December 2013 Issue of The Scribblers Newsletter

 Welcome to the December issue of the Scribblers.  This month we have a portion of the newest progressive story, and a link to magazines seeking submissions.

953 Literary Mags Seek Submissions 

from Poets & Writers Magazine

For those of you looking for magazines who are looking for submissions, this is for you.

 

Wondering where to submit your work? Our Literary Magazines database lists 953 journals that accept submissions. Listings include detailed information about what, where, and when to submit work for consideration. 

All of the publications listed must meet our criteria for inclusion, including careful editing and an established track record. 

Among the newest additions are Looseleaf Tea, an online journal "dedicated to the vociferation of culture-driven art" and Room Magazine, a Canadian quarterly that publishes "original, thought-provoking works that reflect women's strength, sensuality, vulnerability, and wit."  Search the database here: http://www.pw.org/literary_magazines

 The Letter

a progressive story by the Scribblers members

Part 1: Alexis Faro

          Tears splatter over the lined paper I’ve rewritten 4 times, sitting alone in the quiet kitchen.  My body shivers despite being wrapped in a heavy, scratchy wool blanket; the absence of the radiator ticking painfully comes to mind as.  I need to remember to turn it back on before 2pm.  I sigh heavily, knowing this letter needs to go out before December, staring at the bag of donated foods I was allocated from the mission.  My heart collapses, like a boat taking on water, after each time I write Dear Santa.  All I need are a few toys, nothing much, just enough to assure my kids Santa doesn’t think badly of them.  They’re good, and the oldest is a better kid than I was at 18.  My tears keep damaging the paper, so softly it can be torn without being heard, like my heart.

          Last week the news reported that Congress is still deadlocked on funding the government, with only 2% of senators & representatives choosing to not receive pay.  It’s a cheap way for them to make headlines and look great, yet some idiots are still advocating that they deserve to be paid…the ones who are causing the problem.  This government shutdown is expected to continue another month, and I’ve been without WIC for 48 days, since it ran out of money on October 7^th.  I’m glad the President is fighting to fund the programs that help me, but is it really essential for him to have 15 staff taking care of him & his family (a reduction from the 90).  I don’t need to live that comfortably, just enough to run the heat when I want to or not panic at having the front door open when a chatty salesperson rings the bell.  There’s no way I can sustain another person, not if things keep going this way.  I still need to meet with that woman from the agency about my eligibility, if she ever gets back to work, but I’ve only got 19 days before the cutoff period.  I can’t even provide simple toys for my two kids as it is!

For 8 years straight I hid from my kids how much we struggled, how each week the government was paying most of their meals.  They don’t know the stress of the past year, the “relatives” who stayed to take care of them, or the money I owe everyone after that damn event in February.  And they never will, if I keep up this perfect act.  If I make it through Thanksgiving without having to explain why we’re not visiting family this year everything will be ok…right?

Part 2—Jamie Baker

          The two young men sitting on the steps of the career center were just visible through the wet, cold morning fog.  They both wore down jackets and knit caps, but the smaller of the two shivered as the cold from the concrete seeped through his insides.

          He was slapping a section of folded newspaper against his open palm.  “This article says there are jobs out there, in the fields yeah sure, but at least it’s warmer there.  And it says here a good picker can make $200 a day.”

          “I didn’t go to school for 12 years to be a farm laborer and live like an illegal alien.”

          “Hey, if we could make the kind of money this article talks about, we could buy a house trailer, like a Winnebago.  We wouldn’t have to stay in those shacks with the wetbacks or whatever.”

          “Richie, you’re talking about stoop labor.  We can do better than that.”

         

          “Can we? It might be stoop labor, but good money and warm weather could make it pretty tolerable.  And we don’t have families to take care of, everything we earn we could keep, save up a stake to start something better.”

          “I do have a family.  I can’t just leave my mother along with the rest of the kids.  Even if I did go away for a job, I’d still have to send most of my money back to them.”

Richie stood, shoved the paper into a back pocket and rocked restlessly from one foot to the other.

          “Christ, it’s cold out here.  I don’t think this place is going to open today.  We’re just wasting our time.”

          “My mom says they will open.  It’s a state office, not federal.  Some of the federal websites will be down, but the office will open.  I don’t care about the federal stuff anyway.  The local sites will have some seasonal stuff, Walmart or something, at least for Christmas.”

          “I think we’re wasting our time.  Even if the place opens, even if you get on at Walmart, what good is that?  $8 an hour for 5 weeks.  And then what?”                 

          “I don’t know, job training or something.  My mom says the government will offer some kind of new jobs program and I’ll be eligible.”

          “Tyler, you know what job the government will offer you?  The army, that’s what.  And really useful training you’ll get there, if you want to be an assassin or a terrorist.”

          “There’s other stuff, medical or security or computers.  Besides, I’m not going into the army.  I need to stay here and help my mom.”

          “This article says there haven’t been enough pickers for all the farms for the last 5 years.  We could get on anywhere, travel with the harvests and see some of the country.”

          “And how would we get out there, it’s 3000 miles away?”

          “Amtrack.  I’ve got enough saved for that and you probably do too.  If you don’t, I’ll lend it to you.  It would be an investment in our futures.”

          The noise of the door being unlocked behind them interrupted their conversation.    Tyler stood and turned toward the entrance.  He looked back, but Richie shook his head.

          “No,” he said, “do what you’ve always done, get what you’ve always got.  Not me, not this time.”

          Tyler watched his friend walk away.  He immediately felt lonely and he wanted to chase after Richie, to run with him to the credit union, empty their paltry accounts and go on an adventure.  Instead he turned, shrugged his way through the door and went to the counter to sign in. 

Part 3 John Matthews

   Barack Obama sat at his desk in the oval office. He was alone, sort of. All he wanted to do right now was to put his head on the desk and cradle it in his arms, like a school kid at nap time. Things had been rough. The shutdown was dragging on. He'd just seen a news story criticizing him for retaining 15 personal staffers at the White House while most of America had to be their own butlers, cooks, and chauffeurs. He had laid off almost 90 in a show of fiscal restraint. The ones who remained were in such precarious financial straits that he couldn't bear to let them go. And they weren't his personal servants, by any means. The White House couldn't be left to fall into disrepair so the world would look down on the US. The kitchen staff was to serve international guests who had to be treated properly to maintain the country's reputation. 

     Obamacare was underway although off to a shaky start with unclear and overloaded websites. But the laid off White House staffers had been signed up. He had made sure of that. He also made sure that Pelosi and Boehner knew that his Affordable Care Act was already doing its job making sure the unemployed didn't go without care. Pelosi said she still hadn't read all of the act so she probably didn't know about that provision.

     Even though the country's situation was not good, he didn't even have the luxury of being able to rest his head on his desk. He wasn't really alone. A hidden security camera was filming him and being monitored by a Secret Service agent. The President was being watched every second of his life, as were Michelle and the kids. Just the other day a Youtube video of Sasha jumping on her bed appeared on the internet. It could only have come from the security tape which was supposed to be destroyed daily. Probably some laid off Secret Service video technician trying to scrape up a few bucks for his own kids for Christmas.

     Yes, Christmas was coming, and with it one of the duties Michelle had roped him into. She had directed that some random bags of undeliverable mail addressed to Santa Claus be brought to the White House to be answered by staff people. Now there weren't even enough staffers to do it. Still the Obamas were fond of the idea and the President still asked that a few letters be brought to him personally to respond. After all, 99% of the correspondence that went out under his signature wasn't actually signed by him. So what was wrong with him actually signing Santa's name to a few letters?

     He picked a letter from the pile and slit it open. The Secret Service didn't like him opening unsolicited letters.   He did it anyway. It would have been good publicity, but there the Secret Service drew the line. They didn't want it made public that letters came to the Presidents hand without going through security.

     The letter was in sad shape. The envelope was wrinkled and smudged. The letter itself consisted of a page of tablet paper, the blue lines running from being wet. The paper had little crinkled places where it had been touched by droplets of...what? Probably water, or maybe tears from the tone of the letter, or something worse.

     The writer was not a kid, but an adult, a mother whose welfare payments had been curtailed by the shutdown. Her only income was the money her son brought home from a minimum wage job at Walmart. She knew she wasn't writing to Santa, but her desperation seemed to make her think her letter might fall into sympathetic hands. 

     There was a fund to provide a gift here and there to a deserving letter writer. It wasn't large, by government standards. It might have been large enough to solve most of this woman's problems. But it wasn't large enough to solve the problems of every hard luck letter writer.

     What to do when there wasn't enough money to solve everyone's problems? Was it fair to single out a few lucky ones, like lottery winners? And even if he did so, it couldn't be publicized. That would create a storm of resentment, and charges of running a discriminatory giveaway program not authorized by Congress.

     He decided to discuss it with Michelle and the kids at dinner. Tonight Malia was cooking vegetarian Sloppy Joes.

 

 And Finally...

We are always looking for articles and short stories to publish, as well as suggestions for the newsletter.  Please send any ideas, stories, etc. to colleen.  We'd love to see any contributions you'd like to make to The Scribblers.

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