By the Bay Read online

  By the Bay

  By the Bay

  Edited by

  Liz Hickok and Kate Gaidos Eppler

  Bay Area Library ePublishers

  Sunnyvale

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Nature Takes Over by Shu-Hsien Ho

  Preparing by Sheila Scobba Banning

  African Clawed Frog by Robert S. Pesich

  Somewhere in Birdland by Misuk Park

  Himself by Clare Ramsaran

  On Visiting the Stanford Museum by Edith Algren

  Sticks by Arthur Carey

  Train Journey—San Francisco to Sunnyvale by Swati Kher

  His Father’s Voice by G. David Nordley

  Winged Audacity by Lianne Card

  Fog, Anxiety, and Magic by Christy Worrell-Rey

  Westward by Ullas Gargi

  Why We Do Certain Things by Joyce Kiefer

  California Catechism by Adrianne Aron

  A Love Supreme by Carson Beker

  I Dreamed a Dream Last Night by Dick Heinz

  Edge of Night by Ellaraine Lockie

  Acknowledgements

  Contributors

  Published by

  Bay Area Library ePublishers

  Sunnyvale Public Library

  665 West Olive Avenue

  Sunnyvale, CA 94088

  Visit our website at GetEpublished.inSunnyvale.com

  Copyright © 2015 by Sunnyvale Public Library

  All rights reserved.

  First edition.

  Every reasonable attempt has been made to identify owners of copyright. Individual stories and poems were reproduced with permission from the following authors:

  Edith Algren (2015). Copyright 2015. Adrianne Aron (2015). Copyright 2015. Sheila Scobba Banning (2015). Copyright 2015. Carson Beker (2015). Copyright 2015. Lianne Card (2015). Copyright 2015. Arthur Carey (2015). Copyright 2015. Ullas Gargi (2015). Copyright 2015. Richard Heinz (2015). Copyright 2015. Shu-Hsien Ho (2015). Copyright 2015. Karen Jessen (2015). Copyright 2015. Swati Kher (2015). Copyright 2015. Joyce Kiefer (2015). Copyright 2015. Ellaraine Lockie (2015). Copyright 2015. G. David Nordley (2015). Copyright 2015. Misuk Park (2015). Copyright 2015. Robert S. Pesich (2015). Copyright 2015. Clare Ramsaran (2015). Copyright 2015. Christy Worrell-Rey (2015). Copyright 2015.

  Editors: Liz Hickok and Kate Gaidos Eppler

  California State Library

  This project was supported in whole or in part by the U.S. Institute of Museum and Library Services under the provisions of the Library Services and Technology Act, administered in California by the State Librarian.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Supplied by Sunnyvale Public Library

  By the Bay / edited by Liz Hickok and Kate Gaidos Eppler. - First edition.

  Includes a collection of 17 short stories and poems by San Francisco Bay Area writers.

  pages cm.

  ISBN 978-0-9961724-0-0 (hardback)

  ISBN 978-0-9961724-1-7 (electronic book)

  1. San Francisco Bay Area (Calif.) — Fiction. 2. San Francisco Bay Area (Calif.) — Poetry. 3. Short stories. 4. Poetry. I. Hickok, Liz, editor. II Eppler, Kate Gaidos, editor. III. Title.

  811’.6 -dc23

  Introduction

  Not long ago libraries found themselves in the precarious position of facing increased public demand for e-books while, behind the scenes, the “Big Six” publishers at the time were either refusing to sell their e-books to libraries, or raising the costs to public library buyers which priced many of us out. But with this crisis came an opportunity. As Jamie LeRue of Colorado’s Douglas County Libraries told NPR in 2013, “with a digital platform in place, libraries can not only distribute e-books: they can publish them.” It is a revelation that strikes a chord within the growing movement of libraries as content creators and, more recently, of libraries as maker-spaces.

  The “maker” movement is shifting and transforming how libraries around the country deliver their services and interact with the communities they serve. From quilting and crafting to coding and 3D printing, libraries are providing space and resources for community “making.” Why not, I began to wonder, provide the same artistic space for writers? Aren’t writers, from Homer to Toni Morrison, the traditional “makers” of stories within their communities? And wouldn’t the library be a natural place to support them?

  The book you are about to read represents one attempt by a group of like-minded librarians to answer those questions. Librarians from around the San Francisco Bay Area formed a collective group now known as the “Bay Area Library ePublishers” (BALE). BALE’s founding membership includes two professional writing experts and five dedicated librarians, all of whom read and reviewed the 68 manuscripts received in response to our public call for submissions of short stories and poetry set in the Bay Area. The California State Library awarded a modest grant to support our attempt to redefine the library’s role within the publishing world, and to re-imagine how libraries can connect with local writers.

  All writers dream of publishing their material professionally, and the mission of the BALE project is to provide a middle road between traditional publishing and the emerging self-publishing phenomenon. By offering writers opportunities like this one, libraries now have more to say to self-published authors than “No.” Instead, we can engage with them on a deeper level, to offer them a basic introduction into the world of independent, institutional publishing.

  Some of the writers represented in By the Bay are new to the publishing world, while others are more seasoned. We are grateful to all of the writers for collaborating with us on this publishing experiment. Together, we have harnessed the Bay Area's innovative spirit to create a new frontier for writing and publishing.

  Liz Hickok

  Sunnyvale Public Library, 2015

  Nature Takes Over

  by Shu-Hsien Ho

  In the time it takes to set

  our bags on a plot of Limantour Beach

  we know the visit will be short-lived

  A warm wind buffets every move

  and blows grit

  into ears, mouths, eyes, hair

  growing dunes over my Mad Libs towel

  sticking to water bottles

  speckling ruby strawberries

  Royd’s fishing line fights against rising waves

  catching tangled ropes of rotting kelp

  Jazmine lies down,

  but sand spits into her face

  So we sit, legs stretched out,

  bare feet digging into soft sand

  backs against stinging gusts

  The wind tosses my flimsy hat

  I chase it down four times

  We laugh

  Later,

  we carry the Sahara home,

  but walk lighter all the way.

  Preparing

  by Sheila Scobba Banning

  One gallon of water per person per day sounds doable until you get to the part where they recommend having a two week supply. You do the math for the four of you and try to imagine where you could keep all those jugs. Or what, kegs? You would have to use them as a bed or a table, something out in the open. So you cut back to the three-day minimum supply, which still seems like a lot, and add a gallon of bleach for treating the alternative sources of water you’re sure you’ll be able to find if you need to. There’s the water heater, after all, and the fountain. And there’s always the neighbors’ pool.

  Food supply should be maintained at a three to five day level above normal requirements at all times. Your eyebrows shoot up involuntarily. You go to the store practically every day, and you still don’t have that kind of reserve just sitting on shel
ves. Regular canned and packaged foods that don’t require cooking or refrigeration are best. They should be individually dated and rotated back into your food supply for consumption every six months. You try to calculate the likelihood of either of those things happening, then stack tuna, soup, peanut butter, crackers, raisins, and nuts into a box. That stuff all has a shelf life of years. The crackers might get a little stale, but would you really quibble under the circumstances?

  Flashlights top the list of emergency supplies. You wonder if most disasters occur at night. Batteries also figure prominently and then candles and matches in a waterproof container, of course. Can opener, paper plates and cups and towels and some eating utensils. That stuff is all pretty easy, and you check it off feeling a little smug.

  Ax? Fire extinguisher? Shovel? Dust masks? Your sense of accomplishment vanishes at the tool list. You find the fire extinguisher in the garage, but it expired ten years ago. You throw a hammer and screw driver and a big roll of duct tape into the box and decide to come back to this section.

  Sanitation looks simple, the soaps and diapers and toilet paper and tooth brushes you can just grab from the guest bath and check off the list. Then it starts going into detail about watertight containers and agricultural lime. It sounds like that “pack everything out” river trip you took, but that had some wage-slave high school kid to deal with the up close and personal part. You decide to skip this section, too, and pour yourself a glass of wine before moving on.

  One complete change of clothing for each family member is a piece of cake, except that your oldest son has outgrown all but one pair of shoes. You pack an extra pair of your own clogs, which ought to do in a pinch, and remind yourself he prefers to go barefoot anyway.

  You don’t own a tent except for the toy one the kids keep in the back yard. You pile a couple wool blankets and a bunch of old baby blankets into the plastic storage box with the clothes and sit on the lid until it gives the telltale “snap.”

  Personal items are so easy to check off you begin to feel efficient and confident again. Books, toys, extra eye glasses, money, paper, pens, contact lens solution. You pack a box of cat food, but figure the cats will look out for themselves and cross out the rest of the pet list.

  You place the little first aid kit you bought on top of one box, congratulating yourself on making it easily accessible and check that off, but your eye catches the long list of things that are supposed to be included. Eye drops, laxatives, hydrogen peroxide, alcohol swabs in individual packets, heat packs and cold packs, ammonia, eight kinds of bandages. You have never even seen some of this stuff let alone have it on hand. You try to name eight kinds of bandages without looking. Scissors, saline solution, tweezers, needle and thread, you focus on the obvious stuff, the stuff you have on hand and can add to the little white box. You try not to picture using the needle and thread in a first aid situation.

  You look around at the five large boxes and thirteen plastic jugs you have assembled in the living room like luggage for a discount cruise. You run through all the possible storage locations outside your house and come up with nothing. You wonder if a corner of the garage would hold all of this stuff even though you know there isn’t a free corner anyway. You check the list again and realize you left out the battery operated radio. You search for the hand-cranked solar radio you got for Christmas a couple years ago until you remember the kids broke it within a few weeks. You picture yourself huddled with the kids eating peanut butter on crackers by flashlight next to the remains of your house while listening to the breaking news on a tiny radio and waiting for your husband to make it home from work.

  You abandon the supplies where they are and take the bottle of wine out into the back yard where you sit with your back to the house, tilt your face up to the sun and close your eyes.

  African Clawed Frog

  by Robert S. Pesich

  Xenopus laevis: African clawed frog

  Xenopus, show yourself

  to the lovers and the children

  gathered around the lily pond in Golden Gate Park

  before the Department of Fish & Game

  arrive to eradicate you

  using explosives.

  Abandoned by biologists

  and with no natural predators

  you’ve flourished, ravenous,

  even against your own young.

  Please, show how you hunt

  whatever moves

  including fingers

  and reflections

  among the yellow lotus

  as visitors throw coins

  large as their eyes

  for a wish

  while trying to taste a petal.

  If you claw my palm

  I’ll call it a sign

  that you are naming us

  according to a ruptured light.

  The scar will remind me

  during the coming droughts and firestorms

  that the song can survive detonation,

  living underground, consuming its own

  shed skin while planning to return

  with or without us.

  Somewhere in Birdland

  by Misuk Park

  “Now Evan, when we get inside, say hello to Mrs. March first. Try to smile. And don’t pick a fight with Mark Reinhardt.”

  Evan was already nervous; he didn’t need his mother lecturing him. “Mark hates me ‘cause I beat him in relays,” he said.

  “That’s no reason. His dad sponsors the team so I need you to be nice to him.”

  Before Evan could ask her to lower her voice, the door to the house opened and Jean March welcomed them inside. “How wonderful you could make it. Congratulations young man. We’ll see you at the state championships.”

  “Hello Mrs. March. Thank you-”

  “Oh Jean, your house is lovely. Just lovely! Eichler? When I heard you had to move I thought, how awful. How’s Tim doing? Okay? We’re just heartbroken that he didn’t make the finals. You’re still going anyway? He was so brave to run last week, what with his condition. How are you doing?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. March smiled. “Thank you. Tim wants to go and root for Mark.”

  She turned to Evan. “And for you too, of course.”

  “I brought Tim a present.” He pushed a large gift-wrapped box at Tim’s mother. It was only a Journey T-shirt they’d gotten for half off, but his mother had put it in an over-sized box. He didn’t know if Tim liked Journey, but they were popular with other kids at school.

  “How are you holding up? Not too tired?” she crouched down to look him in the eyes.

  “I’m fine…Why?”

  “It’s just…I know how hard it can be. I think it’s very courageous of you to keep going.” She touched his cheek. She was tearing up. “Try your best. That’s all any of us can do.”

  Evan was about to ask what she meant but she stood up clutching the box to her chest and hurried away. He could hear the voices of the other kids and he dreaded having to join them.

  “Hey, isn’t that that kid who cries when he loses four square?”

  “Yeah, but he’s a sore winner too.” Evan recognized Mark’s voice.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “Tim’s mom thinks they’re friends just because he’s on the track and field team.”

  “No, it’s ‘cause his mom made Tim’s mom invite him.”

  He dragged his feet into the living room. A large clump of boys had gathered around the television playing Donkey Kong. They looked up at him then started talking all at once. Tim stood up and walked around to him. “Hi. Thanks for coming.” Tim was always nice.

  “Thanks for inviting me.” They stood silently.

  “Uh, so, congratulations on the relays.” Tim said.

  “Thanks. I thought you and Mark were going to win but you seemed kind of sick or something.”

  “I was, kind of.”

  “So why’d you run? Did your mom make you?”

  Tim looked confused. “No, my mom never mak
es me do stuff. She’s nice.”

  Mark came over. “What’s it to you whether he runs or not? You only won because of the other guys anyway.”

  The boys shouted at the screen as a gorilla beat its chest.

  Evan heard his mother’s laugh above the noise of the house. One of the women came out of the kitchen nudging a small girl forward. “You boys try to keep it down. Play with the other kids, Debbie.” She was the only girl there, and way younger than them.

  “Here, wanna try?” Tim led her over to the game.

  “No, I’m just going to go to my room,” she pulled a long face.

  “Don’t be such a baby, I told you it’s easy.” He sat her down on his lap and held her hands over the controls as he played.

  Evan looked around the big, light-filled room. The walls were full of books, family photos, and Tim’s trophies. Big green plants filled in the spaces between the furniture. The fireplace was lit. Over the mantelpiece hung an eight-foot banner, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TIM!” In the center of the house was an enclosed atrium with a Japanese garden. A miniature forest of red maples, azaleas and bamboo surrounded a rocky waterfall. The bubbling water tripped down a small stream into a goldfish-filled pond. A mossy mound filled out enough space for a family of four to have picnics on if they sat close together.

  Evan inched his way to the other boys. He didn’t have video games. Even before the divorce, his parents said it was too expensive and rotted your brains. He hovered over Tim. “Don’t you have any new games?”

  Mark turned around. He looked ready to punch him. One of the other boys said, “Ooo-oo, I got you Mario Brothers. Let’s open it now!”

  “Okay,” said Tim. “But we’ll have to play it in my room. I’m not supposed to have presents until after cake.”

  The boys unplugged the console and carried it to Tim’s room. Mark knocked Evan on the shoulder as he walked past. “I don’t know why you’re so full of yourself. You’re poor and your mom’s a loudmouth just like you.”