouds are grey. The deer roam in fields of corn. The sky is as blue as the ocean. The mice run through stacks of hay. The people big and small Black or white. But one had a dream. The dream of equality. No shame black or

white All should have a right. They should all be happy. We all need harmony. While the poets write. All the people say goodnight. While the owls who. The foxes rule. But eventually we all see the light.

Faith Karleigh Bolton

I dream of faith. To be able to join hands And work together And to sit down together at the table of brotherhood I have a dream of faith That one day every valley shall be exalted We have been seared in the flames of withering injustice With this faith We will be free one day

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I have a dream of faith That we allow freedom to ring When we let it ring from every state Though we face the difficulties Today and tomorrow Thank God almighty we are free at last

Free One Day Alexis Cline

The sons of former slaves Have a dream that they shall be free one day Where they will not be judged by their color But we shall make a stand to march ahead So the negros shall no longer live on a lonely island of poverty And soon they will be free at last Where that all men are created equal And the glory shall be revealed And we will all transform into an oasis of freedom

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Children’s Section

Dirt and Sweat Melanie Gravley

The smell of dirt and sweat on my raggedy cloth The endless days of work, work, work Sunup to sun down Work, work, work The finger aches and foot blister Bruises and scars But yet there is no time to stop and check Days of this happening and killing us little by little Soon enough the days of worked turned into Weeks days, months and eventually to years Years of work, work, work Year upon years Of the smell of sweat and dirt on my ragged cloth.

Walls of Separation Luke Monahan

Separation is something you always remember. Something that never leaves your mind. Separation can be good but it can be painful at the same time.

Lonely and afraid like a lost child or a widow These walls are built by a society with lost ideals. Walls that they form to weaken our hope, To shatter our dreams, To dehumanize us to make them feel Superior They build these walls to contain our freedom. Why can’t we just break these walls And destroy these chains they hold us with? They limit us with discriminatory laws Do they fear being equal?

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Why were these walls made? Are they afraid of what we can do? Why can’t we make peace? Can’t we fix our society? I feel so alone with these divides, Can’t we change these rules, These walls? Why must we be separated by These walls?

True Flier Dawson Beasley

First African women to fly First Native women to fly Six feet from her memory unrecognized till then Even though she will live on forever Activist for her rights Equality for all Breaking barriers And overcoming achievements Pursuing her dreams

With hardwork and grit Bringing back equality Doing tricks across the sky

Leaving her trace Being of no color Was the only way But Bessie Coleman She broke that chain

Equality for all Soon one day.

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Children’s Section

Children of the Fields Madalynn Gwisdalla All day, every night, The wretched emotion, titled terror. Expressions of endless misery, Pleading that it’ll be different

tomorrow. Dreaded feelings fill their souls to the brim. Sweat running down their malnourished bodies. Fatigued little darlings, laid out upon the once lively field, Now with countless souls forever lost in the blistering heat. The tall, brooding figure lashed his torture instrument, Like a vicious dog, barking orders at the fragile fatigued. The trapped beings wept in envy as the lost souls fly up beyond the moon, Their milky soft wings carrying them up above. Finally free from the scorching flames of Hell’s grasp. Yet again, the blanket of night tucking them in, but for eternal rest, Though the last time different, they were finally able to sleep with peace.

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Shattered in the Cold Ella White

I know winter’s cold. Always cold. But once, it was crisp—sharp, electric, A breath of frost on the sweat-soaked field. I spun my heart out, Arms carving stories through the air, Hands reaching for something just out of grasp. One wrong move. A saber, meant to fly, Fell— Piercing more than just the ground. It sank deep, Right through the fragile thread that held me together. Now winter is not just cold. It is empty. That fire—once pulsing in my chest— Extinguished. Frozen stiff in the dead air, Filling my lungs with splinters of ice. Every turn sends fractures through my bones, Every breath, a quiet surrender. My hands, once weightless, Now cracked and stiff, Aching under the bite of the wind. Once, my fingers danced with flags like whispers— Now they tremble under their weight. Tears threaten, but they never fall. They freeze before they have the chance. Winter feels different this year. And I don’t like it.

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Children’s Section

All Summers End Laken Blevins

Some people say “love’s just a lie” And I used to believe that until the Summer of 24 Daddy, and me were going fishing right before sun down And that’s when his cinnamon eyes caught mine Standing there on the river bank, was the man of my dreams He was tall, with hazel hair, and a smile brighter than the sky on the Fourth Of July We sat on the riverside, talking about what our daddies would think if we got together None of the outcomes would be good, but we didn’t care it was our first taste of Summer love The sound of our flirtatious laughter rang through the country fields that whole night When it was finally time to go home I wore his hoodie home like a golden chain When we got home it was already 2AM, but the next day he’d call I hoped to feel the Summer love again We laughed so much that Summer it felt just like we were kids again

It was August now, that meant Summer would soon be over But it would be okay, he would hold me through the Fall Or at least that’s what I had thought When Summer left, so did he

I guess all Summers have to end at some point Even if that means the love has to go with it

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Photography “Classic Greek Architecture” Wayne Pelts

Photography

Old Man of Storr Nathan LePere

Tower of Baaable Nathan LePere

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Cliffs of Skye Nathan LePere

Dolphins of Skye Nathan LePere

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Photography

Fossil of Skye Nathan LePere

Torn, Battered, but Still Strong Wayne Pelts

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Classic Tony Funk

Powerful, Beautiful, Enduring Lines Wayne Pelts

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Photography

Life Pulses Love Kimberly Moon

Chrome and Steel Tony Funk

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Bridge Crossing Jenny Mitchell

Mountain Man Judy Jenks

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Photography

Thorns of Grace Amber Leigh Lipscomb

Echos of the Rails Amber Leigh Lipscomb

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Log Rooftop Jenny Mitchell

Wayne Pelts Our Creators Beautiful Artwork With East River Mountain

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Photography

Respite Cate Thornton

Beautiful Bluefield at the City Park

Ridge Runner Train Station Wayne Pelts

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At Dusk... Cate Thornton

Orange Bee Jenny Mitchell

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Photography

It’s All About the Light Wayne Pelts

At the Pond... Cate Thornton

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Harman Chapel Blake Carter

Joining Waters Jenny Mitchell

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Prose “Watch Tower” Jenny Mitchell

The Bluestone Review

Learning to Dance Larry Ellis

When Wendell Douglas come back from the war he looked to be about a foot taller. He’d volunteered as soon as he was of age and shipped out right before the Allies took the beaches in Normandy. He didn’t see combat, but he sailed on a troop boat to France and worked as a guard in a hospital there for nearly a year. I saw him come home. He stepped out of the bus in uniform and carrying his duffle. It was freezing cold and wind blowing snow everywhere, but he just stepped out onto the sidewalk and walked the two blocks to his house down on Allen Street. I knew things would pick up in the neighborhood after that, and they did. In the year that Wendell was overseas I still walked over to White’s Confectionery every now and then. I’d have a root-beer float and sit there and talk to Mrs. White or her fat daughter, whoever happened to be serving that evening. The juke box was almost never playing and no one was ever on the little rectangle of a dance floor. The Whites made their money on the junior high crowd. The school was only a block away and the kids would flood into there at lunch hour and pack the place and the music would be blaring and kids eating hot dogs and drinking sodas and dancing for all of the forty-five minutes between the two lunch bells. Same thing for the hour after school let out. I hadn’t been a part of that since I had moved up to the high school. Evenings at Whites were nothing like that. Sometimes I was the only customer in the store. Some winter nights they even hurried me out of the place so they could close down early. They’d have the lights off before I got out the door. I’d walk around the neighborhood for a while, even in the cold and snow, just looking at the houses and watching the cars on the streets and up on the state road. On Wednesday evenings they’d be having prayer meeting at the Church of God and I’d walk by the lit-up windows and sometimes hear them singing, Wendell’s mom playing the piano. Down the next block I’d usually see Missy Harless on the corner of Second and Allen Streets. She’d be standing there under the street lamp in her coat and hat, waiting on the bus to take her to the hospital for the evening shift. She always spoke. Always called me by name. By now there were gold stars in the windows of at least one house on every street I walked. I knew some of the boys who had been killed. Didn’t know some of the others

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I knew that Danny Turley and Doug Griffith and that bunch were somewhere around. Guys who had already graduated but who the Army wouldn’t take. Danny had somehow managed to get himself a car and he drove it up and down the state road in town and all around the neighborhood, shifting gears and squealing the tires. My grandpa had told me to steer clear of those boys; that they were heading for trouble, sure as the world. Every now and then I would get up the nerve to go two blocks over and walk by Janet Thompson’s house. I’d been inside it a few times when we were little kids, just playing. But now it was a kind of mysterious place, one I hoped to be inside of again, but not in the same way. Her house looked different than the others: the yellow light in the windows, the neatly-shoveled and swept walkway and porch steps, the red mailbox by the door. But when Wendell came home there was no more time for walking around. Wendell was the only one of us who wasn’t afraid to dance and when the girls found out he was back in town the evening traffic at White’s Confectionary picked up right away. He’d head over there right after dinner and order a soda and fill the jukebox with nickels and have the music going strong before the girls started to filter in. For the first few weeks he wore his uniform nearly everywhere. He’d learned new dances in France and the girls were wild for him to teach them. In a few weeks it became obvious that he had a strong preference for Beverly Thompson. I had my eye on her sister.

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The Bluestone Review

Novel Excerpt Larry Ellis

Her husband had been dead for four months when the mangled envelope appeared in her mailbox. She took it out and saw that it was addressed to him, John Thompson, but originally to a post office box in the town across the river. That address had been lined through and her own address – the house where she had lived with him for over ten years, almost all of their married life – had been scrawled in red ball point: “656 Whiteoak Street, Walhonde, WV.” The color logo in the corner of the envelope made it clear that it was a credit card bill. She gathered the other mail from the box and took it into the house and laid it on the kitchen counter and then took the redirected bill and put it atop the secretary desk in the front hallway. “I’m not sure I want to open this thing,” she told her friend. “The estate is closed. I don’t want to face another bill. I’m not sure I even want to know what’s in it. I might just mark it ‘not at this address’ and stick it back in the box.” “You don’t have to worry about paying it,” she advised. “We just went through that with Dad. His debts die with him. John’s debts died with him. They can’t hold you liable for it and they know it.” The next morning, she opened the bill and found there a record of another life. The neat, itemized statement showed that John had bought two tickets to a minor-league day game in Charleston on May 14th. He charged food and beer to the card, as well as a team T-shirt (one that she had never seen) while at the ballpark. Then, only hours later, a charge of $84.73 for a room and more beer at the motel adjacent to the ballpark. The next day he incurred a charge of $104.32 for the delivery of a dozen roses – a bouquet that had never crossed her doorway - from a florist across the river.

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Segment from Forthcoming Novel: The Secret of Hill Grove

Larry Ellis

MY LIFE has never again been as privileged as it was in my senior year in high school. I was an honor student, at the very top pf my class, and I admit now only for the purpose of telling this story, one of the prettiest girls in the school. One of the many benefits of my status was that of being an aide to Miss Delaney, the school librarian. At the end of many of those school days, when the afternoon had been long and the last classroom seemed like a prison cell, some office aide would carry a note to my teacher, asking her to release me to report to the library upstairs. Since I had the highest grade in Spanish III, my teacher never objected to my absence. That may not sound like much now, but then and there it was a ticket to freedom. In the library I could come and go as I pleased. The “work” was next to nothing and on most days, I’d be finished in twenty minutes and receive the praise of an overworked and lonely Miss Delaney and then be free to relax. It was my habit then to walk down to the end of the hallway and stand in front of the tall window and look out across the back campus. My window was directly above one of the rear exits. Beside the walkway that led from that double-doorway a bald circle had been worn in the lawn where boys regularly congregated to smoke. That place was most crowded between classes and during lunch break, but it seemed that there was almost always a little knot of boys there, every minute of the day. This day was no exception. There was a gang of guys there and the meeting was being orchestrated, as usual, by Benny Kinder. He was a super-senior, having been held back a year as a sophomore, and he was bigger and heavier than anyone else in the group and had a reputation for being a mean fighter. He held court at that spot on a regular basis. The others in the little klatch knew to laugh at his jokes and to go along with his proposals. This afternoon I was going to be shown a bit of drama that was far outside of my normal ambit. It was such a revelation that now as I think of it, I wonder if I had a premonition and knew in some wordless way that something new was coming.

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As I stood there in the warm light, Jacob Eaton walked out of the door below me. I had never had so much as a real conversation with him, but I thought he was handsome and polite. As Jacob passed the circle of smokers, Benny Kinder called to him and motioned for him to join the group. Jacob did. I couldn’t hear the words being said then, but Kinder had his hand on Jacob’s shoulder and was jabbering and motioning with his other arm while the others in the group – all but Jacob, that is – were dutifully laughing. Kinder then offered Jacob a cigarette, which Jacob declined. Jacob started to walk away. Kinder followed him, yelled something, and grabbed him by the shoulder and tried to bring him back to the group. Jacob slipped Kinder’s grip and continued to walk away. Kinder, red in the face now, came at Jacob again and Jacob turned and faced him and shook his head at Kinder. But Kinder kept coming. The next thing that occurred happened so fast that I had to mentally reconstruct it to be certain of what I’d seen. Jacob stopped, planted his feet, and punched Kinder in the jaw, knocking him to the ground. I saw the cigarette and spittle fly from Kinder’s mouth. Then Jacob walked away. My immediate reactions were, to say the least, mixed. I hate violence. But I love justice, and I admire bravery. I did not want my image of Jacob Eaton to change. I knew very well how the gossip mill worked at my school, and I was sure that the next day would surely bring a wave of breathless talk that Jacob Eaton was the new school tough guy. The dragon slayer. But there was no word of it, ever. The cycle was broken. This was an even greater surprise to me than the punch, and certainly more endearing. I may have started to fall in love with Jacob Eaton

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Sideshow Teresa L. Matney & Brian F. Shortridge

Growing up I knew that living in a big city was different from living on Kennel Branch. I knew they had clear water, whereas our water was orange from sulfur. I knew that they had subways and yellow taxi cabs that raced them around the city, whereas our family had a 1970 VW van, which could only get over 35 mph going downhill and still wasn’t quite big enough to carry our family of nine. What I didn’t know was that what entertained us was so different from them. We had television, even if it came from a satellite that took up most of our backyard and had to be cranked into position to change the channel. We watched Days of Our Lives, Dallas and the Cosby Show like everyone else. It was the entertainment that we left the house for that made us different. By the 1980s, big cities became too cultured and sophisticated to appreciate the carnival sideshows that had been a staple of American entertainment for generations. New York City and San Francisco abandoned the performers for the opera and exhibits of modern art, much of which resembled the aftermath of an emergency trip to a gas station bathroom. The people of Appalachia, on the other hand, still embraced the Lobster Boy, Tiny Tommy, the world’s smallest man and the bearded lady. Though, I’m pretty sure my great-aunt Esther had her beat by a whisker. Throughout my childhood the carnival and the sideshow performers would come through the area and our whole community would come out for the greasy food, the completely unsafe rides, and the rigged games that we couldn’t resist. Seeing how the sideshow acts seemed to inspire such a spending frenzy, Eddie Tiller, the owner of Tiller’s Supermarket, decided to hire one of the carnival’s biggest attractions, Jimbo the Wrestling Bear, for a special Saturday event at his store. To build excitement for the event, he offered any housewife who stayed in the ring with Jimbo for more than 3 minutes $100 in groceries. My Daddy was overjoyed. He loved wrassling, he loved bears and he loved putting my Mommy in embarrassing situations.

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“Kids, your Mommy is going into training this week to wrassle a bear,” Daddy announced as he passed us a newspaper with an ad featuring a picture of Jimbo. “She is going to squeeze the bear grease out of old Jimbo.” Mommy didn’t want to wrestle a bear, but she also didn’t want to disappoint Daddy and the temptation of $100 in groceries sealed the deal. “One, Two, Three,” my sister Lisa and I would count as Mommy threw out her arms and legs attempting to do jumping jacks. She trained hard by practicing headlocks on my brothers and a flying elbow she had seen “Macho Man” Randy Savage perform at an outlaw wrestling show in Grundy. As the big day grew closer, Mommy’s courage started to fade. Even with all her hard work, she didn’t want to do this alone. She called upon her best friend, Crazy Sadie. Sadie was the wife of my Daddy’s friend and drinking buddy, Oscar. She and Mommy had become friends by default. “I’m really not sure I can do this,” Mommy confessed to Sadie. “I need your help.” Thus, the tag team was formed. On Saturday morning, just after the Smurfs went off, we loaded into the van for the 10-minute drive to Tiller’s Supermarket. Mommy and Sadie were the only two to sign up to wrestle Jimbo. “In this corner, from Kennel Branch, Beautiful Barbara and Crazy Sadie, the Killer Cooks,” the announcer read from a note that we later learned Daddy had given him. The match started with Mommy running toward Jimbo and trying to catch him by surprise. Turns out the surprise was on Mommy. Jimbo flipped her over and pressed his nose into her bottom for a not-so-friendly hello. The audience roared with laughter as Mommy crawled to tag in Sadie. Sadie wasted no time going on

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the attack and took even less time to be flung on top of Mommy by Jimbo’s huge paw. The referee stepped in to stop the match just as Sadie got a bear nose in the bottom. While they didn’t win the $100 in groceries, as a thank you for a record day in sales, Mr. Tiller did present them with a container of honey shaped like a bear. A sweet treat that Daddy and us kids enjoyed, but Mommy refused to touch.

The Legend of the Dogwood Tree Amy Presley

Long ago when the world was younger, there was a dogwood tree growing on a grassy hill near the town of Jerusalem. Every year the tree would grow taller and stronger, its limbs reaching toward heaven. Its trunk was sturdy and under its leaves was an excellent spot for travelers to rest. The dogwood tree was happy to share its shade. Many people would gather beneath it, talking, sharing stories, and speaking of hope for better days. Around that time, a man came to the town of Jerusalem. He was unlike any other man the dogwood tree had seen before. People gathered around him, eager to hear what he had to say. The dogwood tree was curious. Who was this man? Why did so many come to listen to him? Many people, old and young, would come sit on the dogwood tree’s hill and listen to the teacher. He spoke with kindness and wisdom, telling them wonderful things about the kingdom of God. He told everyone to love one another and to love God with their whole heart. The dogwood tree listened carefully. There was something special about this man. Sometimes he told stories—stories about lost sheep and sons who went far from home. The tree didn’t understand everything, but it could tell that the teacher was good, and what he said was true. The dogwood tree grew to love hearing him teach the crowds on the hill. It admired the man, longing to understand more.

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Then one day, something terrible happened. Some bad men were planning to hurt the teacher. Soldiers came and cut the limbs off the dogwood tree. The bad men used the tree’s limbs to make a wooden cross. The dogwood tree was filled with sorrow—how could it be used to bring harm to the kind man it had grown to admire? They made a cruel crown out of thorns for the teacher to wear. They yelled at him and made him carry the heavy cross through the streets. Then, they nailed him to the cross until he died. The dogwood tree could not understand why this was happening. How could someone so kind be treated so cruelly? The dogwood tree was so sad. It thought there would be no more stories. No more visits from the teacher and those who came to hear him. The world felt dark and cold. The tree wept, regretting that its strong limbs had been used for something so terrible. But the dogwood tree had heard enough of the teacher’s stories to know that God is good. He does not allow something bad to happen without some good coming from it. The tree clung to that hope, even in its sorrow. And three days later, that’s exactly what happened. The dogwood tree saw people running, smiling, rejoicing! The teacher was alive again! Could it be? Could this man be the one they had been waiting for? What the bad men had meant for evil, God used for good! And now we can all hope! The dogwood tree finally understood—this man is more than a teacher. He is the Savior, the Son of God! And his name is Jesus! He came to give eternal life to all who declare that Jesus is their Lord and believe in their hearts that God raised him from the dead. (Romans 10:9) After that time, God never allowed the dogwood tree to grow so tall and strong anymore. Its limbs and trunk could never be used to make a cross again. The tree was grateful. It would never again be used to harm anyone, especially not someone so good. Instead, it now grows slender and graceful, and every year it blooms around Easter, to celebrate when the Savior, Jesus, came alive again. The dogwood tree always wants to remind us of the good thing God has done.

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