Saturday was dreary, the sky as gray as my little Schnauzer, Rudy.  And it was cold, not really February cold, but since we’ve been seeing highs in the 60s, it felt bitter.

But none of that matters if you’re a photographer.  I’d just heard from our outdoor guru, Todd Whetstine, who was on assignment in another part of our great state, and he was giddy over the weather.  “Perfect,” he said.  “The photos today should be a photographer’s dream.”

So I took my new camera, which is a huge jump from my iPhone, and my husband, who actually studied photography and film at Oregon State, and we hit the back roads near our house.

I thought we were heading to Lake Fort Smith or Devil’s Den, but I wasn’t driving.  We pulled over on a stretch of road that’s so ordinary I couldn’t easily identify the spot again, stepped outside and slogged through muddy ruts in the spongy ground.

Just beyond was a place where farm equipment, dead for years, rested in various stages of decay.  Beside them stood twp old Corvairs, a VW Bug, the door from a delivery truck and a somewhat respectable Buick with a sheath of papers in the back seat describing the best farm practices for fertilizing crops.

The mist came down, the sky hung low, and the old machines glistened.  I wandered through the maze taking photos of blue wooden steps leading to a lime green Covair, its glass shattered like crystals across the front seat.  I shot rusted tractors, old combines, a tangle of metal that looked like sculpture.

Some of what I did is not too bad.  Then my husband took the camera.  His shots show depth, texture, perspective.  He’s been shooting photos so long it didn’t seem extraordinary to him, but it was.  What started out looking like a salvage yard turned out looking like a field of sculpture.

When we got home, my Uggs were muddy, my hands burned red from the cold, and my jeans were soaked through from the shots I took kneeling on the grass.  But I felt great.  Somewhere, on the other side of the state, Todd was creating art with his camera.  Here at home, I was just learning to shoot a photo that didn’t totally suck.

And in a field where the workhorses of the past gathered, the wind whistled through their shattered bodies.  I like to think they understood that someone thought they were beautiful, at least for one day, with the mist hanging above them and the mystery of how they ended up in a fallow field still hidden in the twisted metal of their pasts.

@story MARCUS COKER

St. John’s Episcopal Church in Fort Smith invites the community to join them this Sunday, December 4, at 5 p.m. for Lessons and Carols, a special service marking the beginning of the Advent season. Advent, the time period leading up to Christmas, begins the fourth Sunday before Christmas and has a twofold meaning. First, it represents the original waiting for the birth of Christ, and second, the waiting for His return.

Tim Hess, organist and choirmaster for St. John’s, says, “The service will be presented with scripture and song.” The scripture lessons will be read by Angela Covey and David Sims and will focus mainly on the expectation of the coming of Jesus. Between the lessons, music will be sung by both the church choir and the congregation. “We’ll sing Advent hymns like O Come, O Come Emmanuel and The King Shall Come When Morning Dawns,” says Tim. “We won’t do actual Christmas carols until Christmas Eve, because Advent is about before, the time leading up to Christmas.”

In addition to St. John’s choir, a few guest singers have been invited to participate in Lessons and Carols. Sopranos Dr. Sharon Kenney and Louann Dooly will sing I Will Magnify Thee, O Lord, and Cameron Law will sing Once in Royal David’s City. The service will both begin and end with organ music and prayer.

As participants enter the back of St. John’s this Sunday, many will be struck by its beauty. Built in 1900, the church has vaulted ceilings, supported by heavy beams that arch from one side of the church to the other. Stained-glass windows depict the birth of Christ, as well as His resurrection and ascension. Also notable will be unlit Chrismon tree—a variation of the Christmas tree—that is decorated with symbols of peace.

According to Tim, much of what St. John’s does is symbolic. Because Advent focuses on the time before the birth of Christ, the tree will remain unlit until the time of Christ’s birth. Once Christmas Eve comes, the tree will be lit as a symbol of celebration. Likewise, the nativity scene will be found this Sunday at the back of the church. As Advent progresses, the nativity will move closer to the front of the church, signifying the arrival of Christmas.

Lessons and Carols will last approximately an hour and will be followed by a reception in the Parish Hall. Nursery will also be provided.

For more information:

St. John’s Episcopal Church

215 North 6^th Street

Fort Smith, AR 72901

479-782-9912

stjohnfs.org

When we announced our flash fiction contest, we thought it was only fair that our writers try their hand at the genre.

We found it a little harder than we expected.  The word count is 100, and the shortest stories we EVER write are 450.  But we did it.  Are they all happy stories, you ask.  Why, no they're not.  That surprised us as well.

Sometimes it's good to stretch your creative muscles.

So read away!  And let us know what you think.

Forgiving Dad

@story Marcus Coker

Dad loved Jack Daniel’s more than Mom loved Jesus Christ, if that’s possible. He used to come home, put on a Bob Dylan record, and drink until he either passed out or slammed me against the sheetrock. Meanwhile, Mom cried and read the Bible. I quit believing in God the morning I woke up in our bathtub covered in my own blood. My nose was broken, and all I could do was hate. Mom said that I should forgive, so I started listening to Bob Dylan and drinking Jack Daniel’s, which was the only way I knew how.

Reunion

@story Anita Paddock

 For a moment, she forgot about her knees, her stiff shoulder, her knobby-fingered hands.  She was twenty again, and he sat watching for her to enter the restaurant.

He stood when she waved, and he motioned to a chair.  "It's been a long time," he said.

He was tall and tanned by the Santa Fe sun.  He wore a blue shirt with a country club emblem on the pocket.  "You look wonderful," she said.

He didn't reply, so she decided not to tell him about their grandchild, a doctor.

Shroud

@story Buddy Pinneo

She’s terrified of reflective surfaces. Avoiding them is more important than breathing. If one should enter her periphery, she pivots violently, no matter the situation, or how awkward it might seem to strangers. All that matters is getting away. Going someplace dark. Someplace cloaked in thick draperies and cigarette smoke. Someplace she can drink. And forget. And focus on napkin ink. Just be careful of the glass. One look could destroy. She must not see. She must never know what it was that made him leave. He never said. But her deepest fears knew just what to do with that.

Hat Opinions

@story Doug Kelley

The ball cap, tan with a red bill, had accumulated dirt and sweat stains from a thousand days of cutting wood, digging holes and building decks and barns. Dirty, filthy, but wonderfully comfortable.

I was quite attached to that hat.

One day while mowing, it blew off my head.

I rode back around to pick it up, but our dog was already happily chewing away the crown. The salts from the sweat and grime were too tasty to pass up, I guess.

Later, my wife sneaked out, gave him a pat on the head. And a pork chop.

Desire

@story Marla Cantrell

Outside Epperson’s Grocery, a perfectly acceptable wife fumbles through her purse.  Her husband looks across the avenue at the blonde.  She stares back, taps her lips like she’s practicing Morse Code. She turns, so that all he sees is her sun-bright hair, the soda-straw heels of her shiny shoes, the sliver of light glinting through the kick-pleat of her skirt.

Let’s hope it stops.  But say she crosses over, brushes past him and goes into Abbott’s Cleaners that’s owned by the husband’s best friend.  Now there’s a trail for him to follow.

And he will follow.  They always do.

Redneck Romeo

@story Tonya McCoy

He sprayed some Aqua Net, flicked his Bic and in a thunderous explosion a spud soared over his chicken houses. Standing on the porch to his doublewide he hoisted the pipe onto his rebel flag tattooed shoulder - reloaded and ready. 

Here winter didn’t deter the flies. They zipped around dozens of emptied Busch cans. After a six pack or two he put on his volunteer firefighters uniform, complete with helmet. Dressed to impress, he leaned with a hand on the side of his old Dually while he peed on the tire. She would never internet date again.