The Lectern By Kathleen Tonn I walked into PAS Room 119 and took my seat in the fifth row of the small auditorium. The capacity sign at the entrance door read one-hundred-and twenty people. The university met the fire department’s regulations. I sat on the left side closest to the exit. A habit I acquired after a fire broke out in a movie theater I was in. Survival instinct. Other students were filing into the auditorium. Some were talking excitedly about their winning team at the Super Bowl. Others were discussing their bus routes that were disrupted by the awful snowstorm that resulted in the cancelation of classes. I just sat in my seat looking at the simple, brown lectern. Noble speakers, in years past, used it to convey heartfelt messages on the importance of civic participation. After all, this lecture hall was used primarily by the Political Science Department. Today’s guest, Jonathan Renaldo Targetto, would speak on the crisis of the first amendment housed in the U.S. Constitution. I heard him speak at Lexington University a year earlier. He was sincere; yet, his passion for the Constitution was conveyed through a quick wit. His sarcastic humor sliced through student boredom like a knife. No puffery, no platitudes and no poison diluted his message Silence fell in the room as our instructor walked up to the lectern. “Students, I want to welcome Mr. Targetto to our class. His knowledge of the Constitution and the first amendment is extraordinary. He will give you ample understanding of why you can grumble on social media about the referee’s fatal call in yesterday’s Super Bowl. With those words, laughter spread across the room from the fans of the winning team. Then Mr. Targetto took his place at the lectern. “I oppose your laughter students. I support the losers.” A fresh wave of laughter sprung up. Not by the students who joyfully threw barbs at those whose team lost. Instead, the laughter came from those besmirched students supporting the losing team. “Okay, let’s get serious. I’ve got forty-five minutes to convey the importance of free speech. Without your understanding of this vital amendment, and your commitment to it, you will lose it. Do I have your attention?”

The Logo By Kathleen Tonn I searched the magazine rack at Barnes & Noble. From lifestyle, home décor, finance to body building magazines looked back at me. The magazine I was hoping to find was not on display. For all I know, the magazine doesn’t exist. I should explain. I had a dream last week where I saw an unusual logo. The logo was on the cover of a magazine. I clearly saw the intricate, yet, crisp shape that formed three letters upside down. E, X, and B were graphically outsized on the front cover of a finance magazine. The letters were colored in pigment I’d never seen before. As an acrylic painter, I was familiar with the color shades. However, the logo I observed in my dream had indistinguishable colors I can’t even describe the colors. I would just recognize the logo when I see it. I walked out of the bookstore disappointed. I really hoped I would find the magazine with the logo on the store’s rack. I thought Barnes & Noble carries all magazine publications. I opened the door to my Subaru. It was my lunch hour. I had just enough time to get a bagel from The Bagel Factory. I drove out of the parking lot still thinking about the unusual nature of that logo. At one time I worked as a graphic artist. That job required me to do the artistic work involving company logos. Maybe that’s why I had the dream. Perhaps that logo hasn’t been created yet. Moreover, maybe that particular finance magazine doesn’t exist yet. Many times my dreams pertain to future events. Time tables that are not clearly defined. When I receive a dream that stands out as significant, the dream always remains in my conscious awareness. Like a computer program searching for that missing data point that completes an algorithm. I ordered my bagel. So delicious. Plain bagel, alpha sprouts, avocado slices, crème cheese, pepper jack cheese and tomato slices. I chewed the bagel thoughtfully Again, the dream content running through my mind. I will continue to pray about the dream. Perhaps God will bring that logo before me during some meeting. Or maybe, he might want me to design the logo as I saw it in the dream. The specific type of magazine is integral to the logo. A finance magazine. Certainly, finance and our volatile economy rub elbows.

I Stood in Line By Kathleen Tonn It was a devastatingly long line. I didn’t think I could stand five minutes more. The blazing sun already laid down the dead. A singular quiet rested upon those of who were still on our feet. But we each knew, our bodies could be the next to be laid aside, so the line would continue to move an inch at a time. My friend’s body was removed from the line where he collapsed. He had not the strength to whisper good-bye. There were three lines, each separated by ten feet. The first line was served the least rotten food. Those in that line were the former billionaires and millionaires. The second line was for all the politicians and government workers. There food was already rotten with card carrying maggots. The third line, the line I am in, is for the rest of the starving. Our food didn’t even have maggots for protein. Our food was a bottle of water with a scoop of whey protein. Famine ravaged the land. The nuclear winter destroyed all the animals and plant life. What food we are getting is from storage. Storage that was created twenty years earlier. Canned goods that were ruptured with the blasts. Survival. What is survival? Most in line wish there bodies were already pushed to the side. Emaciated, none of us even look human. Those in the third line wore out their rage with those in the first- and second-line months ago. Just desserts! Now, their pride and arrogance has brought them as low as those of us in the third line. There is no pontificating, no mocking, no lying and no bullshit. In fact, more dead were removed from the first two lines than from the third line. They are dying four to our one. Perhaps there is both divine justice and karma.

The Integrity of War By Kathleen Tonn “Son, you shovel that side of the driveway, and I will shovel this side,” Ryan instructed his twelve-year-old. With those words, each picked up their shovel and began the arduous work of removing the five inches of snowfall covering the length of the thirty-eight foot driveway. Ryan calculated it would take at least two hours to clear the snow. He and Styles wouldn’t even have to shovel if his snowplow truck had not blown a gasket. Ryan stacked his shovels of snow near his wife’s garden. He caught Tina peeking out the window smiling at him. She then pointed towards Styles. Ryan looked over his shoulder at his son. “What are you doing making a snowman when you are to be shoveling?” he asked with a hint of exasperation in his voice. “I thought he might like to watch us shovel,” replied Styles with amusement. “I am going to give him my shovel, so he can be my proxy,” exclaimed the freckled boy. Ryan wasn’t sure if he heard Styles correctly. “Say that again.” “I am making him a proxy. He can shovel for me, so I can go back inside an play Fortrite. Is that okay with you Dad?” “No, that’s not okay with me. Pick up your shovel and get back to work,” demanded Ryan sternly. Styles did as he was told. He quickly picked up his shovel. While standing in front of the snowman, he saluted the lop-sided fellow. Then, Styles returned to his side of the driveway to resume shoveling. The two quietly worked. After ten minutes, however, Ryan asked Styles, “Where did you hear the word proxy?” “On Fox News last night. The retired general said Iran uses a proxy in war. That way the government can be sneaky.” Ryan stood up and looked at his son. In the warmth of the sun, Styles looked like his mother, but his mind was clever like his grandfather. It became clear to Ryan the work of shoveling could be both a bonding moment and a teaching moment. “Styles, give me your understanding of what a proxy is,” Ryan calmly requested. “Dad, it’s when other people fight others, so a country doesn’t have to. Like, I wanted my snowman to shovel, so I wouldn’t have to.”

A Horse Named Rod By Kathleen Tonn Friendships can be immediate or not at all. In the case of Rod and myself, it was the former. The Dallas Equestrian Center backed their horse trailer up to the front door of Trevor's barn. I stood at the back of the trailer as two young men exited the cab of the pickup. Both wore caps bearing the logo of the shelter. "He's ready for a new home. Thank you for taking him," said the driver as he unlocked the door of the horse trailer. As the door swung wide, the chestnut's hind quarters reflected the afternoon sun light. The shifting of his hooves clattered on the trailer's wooden slats. I stood to the side as the handler stepped inside to walk the horse backwards down the off-loading ramp. Carefully, he coaxed the chestnut out of the dark and into the light. The steady breeze ruffled the stallion's mane as he snorted. The driver handed me a clip board saying, "Please sign this receipt of acknowledgment that Rod was delivered. His medical records are in this envelope. The fire was a bad one, and he hasn't fully recovered from the trauma. The vet will be out to see him next Tuesday. Thank you again for taking him," with those words the driver climbed back into the cab and drove out of the yard. I held the rope tied around Rod's strong neck. Softly, I spoke to the injured animal. "I have apple slices for you," Trevor said, as he pulled them from his jacket pocket. He placed them on the flat of his hand beneath Rod's mouth. The scent of the apples reached the horse's nostrils. In moments, Rod was tasting their sweetness. I stroked his muzzle as he chewed. So soft and sensitive is a horse's nose. Quietly, we stood together in the sunlight. I made no demands on Rod. And, I determined I wouldn't make any demands on Rod until he wanted me to. A wounded, traumatized horse needs healing just as a wounded, traumatized human does. As Rod took in the scenery and scents around him, the Evergreens clover and barley in the nearby fields, I brushed him. I was in no rush, nor was he. Bonding occurs on many levels, and it's all built on trust and time.