FEATURED WRITER:Byron Hoot Co-Founder of

the long-standing Tamarack

Writer’s Group, Byron’s

poetry has been published

in multiple journals and

anthologies.

PoetryFeatured title:

The Fisherman by Girard

Tournesol, winner of the

2018 RMAML Poetry

Contest

ImagesFeaturing photographer

Greg Clary with full-page

photo inside

ProsePersonal essays and

short stories by Paul

Staniszewski, Mike

Weible, Joe Taylor,

and more

Fall 2018 Edition

An extremely local literary magazine for Northwestern Pennsylvania

thewatershedjournal.org

submissions@thewatershedjournal.org

photo by Greg Clary

elcome to the Fall 2018 Edition of The Watershed Journal, an

extremely local literary magazine for Northwestern Pennsylvania.

We believe in the power of storytelling, both in its visual and written

forms, as a way to connect with and inspire one another. We also

believe in the transcendent influence of the natural world, ubiquitous

in our region of the state. Our mission is to publish a high-quality

magazine that will elevate the voices of our local writers,

photographers and storytellers for the benefit of readers in our

hometowns- Clarion, Brookville, DuBois, Punxsutawney- and

beyond.

We were thrilled with the tremendous quality of work that came

flooding in for our Fall 2018 Edition. It validates the premise with

which we began- that the talent in our neck of the woods is both

formidable and inspiring. We hope that you will take time to learn

more about our contributors and read exclusive content online.

In this edition we’ve featured the poetry of Punxsutawney area

resident Byron Hoot, a broadly published poet whose dedication to

the art form is such that he has written every day for the last 45

years. You’ll also find the poem that won first place in the adult

category of the 23rd annual poetry contest sponsored by the

Rebecca M. Arthurs Library in Brookville. Written by Clarington

resident Girard Tournesol, it is called The Fisherman. Our stunning

cover features a photo by Greg Clary, and you’ll find more of his

work throughout the Journal. We are delighted to include several

short stories and essays, including a gripping science fiction piece

by Brookville native Kelly Harriger called Continuum.

As you enjoy the Journal, it is important to remember that this

publication would not be possible without the support of our

sponsors and advertisers. Please be sure to patronize them.

Thank you to the volunteers who contributed their time and talents to

the Fall Edition: Associate Editors, Amanda Carrier, Kirke Wise, as

well as Jo Scheier Bugay, Ray Bugay, Laurie Barrett and Holly

Button.

Most of all, thank you for providing this compilation of cherished

work with a loving home.

Yours Truly,

Jess Weible, Executive Editor

Sarah Rossey, Managing Editor

Letter from the Editors

For more inspiration and publication

opportunities, visit us at

thewatershedjournal.organd follow us on

Facebook:

The Watershed Journal

Twitter:

@watershedthe

Instagram:

thewatershedjournalpa

W

photos by Desiree Zeller and Greg Clary

fall 2018 poetry

prose

photo by Jo Scheier Bugay

1 And Then We Are ... by Byron Hoot

2 The Visit by Byron Hoot

5 The Fisherman by Girard Tournesol

7 Fewer by Jessica Weible

8 Invertebrates by Patty Zion

11 Redeemed by Amanda Carrier

12 Two Haiku by John Miller

13 It's Easier by W. Hill

15 Mothers of Our Past by Kirke Wise

16 Still There by Cindy Scully

17 At The Waterworks, 1968 by Michael Benigni

19 Frosted Fields by Patricia Thrushart

24 Sugar by Greg Clary

25 The Fall Came Suddenly by Girard Tournesol

26 Delicate Fire by Sarah Rossey

27 Among the Flowers by Laurie Barrett

29 Broken Watch by Amy Salsgiver

30 Reflections in Retrospect by Elaine Bigley

31 The Journey by Patricia Thrushart

3 Port Clinton, OH by Joe Taylor

4 Be Where Your Feet Are by David Rotsch

6 Elk by Paul Staniszewski

9-10 Continuum by Kelly Harriger

14 Sometimes Things Just Work Out by Joe Taylor

18 Cabin Fever by Peggy Zortman

20 My Apple Tree by Wanda Logan

21-22 Small Stream, Big Trout by Mike Weible

28 My "Other" Life by Kathy Myers

into this exile of finding out

what I have to I have stepped

and slowly walk according

to what sign I find leading me

to where no map holds the destinations

I have come to, stayed awhile,

left behind.

To be a stranger in

a strange land is to face things

never faced before and I have stood

in front of that mirror reflecting

truly – not just what I see

but what is – and in that intensity

the signs of the next steps appear

and I dare not deny to follow

that sign, that singular promise

of one step at a time as I lean

into my walking stick remembering

The Riddle of the Sphinx

my body strong, my heart and soul

in that two-step dance coming

out of me and I read the sign

in the clarity of the imagination.

No-one will find my track

and I’m no map-maker either.

But I walk on into my Fate

And Destiny in the Necessity

of whom I am.

I, like you,

are a wanderer in the life

we are to lead; some have maps

cheaply, dangerously purchased

and some read sign, look to the sky,

listen to the earth: This exile

our home, our land, our place

of our birth.

And Then We Are ...

by Byron Hoot

1photo by Anthony Mangino

When I awoke a blue heron knocked

on my door and I opened it

and the bill was down my throat

hunting for something to eat, feed upon

as I was caught just where I was

held by feathered wings like hands

the point of the bill as sharp as a hunting

arrow searching, seeking for what

I didn’t know could feed a blue heron

but something was found;

the wings let go,

the head reversed, the bill withdrew

and while I felt something gone

I felt something new and watched

it fly away in that so slow rising up

and pushing down of the wings

like a canoe slowly going through water

and remembered blue is Mary’s

color and the Holy Ghost a bird

and the visitation just absurd

enough to be, possibly, divine. . . .

The Visitby Byron Hoot

2

photo by Judy Schwab

The incessant squealing. They're seagulls, but they could be vultures, circling the

decaying carcass of this dying little Lake Erie town. I sit on a bench, smoking my

cigar, just outside the tavern where I enjoyed a few, but couldn't light up, because

you can't do that here anymore.

Across the street is the three story I.O.O.F. building. Its name chiseled in stone,

they thought, into perpetuity. But the young men, whose rite of community

passage once meant joining their dads and uncles, Odd Fellows all, stopped

coming. They don't do that here anymore.

Two floors of vacant windows stare out with empty eyes. The dignity of the

structure embarrassed by the first floor tenant, "Cruisin' Tunes...Tropical Gifts

and Resort Wear", a dollar store for tourists, budget-minded, not the elite on

"holiday". They don't do that here anymore.

There used to be factories around here that built parts for the auto industry, paid

good wages, had benefits. Young men could get jobs, security for life, raise

families, stay here. They don't do that here anymore.

A van pulls up, a middle-aged couple gets out. The rear door pops open; a few

dozen gallon jugs appear. Each take two in hand, methodically working their way

up the street. Sometime, a while ago in an act of anticipation or hope or

supplication, sidewalk planters were installed. The couple stop at each to pour

the remaining flowers a life-sustaining drink. They still do that here.

Port Clinton, OHby Joe Taylor

3

photo by Greg Clary

Sometimes in the darkest skies, it's the lightning that shows the path.

Loving life and the beauty of new. Respect the old, but don't stay there

too long. You'll inevitably make a wrong turn, but remember that

detours are unplanned adventures. Mistakes will happen, but learn

from them and move on. Love with all your heart. Apologize, forgive

and forget. Always walk away from negativity.

Learn something new each day and don't be afraid to share it. Be a

good listener and take advice. The truth will always be true. Be

yourself and own your decisions. Be where your feet are. Plan for the

future, but don't forget to live in the moment. Life happens exactly how

it's supposed to. We may not always know the how or the why, but we

can affect the when. Work every day to be a better person and the

world will be a better place...

Be Where Your Feet Are by David Rotsch

photo by David Afton4

Ihavemyfullmind,plentyofeyesightandsomespunkleftinme.

Ihaveneverbeensickadayinmylife.Sohearme.

IknowwhatGodlookslike

WemetyearsandyearsagobutI'llneverforgetHim.

AsayoungboyIwent@ishingatmysecretstillwaterpondintheforest.

Athreefootlongcarp,bigasalog,

hoverednearmealldaytilltwilight.

Atdinner,Ifedhimthebreadcrustfrommysandwich,thepartIdidn'tlike,

andproceededtoliveontothisgreatage.

The Fisherman(A Picture of God, continued)

by Girard Tournesol

photo by Anthony Mangino5

Elk once roamed freely in Pennsylvania. By 1867, because of hunting and habitat exploitation, the elk disappeared. Elk were reintroduced to Pennsylvania beginning in 1913. The first herd of 50 Rocky Mountain Elk traveled from Yellowstone in Wyoming by train. They were released into Clearfield and Clinton Counties. Two years after the initial successful release, an additional 95 elk were transported for release. This was the beginning of elk or “wapiti” herd that exists today.

The elk continue to thrive and now the herd numbers nearly 900 animals. The elk remain in large groups throughout the winter months. They must dig through to snow to find grass, twigs, and buds. They will eat bark off of trees and drink water from the streams to sustain themselves. The bulls shed their antlers in the spring, while the cows are birthing calves.

The elk range covers approximately 835 square miles within Cameron, Elk, Clearfield, Clinton, and Potter Counties. Every year in the fall tens of thousands of visitors flock to Benezette to witness the annual mating ritual known as the elk rut.

I recently traveled to Benezette to photograph some of the elk that are known to inhabit the area. Well, I ended up in a wooded grove adjacent to a field and noticed a decent-sized bull feeding in one of the many food plots quite a distance away. I laid down my camera bag to move closer to get the shot that I wanted. Then I heard a noise behind me and turned around to see collared-bull 2D checking out my camera bag. (Please note that selected elk are collared by the Pennsylvania Game Commission to monitor their behavior to better manage the herd that number about 1,000 animals.)

As recently as 12 years ago the Winslow Hill area of Benezette was completely decimated by strip mining. A cooperative effort between the Pennsylvania Game Commission, the Pennsylvania Department of Conservation & Natural Resources, the Pennsylvania Fish & Boat Commission, the PA Department of Environmental Resources, the Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation, and many other organizations and groups collaborated to convert this wasteland into habitat for elk. Now this section of land is now known as the Winslow Hill Elk Viewing Area. This project will serve as a model for how various agencies within State government and other organizations can work together to create an environment to support the elk for present and future generations in order to make Pennsylvania a better place to live.

Elkby Paul Staniszewski

photos by Paul Staniszewski

6

I am alone on this street.

The old Victorian house with shutters dragging toward the lawn,

Its brilliant color now irrevocably muted as the wood dampens, worms and begins to rot.

The tall, stately storefront with crumbling brick, disintegrating purpose,

Was once built by a man who felt proud and strong,

Like that brick.

I look around and there are fewer,

There is less.

Piece by piece it blows away with each gentle breeze,

The imperceptible grace of destruction,

A town in entropy.

I am alone on this street.

And I am oriented by purpose, imbued with power, and in a state of pure inspiration,

As I rearrange the crumbs of this place,

I create a masterpiece of dust with my hands,

And wait for the next gentle wind to carry me away.

Fewerby Jessica Weible

7

photo by Greg Clary

Wise women

do not move stones

or jostle hard hearts.

They know what lies beneath —

worms, stingers, sizzling snakes,

angry at the uncovering

and ready to creep

into any warm place.

Wise women

feel the stone,

have a hunch

what waits, hidden —

barbs, mockery, cold contempt

angry at itself

and ready to destroy

warm blood.

Wise women, please

do not move stones.

Invertebratesby Patty Zion

photo by Janette Schafer8

Lawrence Edward Darrow, Nobel Prize winner for

his work in theoretical physics, lay belly-down on a

large blue towel, face toward the ocean, toes pressed

into the warm sand, sipping lemonade (with just a

splash of vodka) through a straw, his attention focused

on the book propped up in the sand in front of him.

He wasn’t a huge fan of science fiction, preferring

instead to keep his interest focused on academic

books that advanced and inspired his career, but this

novel had captured his interest from the opening

paragraph, and had held his attention for the past three

days of his vacation. It wasn’t so much the writing itself

that captured his interest, but instead was the theme

and concept of the writing, which so mirrored his own

very recent work with time, event horizons, alternate

realities, dark matter and wormholes. This new area of

his work was so unique and different, and so outside

the scope of his earlier work, that he decided to keep it

very, very secret. He knew it was groundbreaking, and

if he could develop successful models to prove it, he

might very well find himself a two-time winner of a

Nobel prize for physics.

The author of the novel, an unknown whose name

Lawrence could not even remember without looking at

the book’s cover, had somehow managed to construct

a storyline so fascinating, so scientifically accurate, so

plausible, and so filled with anticipation, that he could

not stop reading it for fear of missing anything in the

story that might confirm aspects of his own studies. He

was amazed that a novelist, and not someone who’d

devoted his life to theoretical physics, could so

accurately write about concepts so complex, and in

such astounding depth.

Even more puzzling was the fact that the writer

specifically spoke of concepts that were identical to the

thought-problems that he, Lawrence, wrestled with on

a daily basis. How could he know these things? It’s fair

to say that he was even slightly troubled by the notion

that a novelist—even one with a firm grasp of physics

—could have come up with an idea so closely tied to

his own secret work. Lawrence was as

fascinated as

fascinated as he was puzzled, but so caught up in the

story that he decided he’d have to learn more about

this author when he was finished reading the book. But

for the time being, there was a great book to be

finished, and he could not wait to read the conclusion,

which lurked just pages away.

The hero of the book was also a theoretical

physicist, but living about one hundred years in the

future. Lawrence had loved the idea that this hero just

happened to be a woman, but had grown a bit

perturbed with her when the story revealed that she

wasn’t entirely above some shady behavior, something

he considered very unbecoming for someone in his

profession. He had always considered science to be a

search for the truth, but he wasn’t willing to become

unethical in his search for it, and that’s what bothered

him slightly about Dr. Lucy Winslow.

The plot of the novel had focused around Dr. Lucy’s

exhaustive work on wormholes and the bending of

time, and in particular on finding a way for humans to

leap not only through time, but through other

dimensions. This aspect of her work is what had

captured Lawrence’s imagination almost immediately.

In the novel, Dr. Lucy had succeeded in creating a

small wormhole in a laboratory setting, and had

successfully transported lab rats through it. Even more

amazing was that she could send them forward or

backward through time and space, with the rats

emerging back at the laboratory, very much in the

present, yet much younger or older than they had been

when they departed.

Lawrence had developed successful equations to

support this idea, but had never been able to build a

successful model, not even at the particle level.

Throughout the novel, Dr. Lucy’s work had progressed

to the point where she had constructed a much larger

wormhole, one capable of transporting humans through

time and space. It was at this point that Lawrence

found himself growing angry at the fictional Dr. Lucy

Winslow, who was doing some very unethical things in

pursuit of knowledge. He reminded himself that he was

reading escapist fiction, and so decided to withhold

judgement until the end of the book, where he

assumed there would be a good explanation for her

behavior.

Continuumby Kelly Harriger

9

But things had instead taken a darker turn. Dr. Lucy

Winslow had rightly assumed that her work was

groundbreaking, and she grew very secretive about

sharing it. Lawrence understood her concerns, as he

had those concerns about his own work. But he was

frustrated to read that a respected physicist—but just a

fictional one, he kept reminding himself—would be so

underhanded as to use her groundbreaking findings

and her wormhole machine to alter the past and

reshape the future in a manner that would benefit her.

Earlier in the book, Dr. Lucy had revealed her wish to

win a Nobel prize, and with her plan now in full

operation, it appeared she had a very good chance at

doing so.

But in the last chapter, she went rogue. As a

character in the novel, she’d lost

Lawrence’s trust, and yet he

could barely contain himself to

read the ending, while secretly

hoping there was either a good

twist ending that would explain

everything, or that she’d get her

comeuppance. Over the last

chapter of the book, Dr. Lucy

had teamed up with a

professional burglar who’d made

a number of trips into the past (as well as a few parallel

trips in the present), right into the laboratories and

offices of well-known and respected physicists from all

over the world, raiding their files and offices, and even

hacking into their computers, while collecting a

treasure trove of information from the greatest minds in

the world of physics.

Lawrence was now very frustrated with Dr. Lucy

Winslow, but also very excited about the explosive

ending he knew was coming. With just a page to go,

Dr. Lucy had sent Lars, the burglar, to clean up a very

problematic loose end. One of the scientists who’d

been robbed by Lars earlier was very close to

completing work on a project that would change the

world as we know it, and Dr. Lucy was determined to

make sure that didn’t happen. Lars had stolen all the

scientist’s written works, copied all his digital files, and

fried the hard drive on all the scientist’s computers,

destroying any trace evidence of the secretive and

nefarious work-in-progress.

It was at this point that Lawrence paused, took a

long sip on his lemonade (and vodka), and took a deep

breath. He pushed his toes deeper into the warm sand.

He looked out across the ocean at the horizon, and

smiled. He was now certain that Dr. Lucy was about to

redeem herself, and that her seemingly illegal and

highly unethical actions had a pure motive behind

them, one that might save the world from a madman,

or a least a fool who had no idea what his work was

about to unleash. He turned to the last page, and with

a pounding heart, he began reading again.

“Lars parked his car down the street from the

scientist’s home, and walked quietly up the sidewalk,

careful not to do anything to

attract the attention of the

neighbors. He was dressed in a

tropical shirt and khaki slacks,

and wore a pair of Gucci

sandals. He looked up and down

the street, and then turned down

the alley beside the house. He

quickly walked down the alley,

where he encountered a grassy

embankment. He was nervous.

He had robbed many people before, but had never

killed anyone. When Dr. Lucy had first asked him, he

refused, but the money offer was simply too difficult to

ignore, and he needed the money. At the top of the

embankment, he reached back and pulled the Walther .

380 with the silencer from the back of his slacks. He

peeked over the embankment and was relieved to see

that his victim had his back to him. He walked quietly

and efficiently across the ground, stopped suddenly,

and quickly fired a single shot into the back of Dr.

Lawrence Edward Darrow, Nobel Prize winner for his

work in theoretical physics, as he lay belly-down on a

large blue towel, face toward the ocean, toes pressed

into the warm sand, sipping lemonade (with just a

splash of vodka) through a straw, his attention fully

focused on the book propped up in the sand in front of

him.”

He turned the last

page, and with a

pounding heart, he

began reading again

10

Redeemed By Amanda Carrier

Darkening glimpses of anguish

Have shot across my way.

I can feel the searing pains -

Upon my pride they lay.

When I first saw the anger in your eyes -

The way they harshly flamed,

I should have just turned away,

But I thought you could be tamed.

The years have passed quickly,

Yet the time seems to stand still.

You haven’t changed much

And I’ve about had my fill.

In ways I cannot handle,

You go from hate to sorrow.

It’s always aimed toward me,

Something you never leave for tomorrow.

Bruises and scratches,

Whatever marks you leave,

The deeper pain is felt within

The fragile soul of me.

Smother my happiness,

Do what you dare,

But you will be caught -

And I do not care.

I am done with this horrid story,

So I bid you farewell.

I’ve spoken to the authorities,

Your next stop - a prison cell.

photo by Desiree Zeller

11

Two Haikuby John Miller

Forecast

Rain's horizon lands

In splatters and cool wet drops

Awash in wishes

Saranac Lake

The clouds' soft whispers

Ducks dive and sing silent quacks

Lone boy kayaks dawn

12photo by Tricia Grunick

It’s easier to converse with self

than anyone else

always knowing what’s on your mind

and understanding what was meant

every time,

having a sympathetic ear

forever near

and a friend you get along with

just fine.

It's Easierby W.Hill

13

photo by Anthony Mangino

So, last night I was sitting in my recliner, watching television, and I happened to

glance over at the narrow strip of floor between my sofa and an end table. On

the floor, where I left it after an autumn of batting down Japanese Beetles, lay my

fly swatter. I noticed a small dark speck on it. A piece of fuzz? An old peanut

skin? A dried fragment of leaf?

I got back to watching my show and forgot about it for the moment. But it

returned to my consciousness, if only as a trivial pursuit. What could it be?

Finally, giving in to the curious itch, I got myself up and looked at it closely. It was

a mother-ugly bug, deceased for sure and on its back, but still showing

threatening pincers, and a general meanness. It would have made a fine

adversary. Me, the Grim Reaper of Bugdom, swatting and missing, swatting and

missing, then swatting and wounding. Then the coup de grace delivered, putting

the little bugger out of its misery. But I was denied, or perhaps spared, the effort.

After all I might have swung wildly and broken the lamp or pulled a muscle. So,

in the end it was as it should be, me victorious, the bug dead. But, how did it

know what its fate would have been? Death by flyswatter. How did it know to

embrace and lie upon and die upon the very lethal weapon that would have,

should have, taken its life?

I'll never know. But, I guess sometimes things just work out.

Sometimes Things Just Work Out

by Joe Taylor

14

The Mothers of our past,

We thought they'd always last,

But they had to leave us,

Though they never wanted to,

Then,

We didn’t know what to do.

Out of a young girl’s dreams,

So long ago it now seems,

She brought forth your life,

Then the world made her go away,

Even though she struggled to stay.

All of the books she once read,

The songs she sang,

The things she said,

A large part of what your world was,

Now singing only in your past,

But a part of you that will always last.

And she loved you until the day she died,

As inside she remembered and cried,

It’s just another hard part of our lives,

But the spark in that young girl’s dreams,

Is now yours, and what motherhood means.

“Through the dreams of a young girl to be a

mother and a wife, you were once created

and brought into this life.”

Mothers of Our Past By Kirke Wise

Our lives are like a dance in the fabric of time across our imagination and life. It is all

connected. So this is for you. Whoever you are, and for whomever you so deeply miss.

15

photo submitted by Kirke Wise

As a child you held my hand; I never had any fear,

Growing up I could be brave and strong, knowing you were near,

Now I try to do the same for you, as I see you slip away,

Bit by bit, more confused and distant every day,

I hope you can still feel my love and know that I still care,

Are you still in there?

At first you tried to hide the forgetfulness and confusion,

But the diseases took their toll and normalcy became an illusion,

We keep favorite music, favorite food, and lots of pictures near,

We talk about memories and family to try to keep you here,

Sometimes you smile when you look at me, sometimes you blankly stare,

Are you still in there?

Your lungs still breathe, your heart still beats,

But your memories, your personality, your mind retreats,

My faith knows you are passing into God's loving care,

But my broken heart still has to wonder —

Are you still in there?

Are you still in there?

Still Thereby Cindy Scully

photo by Melanie Parker

16