We Are Now Using Submittable

The changes we promised for Copperfield are on their way. While I understand that there may be mixed reactions to this first change, it is one that is necessary in order for us to keep Copperfield going for another 20 years.

As of February 21, 2021, The Copperfield Review is using Submittable as a way to accept and keep track of our submissions. For more than 20 years we accepted submissions via email, but the email system is no longer working.

The number of submissions we have been receiving has been growing, for which we are grateful. However, a number of those submissions are not meeting our guidelines. We have been receiving a lot of submissions that are not even historical in nature, which is a waste of everyone’s time. We’ve also been getting some submissions that are questionable, at best. I’m not referring to quality since quality is subjective. I mean as in poorly executed with typos everywhere, misused words, poor grammar, and the like. Then there are the submissions that say something along the lines of, “I heard you guys publish historical fiction so here’s this 200-word piece I just wrote about the American Revolution.” Yes, that particular piece was every bit as bad as you might expect. With a hope to weed out the contemporary mystery submissions so we can focus on the amazing pieces of historical fiction and poetry we receive, we made the decision to begin using Submittable along with charging a nominal reading fee of $3.00 USD.

Three dollars is in line with what other literary journals charge for reading fees. We hope that the small charge is enough to stop someone from sending a space opera to a journal of historical fiction, or at least it will stop someone from sending us a photograph of something they scribbled on a yellow legal pad. That’s not a joke, I’m afraid. All well-intentioned historical fiction and poetry submissions are always welcome at The Copperfield Review. Scribbling, not so much.

Having the opportunity to read and publish amazing works of historical fiction and poetry has been a dream come true. The Copperfield Review has been the first published credit for many up-and-coming writers, and many of our contributors have gone on to great things. I feel like a proud mamma bear when that happens. I’m also proud of the reputation The Copperfield Review has earned as being a place that publishes high-quality literature.

The world needs stories, good stories, stories that tell the truth about our past and stories that give us an inkling of where we’re going. That’s why I love historical fiction. That’s why I write historical fiction. That’s even why I wrote a book about writing historical fiction.

Thank you as always for thinking of The Copperfield Review. I look forward to sharing many more works of historical fiction with you.

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Transcript Podcast Episode 1

For Readers and Writers of Historical Fiction: A Copperfield Review Podcast

Episode 1

Well, hello, everyone.

This is Meredith Allard, the founder and executive editor of the Copperfield Review. I know for all of this time you guys have thought that I am not an actual person, but that I am just kind of this strange person behind the curtain. And to be honest, for most of the past 20 years, that’s kind of how I felt about my role at the Copperfield Review. Pay no attention to that woman behind the curtain!

But I do actually exist, I have been here behind the scenes at the Copperfield Review for more than 20 years now. It is my thrill to finally have a chance to speak to you guys. I’m going to keep this first podcast on the short side, because I’m thinking that, you know, boring people at my very first podcast would probably not be the greatest thing in the whole world, although it wouldn’t be surprising. So here we go.

And with this first episode, we’re just going to kind of give you guys a heads up about what is coming up with Copperfield, some of the exciting things to think about, you know, a lot of these changes coming to Copperfield have been a long time in the making.

You know, a lot of this was supposed to happen last year in 2020. But last year was last year. And you all know exactly what I’m talking about when I say that. So we had all these great big ideas for Copperfield that were supposed to happen in 2020. Because 2020 was, in fact, our 20th anniversary. That’s right, we started way back in the dim dear past of 2000. So now we’re heading into our 21st year. But I am very happy that these changes are finally in the works.

Now for those of you who are curious, the podcast is going to cover things like reading and writing, obviously historical fiction because that’s what we’re known for here at the Copperfield Review. But we’ll also be talking about things like publishing, creativity, really all of my favorite topics. But then again, this is my podcast. And so if I want to talk about anything else I can. I may also sometimes talk about my cat. So you know, you’re just going to have to, you know, if you love cats, obviously, you’re going to love that. I won’t dwell too much on my cat, but she may pop up on occasion. But then again, this is my podcast. It’s a Copperfield Review podcast, but it’s also my podcast since I’m the one sitting here talking, so you may have to deal with some talk about my cat.

Now, having said that, I would like to point out the fact that I am always up for a cute cat pictures. I am up for cute dog pictures. Cute hamster pictures. I’m not sure I would call a snake cute. But I know there are people who absolutely love their reptiles. So if you think your ham… I was going to say your hamster, but no, hamsters are cute. If you think your snake is cute, by all means. I shall accept that as well. Send your cute animal pictures my way at copperfieldreview@gmail.com. We are going to start a little page there for our favorite animals at the Copperfield Review. So you know, it has nothing to do with historical fiction. But hey, who doesn’t like a cute pet picture. So there we are. Just kind of a little aside there.

All right. So for those of you who are thinking about the Copperfield Review, thinking about submitting to the Copperfield Review, changes are happening. If you’re a longtime reader and or a submitter to the Copperfield Review, you’ve probably already started to see some of the changes starting to pop up. And so you know that we are no longer accepting submissions via email. We accepted submissions via email for 20 years, but I think what was happening was the email submission was getting a little bit too easy. Because some of the other journals were starting to accept submissions only through Submittable and we were still accepting submissions through email. But the problem was some of the emails being sent our way were not really submissions, they were more like photographs. We started to receive things like photographs of things that people had written on a, you know, a yellow legal pad or something that they had just typed up and took a picture of and sent it in. So obviously, we don’t want that. We want real submissions of real historical fiction of real historical poetry.

So if you’re not aware of the fact that we use only Submittable now, please go ahead and visit our submission guidelines page at www.copperfieldreview.com. It says Guidelines right up there at the top, and you’ll be able to see exactly what we’re looking for when you send in your submissions. So for those of you who may not be regular readers of Copperfield, you might not realize that in fact, in July, the Copperfield Review is becoming the Copperfield Review Quarterly. We’re really excited about this. This is something we’ve been working toward for some time now. So the Quarterly will feature additions in digital and paperback formats. So you know, for 20 years, we’ve been an online only journal. And we’re very proud of that fact. As a matter of fact, we were free to read, we were there for everyone. But at this point, being 20 years old, and having the readership that we do, it’s time for us to go ahead and make that change and become a Quarterly journal that is a digital and paperback journal as opposed to strictly being online, are we’re going to be moving to a subscription model. You can buy the editions either if you want to buy them quarterly, as in, you know, you buy a year and you get all four editions, you can buy print editions, you can buy digital editions, you can buy both editions, if you’d also like to you can purchase the edition separately. So for example, you know, if somebody you love is in the summer edition, then by all means you’re just able to purchase that summer edition. We’re looking at starting a Patreon page, we’re starting a subscription model, we’re starting, you know, all of these different thing ways of creating our journal so that it’s the best it can be. For 20 years, we really haven’t been that concerned with making money at the Copperfield Review. We’ve just been looking to publish the best in historical fiction and historical poetry. But we’re at the point now, where after 20 years, we have enough of a reputation. We have enough readers who love what we do. We have enough writers who love what we do. But what we’re really looking to do is pay our contributors, professional rates instead of the small honorariums that we’re currently paying. So when you support the Copperfield Review, you’re supporting our writers and allowing us to pay them professional rates for the amazing works of historical fiction and historical poetry that they create.

We have other fun activities going on as well. We’re currently hosting a contest for the best in historical fiction and historical poetry. We’re also accepting submissions for our second anthology. So that’s coming up as well. So just give me one moment, and let me give you the dates for those. Okay, so the dates for the contest for historical fiction, submissions are being accepted now through October 10 2021 with winners to be announced on Friday, December 10. There is a $25 entry fee per short story and a $20 entry fee per poem. And then the dates for the anthology. We’re accepting submissions for the anthology now through August 31, 2021. And the anthology submission should be sent through submittable. There is a $3 reading fee through Submittable and the word Anthology should appear in the submission title. If you’re curious about our contest, if you’re curious about submitting to our Anthology, you can absolutely check out our guidelines, again, at www.copperfieldreview.com. We’re also creating a shop where we’ll be selling our subscriptions, we’re also going to be selling things like Copperfield Review pens, tote bags, notebooks, because hey, who can write without a Copperfield Review pen? Or a Copperfield Review notebook? Right? I know what you’re thinking. You can actually write without them but it’s more fun with a Copperfield Review pen. So we will be holding a shop book that’ll be coming up in May well, so we’ll have all our cool gear there. The website as you know, it is also going to be undergoing some changes. So if you go to the website and things start to look a little bit strange, that’s why

We’re going to be turning the website into a blog with guest posts with access to the subscriptions for each issue. Our submission guidelines are still going to be there, everything that is already been published will still be there. Now keep in mind that on the Copperfield Review’s current website, we only have what we’ve published since 2012. For the first 10, no 12 years, that’s why I am not a math person, the first 12 years that Copperfield existed, we had a different website. And when we made the transition from that first website that hosted us for 12 years, and then made the switch to our current website, we lost, unfortunately, 12 years worth of stories because the transfer just didn’t happen. That is something that still makes me sad to this day.

But for everything that has been published since 2012, that will still be available on our website. However, anything that is published post July 2021, which is when we go to the quarterly model, that will only be available through subscription through our website. And so just keep that in mind, that is a change that is going to be happening. So if you published prior to July 2021 and after April 2012, your work will still be available on our website, all of that is not changing. What will change is that we are now a subscription model starting in 2021.

Okay, so if you are interested in submitting to the new Copperfield Review Quarterly, again, be sure to check our submission guidelines. Once again, it’s www.copperfieldreview.com. And things have changed a bit as far as what we’re looking for in submissions. And just generally speaking, when you are submitting to literary journals, you always want to go to the submission guidelines on their website because Writer’s Market is outstanding. Duotrope does a wonderful job trying to keep up with all the changes. But even so, editors’ needs change suddenly, and so that new need will be reflected in the website submission guidelines, whereas they might not be reflected in Writer’s Market or Duotrope. So you always want to go to the website submission guidelines. Don’t send something off based on what you see in a year old listing, because chances are things have changed. So for all of the up to date information on Copperfield, about our new website, about our new submission guidelines, go ahead and go to our website, and make sure that you’re following those guidelines.

Now just as an aside, I actually have a new course coming out in May, which is an introduction to writing historical fiction. It will be available through Teachable. I’m actually in the process now of recording the lectures. And I have to be honest, I’m having a lot of fun recording that. It’s great for me, because I’ve actually been teaching for more than 20 years now. And creating this course is a great way for me to do what I love, which is teaching. And then when I’m teaching writing, I’m even more in heaven. So now I get to do that through Teachable and I get to share it with all of you. I’ll be sure to let everyone know when the course is available. The regular price will be $99 USD. But listeners of the podcast and subscribers to Copperfield’s mailing list can purchase the course at a discount of 50% off so it’ll be $49 USD instead of the $99. I’ll let everyone know the discount code as soon as the course is released, which will not be too far away now as I’m recording this on April 12. I just have to finish recording it and finish having the transcriptions made. And I’m really excited to share all of that with you.

We’re also going to have a brand spanking new Patreon page to fund the Quarterly, the contest, the anthology, all of the fun stuff that we’ve been talking about today. Again, the main goal is to pay our contributors. But when our Patreon page is up, I’ll also share that with all of you. And you guys will be able to see more in depth what it is that we’re looking to do to grow the Copperfield Review. We’ve been around for about 20 years, and as I said eariler we have never really been that concerned about making money. Our concern was just keeping it going so that we could feature the best short historical fiction and best historical poetry out there. Now we’re looking to expand our reach. So that’s why we’re trying out all these cool new doodads so that we can make sure that we can pay our writers what they deserve to be paid.

All right. All right. So that is it for me for today. I don’t want to ramble on too long. As I said at the beginning, I don’t think boring people during my first podcast is such a great idea. But before I go, it’s important for me to say a huge thank you to all the readers and contributors who have kept the Copperfield Review going for the past 20 plus years. The Copperfield Review would not have the reputation it has for being a place that publishes quality literature if it weren’t for the amazing pieces of historical fiction and poetry that have come our way over the last two decades.

Here’s a very quick story before we go today. I remember when I started the Copperfield Review in September 2000, and at the time, I was thinking, wouldn’t it be a great way to get this journal started if I could get an interview with a well known historical novelist? Well, I did a little bit of digging and found John Jake’s email. Yes, that John Jake, the very famous John Jake who wrote some of the most beloved historical novels of all time. So I took a chance. Remember, this was 20 years ago, I wasn’t known at all, you know, I was just starting. I didn’t know anybody. I didn’t know anything. But I said, hey, what the heck, you know, just try. So I emailed John Jake’s. John was actually on a cruise at the time. And this kind man emailed me from the cruise and said, absolutely, I’ll answer your questions.

So while he was on the cruise, John Jake answered my emailed interview questions. And to this day, I remember that and I remember the kindness and I remember the generosity. He didn’t know me from anybody, the Copperfield Review had no reputation at that time because it barely existed. And yet, he still took the time to answer my interview questions. And to this day, I remember that and to this day, I think the Copperfield Review exists because of people like John Jake who took time out of their out of their busy schedules. Jean M. Auel allowed me to interview her. I also interviewed Jeff Shara. I mean really big name historical novelists took the time to answer my questions. And because of them, and because of the great submissions we’ve received over the years, the Copperfield Review still exists. And we’re very happy to be here.

Even as we transition to the Copperfield Review Quarterly, I still know that whenever we get a submission from any writer, it’s a privilege to be able to read that submission, and we appreciate it. We appreciated it 20 years ago, and we appreciate it today.

So if you’d like to get in touch with me, you can contact me at, if you want to get to me through Copperfield, its copperfieldreview@gmail.com. If you’d like to submit your historical short fiction or poetry to the Copperfield Review, soon to be the Copperfield Review Quarterly, you can find our submission guidelines once again at www.copperfieldreview.com. If you’d like to visit my personal website, it’s Meredith, it’s just my first and last name.com, meredithallard.com.  Or you can contact me at meredithallardauthor@gmail.com.

All right, everybody. So that is me for today. Thank you for joining me for the first Copperfield Review podcast. I’m very excited about this. In the future, we will branch out to interviews, we will branch out to industry insiders, but for for the first few episodes we are really going to focus on Copperfield itself and our changes and a little bit more insight into submitting to literary journals, writing, and all that kind of fun stuff.

All right, everyone. Thank you so much for joining me. I will see you next week. Bye bye.

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Stacy Nathaniel Jackson

 it appears
 there has been
 a bit of bait & switch
Kitchen duty (no sir)
 Latrine-mopping (no sir)
 Butter-cutting (no sir)
 Trash-collecting (no sir)
 Uncle Sam advertised
 new skills – FREE education
 snappy uniform with a stipend
 Black & White WACs alike
 but (no sir)
 black strike
 arrest - court-martial
 temporary insanity (no sir)
 useless defense
 O opportunity
 separate but equal
 is a chokehold
 bound to get checked
her foot  her note  her voice  her disobedience  her foot  her note  her voice  her defiance   
           WAC Privates Mary Green  Johnny Murphy  Anna Morrison  Alice Young 

* * * * *

Stacy’s poems, plays, and visual art have been published in Black Arts Quarterly, New American Writing, Foglifter, The Georgia Review, and elsewhere. He is a Cave Canem poetry fellow, and recipient of an individual artist grant from the San Francisco Arts Commission. He has been a contributing editor of Foglifter literary journal and was formerly on the board of directors of ZYZZYVA literary journal.

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Ann Power

St. Petersburg, Russia: January 1740
In a creamy damask gown, trimmed with gold lace
and ornaments, with accents of sulphurous yellow,
a heavy gold cross breathing on her full bosom,
the Tsarina held court. 
Graceful, imperial, and fat, thought Golitsyn of
Anna Ivanovna.
Only last week, in the royal hall, settled in a basket,
he had flapped his arms,
resigned to clucking—
a chicken for the royal amusement
And yesterday, mounted on a dwarf, he had
jousted with another unfortunate, balanced
on the back of a court clown, until all four
were flailing, grabbing, gouging each other’s
eyes, bloody.
Prince Golitsyn drew in a long breath,
listened politely as the Spanish ambassador
addressed the Empress in Russian with
an accent that inhaled the final letters of each word.

Orange trees, myrtles, and palms lined
walks on either side of the Grand Hall while,
behind potted screens of trees and flowers, courtiers
and ladies fanned themselves and whispered.
Gobelin tapesties depicted scenes from
a primitive world, lush, filled with
tigers, monkeys, Indian geese, and cranes.
Along the walk, caged nightingales sang
as the scent of perfumes circled and re-circled
the expansive room.
Servants in yellow-and-black livery served
fruity wines and vodka in abundance, though
drunkenness was never allowed. 
In one corner, dancers in brightly colored domino—
orange, green, blue—
ruffs at the neck, with tiny hats sporting
gold and silver cockades, danced a quadrille played by
an Italian orchestra.
Near the Tsarina a pair of enormous leopards, in
embossed silver and flat-chased work, their collars
encrusted with emeralds, their faceted eyes brilliant
in the reflected light, watched fiercely.
Enchanting as any mid-summer’s dream,
Golitsyn sighed. 
Only the porcelain stoves and the windows staring
glassy-eyed at the frozen Neva below betrayed
the atmosphere of summer solstice—the black earth
invisible beneath the snowy landscape,
the sun pale, winter’s blue-white chill transformed
by magic and rubles.

Prince Golitsyn shivered, respectfully welcomed
the address of the Tsaritsa.
She was seemingly gracious, double-chinned,
her skin swarthy, her features coarse.
Dark hair fell across her shoulders, her eyes sparkled
with pleasure, wine, and conversation. 
The prince listened as she spoke.
He knew Anna, her history:
niece to the imperious Peter the Great, and a
childhood that could scarcely avoid beheadings,
hangings, cruelty that left heads on pikes, bodies
dangling from beams or gallows;                                                                                                               
marriage at seventeen to the Duke of Courland, a
miserable wretch, who died a week after the wedding;
nineteen years, alone, unhappy, seemingly banished
from Russia to Mitau in a remote German duchy;
then, ascendance to the throne of all the Russias after
the deaths of Peter, his wife, Catherine, and
the boy Tsar, Peter, the Second;
the scale of excess, the magnificence:
the 10,000 dresses, the palaces, the silver, the glittering jewels;
the exotic animals that roamed the gardens,
fair target for the Tsarina who took aim from palace
windows at the unsuspecting beasts;
the dwarfs, the hunchbacks, the giants, the fools who
pleased Anna’s less obvious deformity of spirit.
the 2000 dissenters each year exiled to Siberia; the
secret police who exposed and executed traitors;
and, of course, the Tsarina’s unpopular alliance to
Ernst Biron, a brusque German with no fondness for
Russians, a man Anna shared with his wife.
Golitsyn focused on the eyes of the Tsaritsa,
noticed again her left eye slightly flecked in lighter violet.
Then the announcement.
Anna had arranged a marriage and festivities;
he was to be the groom to an unknown wife.
The music temporarily ceased; outside Golitsyn
heard the honking of a goose.
Skybend….all in grays.  Birds froze, fell out
of the sky.
Cathedral bells splintered the icy air.
Golitsyn was to marry Avdotya,
a Kalmuck serving woman.
Nicknamed “Buzhenina” for the Tsarina’s favorite
dish, roast pork with spiced vinegar and onions,
she was pink, plump, thoroughly peasant.
Golitsyn’s first marriage, disapproved of,
had made him an object of vengeance, court buffoon.
Now he was riding in an iron cage, swaying atop an
elephant as it lumbered along to the wedding reception.
No more precarious than any day at court, he mused.
Bride and groom were barely visible under fur coats,
muffs, and hats.
Behind them followed costumed natives, Tartars and
Lapps, Finns and Cossacks, Bashkirs and Kalmucks on
horses, camels; members of the court rode next in sleighs
drawn by a menagerie of  reindeer, rams, bears, wolves,
and pigs.
At midnight another procession.
The ice palace was lighted with torches.
Hundreds of candles shown from within, radiating
their soft brilliance through transparent walls.
A tribute to Palladio, the edifice stood eighty feet
long, thirty-three high, and twenty-three deep;
surrounding the house, a balustrade topped with balls
of ice, and cornices, columns. 
Six niches in the façade held statues, while over the entrance,
four-winged putti flew; ice dolphins, an elephant,
cannons, and marvelous fountains adorned the exterior. 
Trees and plants, sculpted from winter’s resources, bloomed
amid their surroundings.
Inside….all crystal ice….bottles, boxes, candlesticks, an
elaborately carved ice mirror, benches, shelves,
dishes, goblets, tea sets, a clock whose inner works of
moving, interlocking wheels were clearly visible, a deck of
playing cards, their suits realistically painted, and an ice
bed for the newly wedded couple.
The Tsarina dressed in brown, with only pearls for
decoration, standing beside Biron, laughed a dark laugh.
Golitsyn suddenly remembered words he had heard
from Timothy Arkhipovich, long ago a tutor and houseguest at
Izmailov, Anna’s childhood home:
“We Russians need no bread; we devour each other and are satisfied.”

Ann Power is a retired faculty member from The University of Alabama where she worked as a coordinator for the Bibliographic Instruction Program, University Libraries.  She enjoys writing historical sketches as well as poems based in the kingdoms of magical realism. Her work has appeared in The Pacific Review (CSU San Bernardino), The Puckerbrush ReviewLimestone, Spillway, Gargoyle Magazine, The Birmingham Poetry Review, The American Poetry Journal, Dappled Things, and Caveat Lector.   

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The Sage Grouse and the Bandit Queen

“I’ll ask you again, Belle. What brings you all the way out here?”

“You can ask me a hundred times, Jack Hardin, and the answer isn’t going to change.”

Belle Starr stared defiantly at the fancily-dressed man standing across from her. The white satin puff tie flowing out of his vest and his shiny leather boots reminded her of something, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.  

 “I saw you on Cheyenne Road last Monday,” Hardin continued, “and a week ago Wednesday, you went south on old Bruton. Were you fixing to meet up with someone, Belle, or were you looking for something?”

Belle knew Hardin had been following her. She’d seen him both days. She also knew he’d been watching her movements for the last two weeks, but today was the first time he’d had the courage to actually approach her face to face. She’d stopped to let her horse have a drink in the clear water of Prairie Creek, and was considering jumping in herself to cool off, when Hardin pranced out from behind a rock. Now, there would be no refreshing dip in the creek with this tinhorn harassing her. 

“Why are you out riding so often in this heat, Belle?” Hardin repeated. “I figure you must be looking for something.” 

Belle did not respond immediately. Instead, she took a minute to study this strange man who had appeared, like a collared lizard, from behind a rock. Hardin’s fancy clothes were far too dressy for any serious riding across the dusty Texas terrain. He also strutted when he walked, like he was getting ready to two-step at a hoedown. Belle didn’t like him. She didn’t like being pounced upon, and she didn’t like being followed. To her mind, Hardin also acted far too friendly. She hardly recognized him as a past acquaintance from years ago in Missouri, but they were not friends there, and in Texas, he only looked like trouble. 

“What business is it of yours where I ride or who I meet, Jack?” 

Hardin smiled, shook his head, and adjusted his wide-brimmed Stetson to keep the sunlight out of his eyes.  

“Belle, you might as well confide in me. You know I’ll find out sooner or later, and the sooner you do, the sooner we can get out of this heat.”

August was always hot in Texas, but the afternoon sun this day seemed particularly penetrating. Belle removed her own hat and wiped the perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand. After carefully replacing this worn headpiece, she adjusted the two pearl-handled pistols hanging on her hips. She was sweating beneath her jacket and riding skirt, and once again, she wished Hardin would move on so she could take a dip in the creek. 

“Why have you been following me?”

“I’m following you, Belle, because I think you’re going to lead me straight to that $40,000 dollars you and Sam Bass took in that stagecoach robbery. I know you netted gold coins and paper money in that haul … and I know the whole lot of it is buried somewhere between Scyene, Mesquite, and Dallas.”

“You’re crazy or drunk. I never rode with Sam Bass, and I don’t know anything about buried money. Hell, Sam’s been dead two years. If there ever was any money, someone’s gotten it before now.”  

“Don’t go acting like you’re some innocent angel, Belle. You’re the best horse thief in these parts, and you’ve robbed more stagecoaches than anybody I know.”

Belle glared at Hardin. She wasn’t afraid of him, but she hoped, if she was as unfriendly as he was friendly, maybe he’d get the message and move on. Picking up on nuances and verbal cues, however, was not one of Hardin’s strengths. 

 “Besides,” Hardin continued as he strutted in circles, “I know for a fact you and that husband of yours, Jim Reed, robbed a stagecoach around here a few years back. It was in the papers. Where is ol’ Jim now anyway?”

“You need to read more newspapers, Jack. You’re behind the times.”

“What do you mean?”

Again, Belle did not answer right away. Her thoughts ran to her former husband, Jim Reed. 

Jim was a proper outlaw, she mused. He was nothing like this dandy pestering me now.

Jim Reed had been one of Quantrill’s raiders, and he’d rode with the Younger gang. He had robbed a stagecoach near Scyene, but he’d been killed resisting arrest.

“Jim’s dead, Jack. Been dead almost six years now. Like I said, you’re really behind the times.”

“My, oh my! So, the law finally caught up with Reed, eh?” Hardin chuckled. “Guess that makes you a widow, don’t it, Belle?”

“You really are behind, Hardin. I married Sam Starr three months ago.”

“If that’s true, Belle, why haven’t I seen Starr around?”

Belle’s new husband was on the run after robbing a post office, but she had no intention of telling Hardin anything about Sam Starr or his whereabouts. 

“You haven’t seen my husband because he has business elsewhere.”

“Business, huh? What kind of business?”

“It’s the kind of business that’s none of your business!”

“Sure, Belle, sure,” chuckled Hardin. “But from all I’ve heard you say, it just means you ain’t got no man around. Bass and Reed are dead, and Starr is off elsewhere. There’s no one around to take care of you.”

Putting her hand on the butt of her right pistol, Belle glared again at Hardin. 

“I don’t need a man to take care of me. Never have, never will. I can take care of myself.”

Taking a step back, Hardin flashed a thin smile. Belle was a crack shot, and he knew it.

“Calm down, Belle. It was just an observation. Remember, I knew you back in Missouri when you were simply little Myra Maybelle Shirley. I don’t care what your name is now or who you’re married to … I was just inquiring … for the sake of old times and conversation. I mean … I was just wondering what keeps you in these parts … if Starr is nowhere around?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, Hardin, but I have a brother in Scyene, and Sam’s family is nearby.”

The shrill scream of a red-tailed hawk drew Belle’s attention, and she turned to watch the predator fly over the sage-covered valley. Suddenly, she remembered. Hardin reminded her of that strange valley bird, the sage grouse. The one that puffs out its white-feathered chest and splays its tail while strutting around dancing and looking for a mate. Belle again noted Hardin’s white-collared neck and the way he strutted when he walked. 

He can dance around all he likes, she thought, but I’m not interested, and if he thinks I should be impressed by his clothes and highfalutin ways, he’s got another think coming.

“I think we should help each other out, Belle. Sounds like we’re all alone out here … and we are friends, remember? Why, we go all the way back to Missouri, way before the war, and you know, friends help each other.”

Sweat trickled down Belle’s back, as she moved toward her horse. She began adjusting the straps on her saddlebags, but she kept one eye on Hardin. 

He’s certainly a prickly lickspittle, she thought, if ever there was one. He’s not a proper outlaw, and he’s certainly not my friend. He’s just pretending on both counts. He forgets I know real outlaws. Frank and Jesse James hid out in my family’s barn back in Missouri, and I know the Younger brothers as well as I know my own brothers. Sure, those fellows rob, fight, and kill, but they always have a need or a reason. They’re respected men. I’ve seen all of them share their spoils with families in need. Doing a good deed, they call it. They may not be perfect, but they’d never try to be something they aren’t. Never have I seen any of them act like a puffed-up sage grouse. Hardin forgets, too, that I was a Confederate spy during the war. I know a fraud when I see one, and you, Mr. Hardin, are one. You want something, but you want it to come easy. You want it without any risk to yourself and without you getting any dirt on your fine clothes. You’re a fake and a fool, and I’m finished here. This conversation is over.

“No dice, Hardin. We’re not in Missouri any longer. This is Texas, and I’ve got things to do and places to be.”

With those words, Belle mounted her horse and galloped off toward Scyene. She didn’t, however, take the most direct route. She made a few detours and backtracked a little, checking constantly to be certain she wasn’t being followed.With vipers like Hardin watching her every move, she decided it really was time to move on. 

Two miles from Scyene, Belle rode around a large boulder that hid a narrow ravine. At the end of the ravine, there stood eight cedar trees, and beneath their branches she stopped. Sitting quietly on her horse, Belle waited and listened for any noise that might indicate someone was following her. 

When the sun started dropping down below the horizon, the stand of cedars became shrouded in shadows. Only then did Belle dismount and walk over to the tallest tree. Taking a knife from her belt, she knelt down beside the cedar and began raking the soil with the knife. She scooped out a couple of handfuls of dirt and then pulled on the top of a white bag. With a little effort, she dislodged the bag and carefully pulled it out of the ground. Untying the twine knot at the top, Belle looked inside the bag. In the dim light, she could just make out coins and paper currency inside. Standing up, she hoisted the bag up and down with both hands, and estimated, by its weight, that the money was all there. Smiling, she carried the bag back to her horse. 

It was too late now to head out, so Belle decided it would be best to wait till morning. Besides, she wanted to stop at the Shady Villa Saloon in Scyene. She needed a drink to wash away the dust in her throat, and she wanted to play the piano loud enough to drown out any lingering thoughts of Jack Hardin. 

Before Belle mounted her horse, however, she separated the money in the bag into four parts. She placed two portions in her saddlebags, one in her bedroll, and over two thousand dollars in a leather pouch tied to her waist. It was an old trick Jim Reed had taught her. By separating the money, if she did get waylaid, there was a good chance the would-be robber wouldn’t get all the haul—just part of it. This task completed, she mounted her horse and rode toward Scyene.

Arriving at Shady Villa, Belle looked for the owner, Molly Jennings. Molly was one of the few women whose company Belle could tolerate. Molly recognized that Belle was a talented piano player, and there were limited establishments available where Belle could exercise her talent. The two women had found common ground over the piano in Shady Villa’s bar. Belle liked to play the piano, and Molly liked for her to play. 

From behind the bar, Molly saw Belle first and called out to her friend. 

“Howdy, Bandit Queen. You going to provide some entertainment for my guests? You know they buy more drinks when you raise their spirits with music and keep their minds off their troubles.”

Belle liked it when Molly referred to her as the “Bandit Queen.” It was the newspapers’ newest moniker for her, and she felt the title described her well. Smiling at Molly, Belle nodded affirmatively. 

“That’s why I’m here, Molly. I need to raise my spirits, too.”

Belle didn’t mention Jack Hardin. She got a drink at the bar, and sat down at the piano. For over an hour she played, and gradually the music made her forget her dusty encounter with the sage grouse.  

Belle was just thinking about getting some sleep, when she saw Molly sitting at a table at the back of the saloon. Molly was talking with a man, and she looked distressed. Taking a closer look, Belle realized the person Molly was talking to was Jack Hardin. Had he managed to follow her after all? Or did he have some separate business with Molly? 

When Hardin headed upstairs for a night with one of Molly’s soiled doves, Belle left the piano and went to talk with Molly. She found the proprietor in tears.

“What is it, Molly? What’s wrong?” 

“That man,” Molly said, nodding her head toward the stairs. “He comes around every three months wanting his money. He says if he doesn’t get it, he’ll burn the place down.” 

“Why do you owe him money?

Dabbing at her tears with a handkerchief, Molly sighed.

“Three years ago, when I set out to buy Shady Villa, I was short on cash. That man … his name is Jack Hardin … offered to loan me money. I took it, but I’ll never get out from under his thumb. He wants a hundred dollars interest every month. I don’t clear that much from the bar, and the girls barely bring in enough to cover their food and clothes. Hardin knows this, but he’s a leech … a bloodsucking parasite. Once he gets his teeth in you, he won’t let go till he bleeds you dry.”

Molly put her head down on the table and started to cry again. Belle sat down beside her. She sat quietly till Molly’s sobs lessened, then she spoke. 

“How much do you owe, Molly, to get out from under Hardin’s thumb forever?”

Without raising her head, Molly whispered. 

“All total, he wants two thousand dollars.”

Belle reached into the bag at her waist and removed two thousand dollars.

 “Look at me, Molly,” she insisted, and Molly slowly raised her head. “We’re going to take care of this leech, or sage grouse, or whatever he is, once and for all.”

Belle laid the money on the table. 

“There’s two thousand dollars, and I want you to do exactly as I say. In the morning, when Hardin comes down, you pay him off. Make sure he signs a bill of sale, and get two witnesses to verify he got his money. Do you understand?”

Molly nodded. 

“Belle, how can I ever thank you?” 

“Never mind about that. I’m going to count it as my good deed, like some friends of mine do.”

“But Hardin is going to ask where I got the money. He’ll insist I tell him.”

“Tell him. Tell him I gave you the money. Tell him I joked that I found a treasure chest on my last ride. Tell him … I said I had to pay a few debts, and then I was going home to Missouri.”

With those words, Belle left the Shady Villa. She led her horse to the stables, and once there, she asked the stable boy to pick out a fresh horse and ride to a farm a few miles away. She told him what to say to the two men living there. The boy was hesitant until Belle dropped two gold coins in his hand. After he left, Belle fed her horse and settled him in for the night. Laying down on a pile of hay, she fell asleep in a neighboring stall.  

Belle woke when she heard the boy returning. The sun was just coming up. She saddled her horse and rode to the Scyene Wagon Factory. Behind the large building, she found Cole and Bob Younger waiting. 

“We got your message, Belle. Glad to help, but we’re not sure if you want us to catch this bird, chase him off, or just shoot him.”

Belle laughed, and then she shook hands with Bob and Cole.

“Thanks for coming, fellas. I’m trying to leave town to meet up with Sam, and I’ve had this little sage grouse following me. I just want you to rough him up a bit and send him packing. He’s got two thousand dollars of mine on him, and if you send him on his merry way, you can keep it for all your trouble.”

“How do we find this little bird?” asked Cole.

“It won’t be a problem. I’m fixing to head west, and as soon as he sees me leave town, he’ll follow me. All you have to do is waylay him, take the money, and scare him away from these parts. Then you can get back to your business.”  

“Sounds good, Belle. We’ll take care of the fella, and you give Sam our regards.”

“I will, boys, and I appreciate your help.”

Belle turned her horse and headed west. She was not surprised to see a fancily-dressed man on a horse following her before she was an hour out of town. When she gained a little elevation, she looked back over the land she’d just covered and smiled when she saw two men on horseback shadowing her sage grouse. 

Hardin doesn’t even know they are there, she thought.

When her horse mounted a rocky plateau, Belle stopped and turned to look back again. In the distance, she could just make out Cole and Bob Younger mounting their horses. Hardin was galloping off north toward Arkansas. 

Good riddance, Belle thought. Maybe he’ll go all the way back to Missouri.

As she looked on, Bob Younger waved his hand in her direction. In his fist, Belle could make out dollar bills. Tipping her hat in appreciation, she turned her horse and headed towards Sam Starr’s secret hideout. It was time they were together again.

* * * * *

Billie Holladay Skelley received her Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Now retired from working as a cardiovascular and thoracic surgery clinical nurse specialist and nursing educator, she enjoys focusing on her writing. Billie has written several health-related articles for both professional and lay journals, but her writing crosses several different genres and has appeared in various journals, magazines, and anthologies in print and online—ranging from the American Journal of Nursing to Chicken Soup for the Soul. An award-winning author, she also has written eight books for children and teens: Eagle the Legal Beagle, Ollie the Autism-Support CollieWeaver the Diabetic-Alert RetrieverSpice Secret: A Cautionary Diary, Luella Agnes Owen: Going Where No Lady Had Gone BeforeRuth Law: The Queen of the Air, Hugh Armstrong Robinson: The Story of Flying Lucky 13, and Two Terrible Days in May: The Rader Farm Massacre.

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An Interview with Steven Pressfield

Steven Pressfield is the author of Gates of Fire, a historical novel which has sold more than a million copies. In this interview we discuss his writing process and his newest novel, A Man at Arms. You can learn more about Steven and his books at www.StevenPressfield.com.

Brendan Carr: Telamon of Arcadia is a mercenary in your newest book, A Man at Arms. What are you saying about warriors by making your archetypal warrior into a mercenary?

Steven Pressfield: What I was hoping to do as far as characterizing Telamon was to present him as a guy who exhausted the warrior archetype. He fought under flags that he believed in, fought for commanders he believed in, and had that come to naught. He committed crimes and he committed honorable acts. But he was still a warrior, he was not going to leave that aspect of it and that brought him to become a soldier for hire, a man at arms. He was in it for the fight alone, like a samurai when they no longer fought for a particular noble house but were just freelance guys who were cast out on the road. In other words, it’s a dark place for him to be. I’m not holding that up as an ideal. In my mind, it’s the stage that a warrior or a hero is in when he’s trying to find his way and hasn’t found it yet, a kind of a lost place. That was why I made him a mercenary.

B.C.: You’ve been wanting to write a book about Telamon for a while. What is it that draws you to him?

S.P.: That’s a great question! I feel like he’s a bit of an alter ego for me as a writer. The way he views himself as a soldier, he’s in it for the fight alone. He’s not in it for the money although he’s a mercenary. We don’t know what he does with his money, but he doesn’t have anything except the clothes on his back. It’s not like he’s getting rich; the money is really just an excuse for him. It’s a way to keep a distance between himself and his commander’s ambition. He says, “I’m just doing it for the money,” but he’s in it for the fight alone. I’m kind of in writing for the work alone. So, I think that’s one of the reasons why he appeals to me. He also has a kind of a dark view of life and I do too.

B.C.: And lost characters are often depicted alongside a redemptive character. How did you develop the character of the young girl, Ruth, in your story?

S.P.: I very much did that on purpose with the idea of juxtaposing archetypal characters on my mind. I knew for years that I wanted to do a book that was only about Telamon because I was curious about where he would go after appearing in two other books of mine. He was in The Virtues of War and Tides of War and I was fascinated by his odyssey, but I couldn’t find a story for years. I would take a shot at an outline asking, “What if I set him in Britain in the year 22 or something?” When I finally thought of this character of the young girl, it made a great dynamic of different archetypes. An innocent girl, that’s sort of the virgin archetype, and then this warrior archetype together created a lot of interesting tension and chances for growth on both sides as they interact with each other.

B.C.: What draws you to Carl Jung’s archetypes? And how can writers use them?

S.P.: Let’s talk about the archetypes for a second. The archetypes of the collective unconscious are these super personalities that we’re born with and that are Types, capital T, like the Wise Man, the Warrior, the Virgin, the Divine Child, like Jesus or Krishna. There are many archetypes and I believe that we don’t realize it but we’re being powered by them. Speaking of the Warrior archetype, when a young man and I think a young woman, too, hits the age of 12, 13, 14 they can feel that sort of thing. They’re not aware of it, but a young guy wants to try out for the football team, wants to drive fast, wants to hang out with his homies. We think we’re choosing that but we’re not, we’re being driven by archetypes.

Back to writing, a really interesting way to power a scene is to have a clash of archetypes. I’ve been watching Game of Thrones and last night one of the scenes showed the young girl Arya Stark serving as a cupbearer to her worst enemy, Lord Tywin Lannister. The scene between the two of them is great scene because of the two archetypes. A better thing might be Obi-Wan Kenobi and Luke Skywalker. A young Warrior archetype and the Sage archetype, and there’s a lot of great energy when you do that in a scene. If you look at practically any great movie or book, the characters are almost always archetypes. Think about the major characters of The Godfather and their enemies, the five families, they’re all archetypes. That gives the story its power.

I’m also a big believer in just reading great stuff and watching great movies if you look at them through the lens of the archetypes to educate yourself. For example, with To Kill a Mockingbird, Atticus Finch is sort of the archetype of the Knight, the upright and honorable man. The other characters are archetypes too. Try to educate yourself that way. Of course, you want to create nuanced real characters, but I do think that what gives characters power is that sort of archetypal energy.

B.C.: After writing several non-fiction books, you’re returning to the craft of writing historical fiction. How do you make history feel so real in your books?

S.P.: It’s the imagination. It’s trying to imagine yourself back in that world, whatever world it may be. Arthur Golden, a Jewish male writer, wrote this wonderful book Memoirs of a Geisha. It was a bestseller. Basically, he beamed himself in imagination back into the mind of a Japanese geisha female courtesan in the 1930s and when you read it you completely believe everything. So, I think he did a lot of research, he found out all the details of what the true world was like, but then he just used his imagination. In a way, that’s a quality of any storyteller. When we were kids, if we got caught by our mom stealing something or caught by the principal, we would stand in front of the principal and just lie like a son of a bitch, right? So, it’s that quality of imagination, which is a lot of the fun of it. I wish I could get in a time machine and go back to ancient Athens and see what it was like to walk out in the morning and talk to people, but I can’t. So, I do it in my imagination and try to write with that.

B.C.: How do you choose what projects to pursue?

S.P.: I’m a believer in the Muse. I believe that it inspires from some other dimension of reality and I never really know what the next project is going to be. I tune into the cosmic radio station and receive my assignment. I’m always looking for something that’s going to make me stretch a little bit, something I haven’t done before. I certainly don’t want to repeat myself, but usually when an idea comes, it’s a surprise. That’s why I’ve been bouncing back and forth between things that are about the creative process like The War of Art and novels like A Man at Arms. I never know what’s coming next, but I know when I look back over the progression it all makes sense in some crazy way. Look at the whole through line in Bruce Springsteen’s albums and there’s definitely an evolution. It’s the same theme he’s obviously obsessed with. He’s evolving and treating them in deeper and more nuanced ways.

B.C.: When you are writing, what does that process look like?

S.P.: I have two ways of approaching it. One is a very blue-collar way, I have a saying, “Put your ass where your heart wants to be,” which means you sit at the keyboard and just show up every day. The other half is that I’m definitely a believer in the Muse and that you get inspiration and that when you’re working well you don’t even know what you’re doing. You go into another state of mind and you’re channeling stuff. What I’m trying to do as a writer when I’m actually sitting down at the keys is to get out of my own way, get my ego out of it completely, and even get my identity out of it. I’m in a state of imagination and in a very real sense I think you start to see the story that you’re telling and you’re guided by your own instincts. From my experience in the Marine Corps, I have a sense of what men are like in the field, what the humor is like and how everything goes wrong. It’s kind of a mysterious thing, getting into a state where you partly surrender your own control over to what’s going to come out on the page, but at the same time you’re bouncing between your right brain and left brain. You’re trying to control it a little and if the scene starts going in the wrong direction you try to rein it back a little bit and remember where you want it to go. I know it’s kind of a vague answer.

B.C.: Interpreting the Muse is obviously a big part of your process. How do you discern what’s coming to you?

S.P.: I always keep a file I call “new ideas.” Let’s say I’m working on A Man at Arms, I’m constantly looking out in my head for what’s next. I’ll have a bunch of candidates in my “new ideas” file, maybe a movie that I want to do, or a small book I want to try, or a video series, or a collaboration. I’ll put all those things down and check in with them from time to time and ask myself, “Does this make sense? Could I do two years of my life on this particular project?” At times I’ve found that at first an idea leaves me cold, but sometimes it takes quite a while for things to sink in. Actually, the next project that I’m going to do is an autobiographical project. But here’s the interesting thing, my girlfriend Diana urged me to do this and I’ve been resisting it for months. But little by little I recognized that as my own Resistance with a capital R, meaning that it’s a good idea and I’m afraid of it. I’m putting up this self-sabotage in my mind. It took me six months, but I finally bought into the idea and I am going to do it. This might be a bomb. I might spend two or three years and it might just totally lay there, but I’m at the stage where I’m willing to take that chance. It’s a challenge and I want to give it a shot. I ask myself, “Do I really want to work on this thing for another day?” I recognize my own Resistance there because I’ve seen it enough in my 50 years in this racket. So, I say to myself, “Okay, let me push through it.”

Another big thing for me is dreams. I’m a big believer in paying attention to your dreams because it’s coming from your unconscious. It’s coming from that deep source that knows you better than you know yourself. Paying attention to your dreams is an amazing practice that people don’t necessarily pick up very often. I’m a child of the 60s, and certainly a number of different friends have sat me down and given me the talk about paying attention to your dreams. I’ve tried it enough in my own life and it’s worked a bunch of times. Dreams have steadied me on a course, but when I was doubtful a dream would tell me to keep going too. It’s worked for me.

B.C.: What advice do you have for writers contemplating big projects, such as a work of historical fiction?

S.P.: In my book The War of Art I talk about this concept of Resistance with a capital R. Resistance in my definition is that negative voice we hear in our heads that tells us we shouldn’t do this project. As I plan my next book, I’m getting this voice in my head saying, “This is a dumb idea. Nobody’s gonna care about this. It’s been done a million times. You’re going to look like an idiot.” That’s the voice of Resistance and one of the laws of Resistance that I have found over the years is that the more Resistance we feel to a project the more important that project is to the evolution of our soul. So, big Resistance equals big idea. In other words, if you’re feeling a lot of Resistance to something, that’s a good sign. The analogy I make is to think of a dream that we have for a project as a tree in the middle of a meadow on a sunny day. As soon as that tree goes up the tree is going to cast a shadow. That shadow is Resistance, but there would be no shadow if there wasn’t a tree first. So, Resistance always comes second. When we’re feeling big Resistance it’s because there’s a big dream. In the project I’m working on I’m using that to encourage myself, because I say, “Oh, if I’m feeling that much Resistance this project must be important to me.” There’s really no substitute in this case for willpower and whatever it takes for each of us to find his or her way to work through something like that. Some of us hit it head on, some use kind of a jiu-jitsu method, but somehow, we’ve got to find a way to get through that Resistance and keep working.

So, if you’re feeling big resistance, that’s a good sign. If you’re very much afraid of something, that’s a good sign.

* * * * *

Brendan Carr is a podcast host, writer, and military veteran. He holds a Master’s degree from Columbia University. To see more interviews, check out his Youtube channel: http://youtube.com/BrendanCarrOfficial

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The Fall of Burhan

Liam Fani was born in the year of 572, under a dark, starry night in the middle of the rolling plains of the Arabian desert. His ancestors, like those of the Jews and the Babylonians, had been desert folks, knowing every inch of the sand dunes and the canyons of their land. They’d lived in the desert for many years, among trackless hills, but they knew how to track anything that moved and how to trace the lineage of the noble blood.

Rumors had it, as old folks had often retold, that immediately after Fani opened his eyes, he looked towards the sky, extending his hands as far as he could, as if to reach the stars. The hot, scourging desert sun had roughed his skin, but softened his heart. He used to be starving for days and would finally go hunting for gazelles, but he’d cry by his own kill. At times, he’d decide to just herd them into a corral he’d built, but their wild nature, tickling the soft part of his heart, would urge him to set them free. He’d rather choose to exchange cattle milk with some dates to eat, from the villagers nearby.

Occasionally, he’d go trotting freely on his white horse, foreseeing the scary, unknown orchards, far beyond the desert he had known. He’d be happy to meet those villagers, but the concentration of the green palm trees, dancing in the fires of heaven, always blinded his eyesight, hindering him from seeing as far as he could. And he hated it. The villagers’ land didn’t feel so open, relentlessly inviting as the barren land of the desert — a feeling that had often strangled him, suffocating his brotherly words towards those ancient villagers.

His four decades of desert life had been peacefully the same, until Burhan, the Persian, and his companions came along.

Fani had once deserted his woman for failing to bury their differences, but to turn his back again on another helpless creature, leaving her completely vulnerable to the pricking pickles of the desert, with no justifiable reasons, was a foul act, painfully chastised under his own, personal rules of the desert.

* * * * *

When Burhan gained power, he proclaimed himself to be a prophet, and built a fortress, hidden between the mounds of sands, in the middle of the desolate desert. The fortress he erected was built with the blood of the locals, whom he convinced to rule the region. They fell for his presumed truthfulness and kindness. His eloquent tongue made them kneel at his feet, furnishing before their eyes, a virtually-created heaven, full of virgins, wine and hashish.

The motto, he propagated and in which every fighter believed, was all heathens were wrong and however you do with them was justified.

His blind fighters willingly fought, sacrificing their lives, for achieving their reckoned paradise, where they’d satisfy their lust with the nymphs of heaven. Their foolish credulousness, coupled with their passion for the sheer and mere lustful desires, had helped him acquire his power over them — they were his living daggers. He manipulated those naive fighters, who were certain that obedience to him, was the key to the gate of paradise.

One day, Burhan along with his fighters set out their ruthless plan to conquer an oasis, lying in the middle of the village nearby.

* * * * *

In the village of the oasis, Merav had once had a dream of fire, burning between her legs. Her household collapsed, tumbling to the ground. She saw herself alone and no one around she knew to be found, but a group of strangers trooped around, surrounding her. She woke up petrified. Upon examining the lines of fate on her palm, she wondered about her unknown destiny.

Her frightening dream came true. On the sand dunes of the desert, she stood woe-stricken and heart-broken. She was a captive of war, stranded, not knowing where to go and what was going to happen of her. She grieved not only her brutally murdered father, but also her darling husband. They barbarously killed her kins, wiping out her community entirely. She looked back at her demolished, burning village, with tears falling down her cheeks, her mascara smudged across her smooth, white, and creamy face.

Though dismayed and devastated, she continued to spark like an elusive sea pearl, misplaced by the hands of God in the middle of the desolate desert, attracting her enemies. Her ancient beauty killed, it sent them hankering after her. They savagely argued, fighting over her. Each and every one wanted to claim her as his own. Her formerly prestigious and royal status rendered her free from them, but not from Burhan.

* * * * *

In the thirsty plains of the desert, they began betting on her, as a precious piece of land, as a deep well, full of an endless source of water.

“I found her first and she’s mine,” shouted a long bearded, wretched soldier, riding on a dark-brown horse. “So, you all stay away from her,” he went on.

“I’d get her from you for ten heads of sheep,” shouted another slim, ragamuffin soldier.

“By God’s will, I won’t give her away for fifty heads of camels,” shouted the one who found her first. “Look at her beautiful hips and hair. Her beauty surmises all I’ve seen in fifty years.”

“Kill her!” A call echoed from a wimpy soldier in the back.

“I’d give you a hundred of them if allowed for a nightstand,” said a fat soldier in the front line, with a sword embroidered with gold, in his hand.

“God forbid. She’s already christened for me. So, you stay out of it, too.”

They fought and bled, killing one another for her. They all wagered on her, save for Fani who approached her cautiously, asking about her name and that of her kins.

“I am Merav, the daughter of the assassinated sheik of the village and the wife of his assassinated deputy.” She asserted while her head was still held up high.

Upon hearing this revelation, Fani rushed to his leader, to inform him of the turmoil, preoccupying his entire army. He told him of her angelic appearance and of her royal lineage.

Fani, the only fighter questioning the truthful identity of Burhan, kept nagging his comrades with questions, “What if there were no nymphs in Heaven? What if this man weren’t the truthful, Godly-sent prophet? What if he was lying? Will you drop your weapons, abandoning the idea of going to paradise? Or will you continue to shed the blood you crave?” He wasn’t convinced nor was he lecherous enough so much as his colleagues were for the nymphs of heaven. Nevertheless, he was faithful, not to Burhan, but to the word he gave to him.

“Let me consult God on that,” Burhan said as he walked into his tent. God was made to be ready at his own discretion.

A few moments later, Burhan crawled out of his tent, wreathed in smiles. He instructed Fani to bring her to him, putting an end to the misery that engulfed his prominent army members.

* * * * *

A slim, hopeless figure, with hands bound behind her back, stood before him. Her black hair was straight, but wavy across her forehead. Her wide eyes flushed with tears, welling across the corners of her eyes. Once Burhan took a glimpse of her graceful beauty, he whispered to himself, by God, some people were born lucky; some strove to achieve luck, while others had had luck thrust upon them.

“Would you like your freedom granted?” He asked as he reiterated inquiring about her name and that of her kins. “Loss kills every pleasure in life. Only black suits me,” she said, choking with tears.

Eros danced above the clouds of his thoughts. A daffodil, waiting to bloom, stretched in the horizon of his mind. The worm in his brain began to crawl. With a brittle smile on his face, he blurted out, “I’d grant you happiness and freedom if you marry me.” “Shame on you. Between winning hearts and mending them lies a thin line called manner. Don’t you know you and your vagabonds just killed my father and my husband?” Burhan blushed as she uttered those words, totally unaware of her eloquence and potency.

But as mesmerizingly charming as she was, he couldn’t resist claiming her as his own. He flatly told his soldiers he’d marry her that same night. “Her dowry would be her granted freedom from enslavement,” he asserted. “Try applying it to your daughter before nailing it into the heart of others.” She said.

Burhan’s reality was hard to grasp. He unconsciously wished it were a dream. His comrades stood perplexed as she kept berating him, unleashing tongues of criminal prisoners behind the teeth, who if released when angry, would throw one in a cell of remorse, where one would only be freed, under the mercy of conscience.

Her circumstances were hard, but there was always hope as stars shone brighter on darker nights. She never experienced such an authoritarian desert prick in her life. She continued castigating him, till she unbridled a falcon, soaring high into the sky. She was stronger because of what she’d gone through. She was smarter because of his silly mistake. When she looked at her palm, terrified by her nightmare, she’d prayed, imploring she’d be happier, knowing the horror she’d experience. She was sure should she be free, she’d be wiser because she’d learned.

* * * * *

“My Lord, you can’t marry her tonight, for her father and husband just died,” Fani protested.

“That may not apply to captives of war, especially to those of heathen!” He snapped a justification for himself.

Aeolus enraged and furious, inside the cavernous interior of his cave, blew heavy winds, stirring a scourging hot, dusty storm that eclipsed a soaring hawk, circling the eye of the sky. Hard rocks eroded, boulders broke, harnesses pulled while horses reared and neighed. Swords swung and clanged, pounding with the howling storm. Fani whipped out his sword, thrusting it into the heart of his leader, whom he once followed, under the night disguise. He crushed his brain whose twin tumors were impossible to eradicate, one of which was the blood, manifested in the abode of mortals, while the other was the lechery for the nymphs of the abode of the just. Burhan tumbled down a cold corpse, underneath Fani’s feet. He had climbed the desert plains with many, but came down with none. Fani thought to himself who didn’t drink from the sea of knowledge would die thirsty in the desert of life. Life was a lesson taught by experience.

As Fani wiped his sword clean with a white cloth, bright clouds danced softly, blowing Zephyr’s winds. A white dove flew above Merav’s head.


Abdullah Aljumah is bilingual and bicultural. He received his Master’s degree in Linguistics from Eastern Michigan University sponsored by the Fulbright program. Some of his short stories are published by various literary reviews and journals. He writes short stories and poems revolving around hypocrisy, religion conflicts, and forced or arranged marriages.

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Copperfield’s Anthology of Historical Fiction Submission Guidelines

The Copperfield Review seeks to publish the best in historical short fiction and historical poetry. We proudly announce our second anthology of historical fiction.

Anthology Submission dates: April 1, 2021 through August 31, 2021

Anthology submissions should be sent through Submittable. There is a $3 reading fee. The word Anthology should appear in the submission title.


  • Fiction: Submit one short story of historical fiction of up to 4000 words. The story must be historical fiction, though it may also be a sub-genre such as historical romance, historical mystery, etc. We do not accept alternative history submissions.
  • Poetry: Submit up to 3 poems in one document. Poetry should be either historical fiction or based on a historical subject.

Publication Information

Copperfield’s second anthology of historical fiction is scheduled for publication in October 2021.

The anthology will be published in ebook and paperback formats. Authors whose works are chosen to appear in the anthology agree to have their stories or poems appear in marketing materials to promote sales of the anthology.


Authors will receive an honorarium as well as two contributor paperback copies and a copy of the ebook. The honorarium will be $25 USD.


Authors who agree to appear in the anthology grant The Copperfield Review the right to publish their work in ebook and paperback formats in the anthology. Otherwise, authors retain all rights to their work and they are free to license or sell their work however they wish. Future publication of work that appears in the anthology should be noted as first appearing in The Copperfield Review’s anthology. Copyright of the anthology collection itself is owned by The Copperfield Review.

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The First Annual Copperfield Awards in Short Historical Fiction and Historical Poetry

The Copperfield Review is proud to announce our First Annual Copperfield Awards for the Best in Historical Short Fiction and Poetry.

We will accept submissions from March 15, 2021 through October 10, 2021, with winners to be announced on Friday, December 10, 2021. There is a $25 entry fee per short story and a $20 entry fee per poem.


  • Historical short fiction submissions may be no longer than 4000 words in length. Authors may submit one story per entry fee.
  • We accept submissions of history-based poetry. Poets may submit two poems per entry fee.
  • The author’s name and email address should be at the top of the submission but not elsewhere.
  • Submissions sent without payment will not be considered for the contest.

One grand prize winner in short fiction will receive $250 and one grand prize winner in historical poetry will receive $200. Grand prize winners, with the top four finalists in short fiction and historical poetry will be featured in a special digital/print edition of The Copperfield Review to appear in February 2022.

Submit your work to submitcopperfield(at)gmail.com. Make sure the subject line of your email reads either Contest Submission Fiction or Contest Submission Poetry.

Authors can pay for their contest submissions using the PayPal link below.

The Copperfield Awards

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The Name of the Rose

Written by Umberto Eco

Translated by William Weaver

Published by Vintage Classics

Review by Cecile Ng

“Thus looking at the Middle Ages means looking at our infancy, in the same way that a doctor, to understand our present state of health, asks us about our childhood”.

Umberto Eco has created what is perhaps the most unconquerable and daunting historical and meta-detective fiction of our time. As our protagonist, the intellectually prided Franciscan friar William of Baskerville – a nod to the great detective canon Sherlock Holmes,  and his apprentice – the dedicated Adso of Melk, maneuver among real and pseudo-historical figures to unveil the hidden plot that propels a series of murder. One such discourse involved in the plot is the adaptationist view of knowledge. Filled with numerous phrases in untranslated Latin, old German, pidgin, and other languages lost to modern readers, as well as cultural references deeply rooted in the medieval religious and philosophical context, The Name of The Rose is almost unreadable for any contemporary eyes without the help of companion books or a well-informed schema of medieval theological history.

It is only until one comes to understand the connotation and horde of research and conflict attached to the tedious strings of book names, architecture, dreams, and archives, that doors of comprehension will open themselves to a deeper revelation. Words are but signs that could be everything and nothing. 

If the attempt to preserve knowledge and history is merely a vain self-consolation on our part, as futile as Adso’s journey back to the Abbey at the end to salvage the fragments of the aedificium, why do we do it at all? The genius of The Name of the Rose lies in giving neither answers nor solutions, but an observation – in this world scorch in flame constantly awaiting the descend of the anti-Christ, our lives are but an adaptation of what has come before. We are our ancestors, a helpless Adso with nothing but the education passed down from his master at his disposal, forever chasing after a name of which that is already lost. Yet, unlike our protagonists, we are given this wisdom and insight by Umberto before it is too late. What is to be done with this knowledge, thus, rest entirely in the hands of the readers alone. 


Cecile Ng is a final year student pursuing her B.A. in English Studies in Hong Kong. 

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