Just a few months ago I was considering the state of the writing community in Greater Cincinnati. Over the years, I had read some tremendous works by several unknown and unrecognized artists who lived in my community. I wondered why these folks had never been published, but thinking further, I had firsthand knowledge of difficulties encountered while trying to get published in Cincinnati.

Existing publications in Cincinnati cut it close to the bone financially. Many fine writers compose the staffs of these publications, and, of course, the editors and publishers are going to use the stories and reports that the paid (or in some cases, unpaid) staff produce for them.

I was fortunate to be recognized as a viable freelance writer by several local publications. My contributions were mostly humor and farce though I did do some actual reporting on occasion. Editors used my stuff to fill a page or two when someone on staff was on vacation or absent for some other reason. A paper is a business, and since staff writers are paid on a weekly basis, editors and publishers expect those writers to fill their papers with quality writing and reporting. Freelancers cost money beyond the payroll and are used as sparingly as possible. In spite of those obstacles, my work has appeared in virtually every local publication, but I have been very fortunate in that respect.

My minor success as a writer was encouraging. I’d even get paid most of the time, which, let’s face it, is the best encouragement. It was gratifying to see my writing in print and available to the public on a mass basis, but that success turned out to be sporadic. After awhile it became more and more difficult to get any of my work published locally. My years in the music business had taught me that rejection is a facet of artistic endeavor which helped to fend off my tendency to lapse into discouragement.

Most small local publications are seat-of-the-pants operations existing on a day-to-day basis. I had seen several small publications come and go and knew that the road would be rough for a beginner. Failed publications had attempted to fill a void that didn’t exist by offering the same arts and entertainment fare “only better” and had competed for the same advertising dollars as if the public or advertisers could discern if newer publications were “better” than established ones. In reality, I saw that a new publication would have to be more focused and serve a specific segment of the community to thrive here.

When I became involved in the process of getting published locally, I realized that the writing community in Cincinnati was much larger than I’d imagined. Despite very little nurturing and encouragement, thousands of local writers express thoughts and feelings through words in hope that one day someone would offer them an opportunity to display their talents.

After much consideration about the local writing community, my conclusion was that someone should found a publication that showcases the writing of the authors and poets of our area who are seeking publication and recognition. Legend would serve a sole purpose as a literary outlet for local writers.

Legend’s entrance has been well accepted principally for its ability to address a need in our community. So with this purpose in mind and the encouragement I’ve received, Legend’s Issue #2 has become a reality.

This issue features some outstanding work by three new contributors as well as two who appeared in Issue #1. Submitting your work to Legend is easy. Guidelines and directions for submissions are posted on the Legend webpage at www.awaywithwords.us/legend.htm or you can send an SASE to Legend 1720 Cedar St. Cincinnati, Ohio 45231.

I have written all my life, and always tried to write well. Writing comes easily to me, like breathing and eating. I have done lots of things, including nursing and horticulture but wish to pursue writing 24/7 'til I die.

I like to be around other writers and musicians and "artsy fartsy" types; I feel understood by this crowd.

I like all forms of communication, and am not advers to technical writing; "It's all good!"

A barren, stony soul masked behind teenage glitter; that in the end

Could only stab with a sharp tongue and crush with heavy emotions

(Pushing me into a dark place) (I should have known better)

But three silver lights held the fool with a softness and a hope

Guiding me, each in your fashion; each from your corner; each with your light

Keeping me from falling

Into the dark...

From West Waters, his light shined with perspectives and ideals

I should have always, but never, until it was too late; realized

(with regrets already mounting)

From North Earth, her light surrounded me with a caring glow

Revealing a path strayed from, yet still to be cherished and pondered

(You should have stayed with her....you'd still be happy)

From South Fires, your light wound tightly around my heart

And quickens it's beat with every word spoken

(and on that night, your light touched deeper than ever)

You silver stars in my sky

Have given me

More then you can know...

Transformation, realization, salvation, family

(I cannot describe with words)

And you, my Star Fire Belle

Have left me

Changed

For all the better

And I will always love you

Randall Middendorf was born 10/11/79 (Libras Rock!) in Cincinnati, Ohio. He is now living in Clifton with three other artists and attending the University of Cincinnati pre-majoring in Mortuary Sciences.

Reflection of Me

By Ebokne Carr

Staring at me what do I see?

Do I indeed feel free

or do invisible chains bind me?

Is everything that appears

really what it seems to be?

Unlocking my mind is the key.

What is meant to be will be.

Battle lost before it's fought.

Lesson learned before it's taught.

Life moving so fast I wish it could halt.

Wisdom continues to be sought.

Staring at me what do I see?

Innocent or guilty, which is my plea?

Away from negative vibes I try to flee,

But what do I do when the enemy surrounds me?

Will change come eventually?

Try to meditate, then I hesitate.

When I contemplate the present state

of others’ level of hate

Wishing I could have a clean slate

(A good mate to relate, conversate, even debate).

But I'll continue to wait.

So in staring at me, all I see is a reflection looking back at me clearly.

My name is Ebokne, but my friends call me Empress. Greetings and Peace to all readers. Poetry to me is a collection of thoughts, some fantasy, a lot of reality, and a way to escape and express some of my deepest feelings. What inspires me is life and different situations that I find to be rather good, bad, happy, or sad.

Joani writes: I have written many poems and a few short stories, and just recently, finished a novel, hoping to find a publisher. I have also written several articles over the years for the WAIF Alert. I have always had a passion for writing and music, and it is my dream to make my living doing just that.

For submission guidelines visit Legend’s webpage at www.awaywithwords.us/legend.htm or mail SASE to: Legend 1720 Cedar St. Cincinnati, Ohio 45231

My Broken Foot

-or-

Why I joined the IRA

by Selma A. V. Cather

It was not a dark and stormy night, nor was there anything particularly spooky about May 11^th , 2004. I had had a nasty day on the 9-5 (a lot of attitude adjustment from the “boss”), had missed a friend’s appointment, and stopped into the Clifton pub for a little relaxation.

As I often do when visiting a pub, I first walked the premises to look for a friendly face. I walked all through the pub to the back bar, and not spying a friendly face I retreated to the darts where a game was beginning.

A strange feeling came over me, a desire to interact yet remain aloof. I affected a heavy Irish accent, kept my dark glasses on, put on another layer of glossy lipstick, and maintained this radio silence for 2 hours. Odd, and odder still was that I found I could not jump out of my character when I was getting ready to leave as the light was just fading. I am indeed a widow, and now I was a widow of an Irishman who had been broadsided on his way home from work, and neatly killed. My son had been kneecapped just last week on his way home from Mass, and my two young girls were so terrified they wouldn’t leave the house.

In this affected state, you can imagine that I was upset and confused and also was quite desperate to let this character go. It was a bitter character to model. This widow was full of sorrow and anger and worry for her children. Her husband drank too much, and slapped her when they fought, so she was less sorry to see him go.

I worked up the nerve to go to the ladies room to try to disengage myself from this horrified and somewhat terrifying persona. I used the restroom, and splashed water on my face again and again looking at myself in amazement and fear. The persona was persistent and brutal; my character looked around the restroom as the perfect place to slit the throat of the kneecappers and the ideal place to place a 38 against the temple of the driver of the car that had broadsided her husband. I stared deeply into my green eyes and my red-brown hair in that mirror and watched breathless as I easily bought into the violence of widow terrorist. My eyes grew wide at the mayhem she could inflict, the fear she could instill. I had already convinced everyone I met that I was Irish; would it be such a stretch for them to think I was now IRA? But how, as I left the bar, could I convince them that I was now a willing killer with no emotions and a steely resolve to take no prisoners?

I never found out that answer. I fell as I left the restroom, my broken foot now rules my world and the politics of violence is on hold.

Selma Cather says of herself: “I have written all my life, and always tried to write well. Writing comes easily to me,

like breathing and eating. I have done lots of things, including nursing and horticulture but wish to pursue writing 24/7 'til I die.

I like to be around other writers and musicians and "artsy fartsy" types; I feel understood by this crowd.

I like all forms of communication, and am not advers to technical writing; "It's all good!"

Celling Out

By Ron Liggett

In grade school some kids sucked thumbs.

In the morning or the middle of the day,

at the bus stop, in gym class, or at recess,

there they stood: a hand curled in a loose fist

in front of their face, index finger upside the nose,

and that thumb jamming up the pie hole.

My son’s tee ball team had a thumb-sucking right fielder.

Kids will stick nearly anything in their mouths.

Some like the taste of paste or even boogers.

Older kids chew on writing instruments.

No.2 pencils gnawed down to the graphite.

Ballpoint pens chewed like licorice sticks.

Some leave tooth impressions on straws.

I knew a kid who ate wax.

I suppose it had something to do with

the fact that one can’t chew gum in class

which compels many kids to chomp down

on one placebo or another.

Some carry these oral habits into adulthood

which manifest themselves in ways

I’ve mentioned or some new mannerism.

For instance, about five years ago,

teenagers were wearing pacifiers

on strings around their necks. They were

past the aforementioned thumb-sucking phase.

Many parents believed that this quirky habit

was a result of teenage angst or

even unrequited childhood longings.

This fad continued for about a year

until someone connected the need for a pacifier

to a dry mouthed side-effect of a particular drug.

Of course there’s the cigarette smoker

whose unacceptability has banished them

to the outdoors or deserted corners of buildings

because of cited health risks to all

and their pollution of air, land and water.

Then there’s the alcoholic stumbling

through existence or careening across pavement

in chariots of death and self destruction.

Equally obnoxious as alcohol and cigarettes

and becoming nearly as dangerous,

is another substitute for the thumb

that has become popular of late:

the social curse called the cell phone.

Communication is a vital interpersonal skill

upon which the relationships that form a culture

are built, sustained, and, if need be, transformed.

The cell phone has diminished social contact.

The most popular model bears resemblance

to the flop-open communicators seen

on several episodes of the Star Trek series.

Those communicators were used only briefly

as the actors were nearly always engaged

in dramatic dialogue with one another.

The cell phone is used by many to the exclusion

of face-to-face communication with others.

At family gatherings, at church, at work,

or at home, the user points a finger in the air

which is supposed to suspend any conversation

or attempt at such by anyone in their presence.

If a person attempts to disrupt a cell conversation

they are met by the users’ glare and ultimately

the verbal scorn of said user for daring to interrupt.

To my way of thinking, a wireless phone

is an excuse to engage in anything other than

what is happening in the here and now.

As a frequent pedestrian, I’ve been forced to dodge

dozens of careless drivers lost in a cell phone call.

As a driver, cell users have cut me off in traffic

and seem to remain oblivious to the dangers

that their lack of attention has caused to others.

I’ve seen them at order desks and counters

expecting clerks of the world to wait patiently

until the all-important cell phone conversation

has tapered to an end or has reached a pause.

The cell phone has evolved into an accident

waiting to occur. It is far more inconsiderate

than thumb-sucking or even booger eating.

It is, in many ways, telling the person

who is directly in front of you

that you believe that they are not a person.

It is telling pedestrians and fellow drivers

that you are not concerned for their safety.

It is an escape that can cost innocent life.

What began as a space age convenience

has become the basest and nastiest of habits.

Not that that will stop anyone.

In case you haven’t guessed, Ron is the editor of Legend. He lives in Cincinnati and writes for fun and profit.

The reason his work is in this issue of Legend is because he hasn’t received sufficient submissions to fill the publication;

and you are the only voices who can remedy this by sending your literary submissions to Legend either by emailing at legendlit@att.net

or smailing to Legend 1720 Cedar St. Cincinnati, Ohio 45231.

If you’ve got some literary output that you want to see in print, send it to Legend today.

Crazy Day

By Melanie Stromsky

It's been a crazy day

The kids are on summer break so they annoy me all day

Can't make my husband stop griping or make him go away

For a moments peace I sit and pray

It's been a crazy day

This crazy day is close to its end

Please no calls from my depressing friend

No calls for money that someone wants me to send

No neighbors who want me to lend

This crazy day is close to its end

So what can I say

Tomorrow brings another day though it seems far away

I'm sure there'll be bills that I cannot pay

And thoughts that I somehow can't seem to relay

So yet another crazy day…

   Melanie is a songwriter/composer/producer known as Ms. Melanie - A.K.A. BabyGirl.

She is currently in the studio recording her first full length CD.  She believes that poetry is a song being born.

 Maybe you'll hear this poem sung on the radio some day.

So with our full lips and curvy hips, our beautiful black face, our place can not be erased.

Royal lineage has been traced, shining example of Gods grace, be strong in your African race.

Our place is predestined in history so to me it is no mystery. Let the story be told: from us life unfolds.