Issue 16 Previews and Interviews
The "Magic: Lost and Found" Issue of Young Ravens Literary Review will be released at the end of June. Until then, we hope you enjoy previews of poetry, art, and nonfiction, and interviews with author and artist!
Nonfiction Preview:
Ridiculous Rituals: Reasons, Rules, and a Rationale
by Wendy K. Mages
Ridiculous Rituals: Reasons, Rules, and a Rationale
by Wendy K. Mages
I look up. My niece, Nora, is coming down the stairs wearing her pajamas inside-out and backwards. Nora’s in middle school. I’m staying with her while her parents are out of town.
“What’s with the pajamas?” I ask.
“If we wear our pajamas inside out and backwards, it’ll snow and, when we wake up the next morning, we’ll have a snow day.”
“Really?” I ask with more than a bit of sarcasm.
“All my friends are doing it.”
It seems, according to her friends, and the Internet, you can also increase the probability of a snow day if you sleep with a spoon under your pillow, run around the dining room table five times before you go to sleep, or flush an ice cube down the toilet. Who knew? Nora and her friends diligently perform these ridiculous rituals (typically the night before a big test). Perhaps I’m a skeptic, but I’m not surprised that they have yet to see a snow day.
A few days later, I’m on campus sitting in my office preparing for the two grad school classes I have to teach that evening, when the phone rings. The nurse at Nora’s school tells me Nora’s sick and needs to be picked up. I feel a rising sense of panic, unsure if I will have time to get Nora home and return to campus to teach my classes.
I do a quick calculation and, if all goes well, I can pick her up at school, drop her off at home, and still make it back in time to teach, which means I don’t have to cancel class. I’m a recent hire. As a new faculty member, I’m not sure about all of the protocols and forms for canceling a class and notifying students. I do know, however, that my boss will not be pleased if I have to cancel class at the last minute and he’ll be particularly peeved if students complain about the lack of advanced notice. Everyone is always giving lip service to the myth of work-life balance, but the “requests” of a demanding boss—and the unspoken threat of losing your job—put a thumb on that mythological scale. Typically, I work long hours and take on projects that leave little time for the “life” part of the equation. But this is different. Nora needs me and I need to be there for her.
Once I get her home, I can count on a friend to come over and take care of her until I get back from class. Nonetheless, I’m conflicted. It just doesn’t feel right to abandon Nora and leave her with someone else when she’s sick and may need me. And what if her condition worsens while I’m heading back to work or while I’m in class? I realize if I want this “rescue mission” to succeed, I have no time to contemplate all of the “what ifs”; I have to get on the road as quickly as possible.
Although I’m in a hurry, skipping a pit stop before hitting the road is not an option. I dash down the hall to the ladies room. As luck would have it, the toilet won’t flush! Then the water in the sink barely dribbles out. It’s clear something’s broken, but I have a sick kid to worry about. I use a paper towel to remove the soap residue still on my hands and run back to my office, grab my coat, and head for the elevator.
Suddenly, a loud alarm squawks twice. Then, over an intercom I didn’t even know we had, a disembodied voice announces, “There has been a water main break. There has been a water main break.”
As the voice on the intercom reverberates down the hall, the alarm squawks again and the message repeats. I understand the words echoing in the halls, but what exactly does the message mean? We all know what to do when there’s a fire, but what are you supposed to do when there’s a water main break?
As I pass security on my way to the front door, I mention the problem with the bathroom (which I’m now starting to realize is probably related to the water main break), and ask, “What are we supposed to do about the water main break? Do we need to evacuate the building, like when there’s a fire alarm?”
“At this point, we just sit tight. If they can fix the break, we do nothing. If they can’t fix it, we may have to close the building and cancel evening classes.”
“What are the chances classes will be canceled?”
“Don’t know yet. We’re waiting to hear how long it’ll take to fix the water main. I guess it depends on how bad the break is.”
Perhaps he reads the concern on my face, because he hands me his direct dial number on a sticky note. “Feel free to call for updates,” he says, offering a sympathetic smile. I take the sticky note and head out to my car.
When I arrive at Nora’s school, I’m told I have to wait for the nurse to bring her downstairs. I quickly pull out my phone and call the number on the sticky note.
“We’re still waiting,” he tells me.
When Nora arrives, pale and a looking a bit green, we get into my car and head home. On the way, I tell her about the water main break and that I’m hoping classes will be cancelled, so I can stay home to make sure she’s okay. We realize at this moment, we don’t need a snow day; we need a water-main-break day. Unfortunately, we don’t know any water-main-break rituals. But we’re resourceful.
We begin to review the snow-day rituals. Most involve doing something before you go to sleep, wearing something to sleep, or sleeping with something under your pillow. We have no time for sleep. But the “ice-cube-in-the-toilet” ritual seems strangely apropos. After all, the water main break prevented the toilet from flushing. But I’m a practical person, and a bit of a skeptic. So, when we get home, I don’t head to the freezer for an ice cube. Instead, I call the security desk for an update.
“Still waiting,” he tells me.
Despite or perhaps because of her queasiness, Nora wants to try the ritual.
“Why not?” I say smiling wryly. “What do we have to lose?”
Nora, with a sudden burst of energy, rushes to get the ice cube from the freezer and we head upstairs to the bathroom giggling as we go. It seems less than ceremonial to simply drop the ice cube in the toilet and flush. We decide we need a few magic words, just to make sure there’s no confusion about whether we want a snow day or a water-main-break day. We come up with some impromptu abracadabra wishing-words, solemnly drop the ice cube into the toilet, and flush. For a brief moment we believe in the magic of incantations, in frog princes, unicorns, and fairy queens. We look at each other, standing like sentries gazing into the depths of an enchanted cistern. Again we giggle. The sound resonates on the hard surfaces. The glossy ceramic tile and porcelain toilet bowl amplify our laughter, the vibrations magnifying our hopes, apprehensions, and wildly fanciful expectations. We head back downstairs.
Even before I reach the bottom of the staircase, I catch sight of the clock. Like Cinderella at the ball, the late hour abruptly heralds of the constraints of my circumstances. With each strike of the clock, hope fades, just as Cinderella’s enchanted coach and all of her finery vanish at the stroke of midnight. I take a deep breath to calm my worries and again begin to calculate. To make it back to campus in late-afternoon traffic, I’ll have to leave within the next 3 minutes. As I place my coat and purse by the door, so I can leave as soon as our friend arrives to care for Nora, I notice the sticky note stuck to the cuff of my coat. I pull it off and decide to call the security desk one last time before heading out.
Much to the dismay of many school children, it turns out that the ice-cube-in-the-toilet ritual may not pass the tried-and-true test, if you need a snow day. But, if someday you happen to have a health emergency and a water-main break on the same afternoon, Nora and I can attest, it works like a charm.
“What’s with the pajamas?” I ask.
“If we wear our pajamas inside out and backwards, it’ll snow and, when we wake up the next morning, we’ll have a snow day.”
“Really?” I ask with more than a bit of sarcasm.
“All my friends are doing it.”
It seems, according to her friends, and the Internet, you can also increase the probability of a snow day if you sleep with a spoon under your pillow, run around the dining room table five times before you go to sleep, or flush an ice cube down the toilet. Who knew? Nora and her friends diligently perform these ridiculous rituals (typically the night before a big test). Perhaps I’m a skeptic, but I’m not surprised that they have yet to see a snow day.
A few days later, I’m on campus sitting in my office preparing for the two grad school classes I have to teach that evening, when the phone rings. The nurse at Nora’s school tells me Nora’s sick and needs to be picked up. I feel a rising sense of panic, unsure if I will have time to get Nora home and return to campus to teach my classes.
I do a quick calculation and, if all goes well, I can pick her up at school, drop her off at home, and still make it back in time to teach, which means I don’t have to cancel class. I’m a recent hire. As a new faculty member, I’m not sure about all of the protocols and forms for canceling a class and notifying students. I do know, however, that my boss will not be pleased if I have to cancel class at the last minute and he’ll be particularly peeved if students complain about the lack of advanced notice. Everyone is always giving lip service to the myth of work-life balance, but the “requests” of a demanding boss—and the unspoken threat of losing your job—put a thumb on that mythological scale. Typically, I work long hours and take on projects that leave little time for the “life” part of the equation. But this is different. Nora needs me and I need to be there for her.
Once I get her home, I can count on a friend to come over and take care of her until I get back from class. Nonetheless, I’m conflicted. It just doesn’t feel right to abandon Nora and leave her with someone else when she’s sick and may need me. And what if her condition worsens while I’m heading back to work or while I’m in class? I realize if I want this “rescue mission” to succeed, I have no time to contemplate all of the “what ifs”; I have to get on the road as quickly as possible.
Although I’m in a hurry, skipping a pit stop before hitting the road is not an option. I dash down the hall to the ladies room. As luck would have it, the toilet won’t flush! Then the water in the sink barely dribbles out. It’s clear something’s broken, but I have a sick kid to worry about. I use a paper towel to remove the soap residue still on my hands and run back to my office, grab my coat, and head for the elevator.
Suddenly, a loud alarm squawks twice. Then, over an intercom I didn’t even know we had, a disembodied voice announces, “There has been a water main break. There has been a water main break.”
As the voice on the intercom reverberates down the hall, the alarm squawks again and the message repeats. I understand the words echoing in the halls, but what exactly does the message mean? We all know what to do when there’s a fire, but what are you supposed to do when there’s a water main break?
As I pass security on my way to the front door, I mention the problem with the bathroom (which I’m now starting to realize is probably related to the water main break), and ask, “What are we supposed to do about the water main break? Do we need to evacuate the building, like when there’s a fire alarm?”
“At this point, we just sit tight. If they can fix the break, we do nothing. If they can’t fix it, we may have to close the building and cancel evening classes.”
“What are the chances classes will be canceled?”
“Don’t know yet. We’re waiting to hear how long it’ll take to fix the water main. I guess it depends on how bad the break is.”
Perhaps he reads the concern on my face, because he hands me his direct dial number on a sticky note. “Feel free to call for updates,” he says, offering a sympathetic smile. I take the sticky note and head out to my car.
When I arrive at Nora’s school, I’m told I have to wait for the nurse to bring her downstairs. I quickly pull out my phone and call the number on the sticky note.
“We’re still waiting,” he tells me.
When Nora arrives, pale and a looking a bit green, we get into my car and head home. On the way, I tell her about the water main break and that I’m hoping classes will be cancelled, so I can stay home to make sure she’s okay. We realize at this moment, we don’t need a snow day; we need a water-main-break day. Unfortunately, we don’t know any water-main-break rituals. But we’re resourceful.
We begin to review the snow-day rituals. Most involve doing something before you go to sleep, wearing something to sleep, or sleeping with something under your pillow. We have no time for sleep. But the “ice-cube-in-the-toilet” ritual seems strangely apropos. After all, the water main break prevented the toilet from flushing. But I’m a practical person, and a bit of a skeptic. So, when we get home, I don’t head to the freezer for an ice cube. Instead, I call the security desk for an update.
“Still waiting,” he tells me.
Despite or perhaps because of her queasiness, Nora wants to try the ritual.
“Why not?” I say smiling wryly. “What do we have to lose?”
Nora, with a sudden burst of energy, rushes to get the ice cube from the freezer and we head upstairs to the bathroom giggling as we go. It seems less than ceremonial to simply drop the ice cube in the toilet and flush. We decide we need a few magic words, just to make sure there’s no confusion about whether we want a snow day or a water-main-break day. We come up with some impromptu abracadabra wishing-words, solemnly drop the ice cube into the toilet, and flush. For a brief moment we believe in the magic of incantations, in frog princes, unicorns, and fairy queens. We look at each other, standing like sentries gazing into the depths of an enchanted cistern. Again we giggle. The sound resonates on the hard surfaces. The glossy ceramic tile and porcelain toilet bowl amplify our laughter, the vibrations magnifying our hopes, apprehensions, and wildly fanciful expectations. We head back downstairs.
Even before I reach the bottom of the staircase, I catch sight of the clock. Like Cinderella at the ball, the late hour abruptly heralds of the constraints of my circumstances. With each strike of the clock, hope fades, just as Cinderella’s enchanted coach and all of her finery vanish at the stroke of midnight. I take a deep breath to calm my worries and again begin to calculate. To make it back to campus in late-afternoon traffic, I’ll have to leave within the next 3 minutes. As I place my coat and purse by the door, so I can leave as soon as our friend arrives to care for Nora, I notice the sticky note stuck to the cuff of my coat. I pull it off and decide to call the security desk one last time before heading out.
Much to the dismay of many school children, it turns out that the ice-cube-in-the-toilet ritual may not pass the tried-and-true test, if you need a snow day. But, if someday you happen to have a health emergency and a water-main break on the same afternoon, Nora and I can attest, it works like a charm.
Interview with Wendy K. Mages
1. What, if any, is the importance of magic to humankind?
Two primary sources of magic in my life are the arts and nature. Both art and nature provide a sense of wonder, mystery, and enchantment. So, for me, and I believe for others, this type of magic is essential.
2. How has your understanding of magic evolved with age?
My appreciation for the magic of the arts and the natural world has grown over the years. A piece of music, a play, a movie, a dance, a painting, a sculpture, or a story can lift my spirits and transport me to fascinating and revivifying places. Reveling in the splendor and mystery of the natural world has been particularly important to me in recent months, as long walks communing with nature have sustained me during the pandemic.
3. If you could have one magic power, what would it be, and why?
If I could have one magic power, it would be the power to heal. It would be wonderful to have the power to heal the people I love, to heal all of the inhabitants of our world, to heal our society, and to heal our planet.
Wendy K. Mages, a Professor at Mercy College, is a storyteller and educator who earned a master’s and a doctoral degree in Human Development and Psychology at the Harvard Graduate School of Education and a master’s degree in Theatre at Northwestern University. Her research focuses on the effect of the arts on learning and development. As a compliment to her research, she performs original stories at storytelling events and festivals in the United States and abroad. Some of her stories appear in The Journal of Stories in Science and Potato Soup Journal. A triptych of her poems appears in Scenario.
Two primary sources of magic in my life are the arts and nature. Both art and nature provide a sense of wonder, mystery, and enchantment. So, for me, and I believe for others, this type of magic is essential.
2. How has your understanding of magic evolved with age?
My appreciation for the magic of the arts and the natural world has grown over the years. A piece of music, a play, a movie, a dance, a painting, a sculpture, or a story can lift my spirits and transport me to fascinating and revivifying places. Reveling in the splendor and mystery of the natural world has been particularly important to me in recent months, as long walks communing with nature have sustained me during the pandemic.
3. If you could have one magic power, what would it be, and why?
If I could have one magic power, it would be the power to heal. It would be wonderful to have the power to heal the people I love, to heal all of the inhabitants of our world, to heal our society, and to heal our planet.
Wendy K. Mages, a Professor at Mercy College, is a storyteller and educator who earned a master’s and a doctoral degree in Human Development and Psychology at the Harvard Graduate School of Education and a master’s degree in Theatre at Northwestern University. Her research focuses on the effect of the arts on learning and development. As a compliment to her research, she performs original stories at storytelling events and festivals in the United States and abroad. Some of her stories appear in The Journal of Stories in Science and Potato Soup Journal. A triptych of her poems appears in Scenario.
Poetry Preview:
"The Toy Chest"
by Damon Hubbs
"The Toy Chest"
by Damon Hubbs
This much we know is true
or so the story goes
that when the fairy-wand turned up
it wasn’t cloaked in the watchful eye of an owl-faced tree
deep in the Hercynian forest,
or hidden in the heart of a fox-earth
scattered with five-petaled lilacs
and freshly churned butter.
It hadn’t been lost like a set of spare keys
under the doormat of a Highland brownie stone,
beside an offering of milk and bread
nor did the woman on the Red Line
mistake it for an umbrella and tuck it under her wing
on a rainy day in Boston.
It wasn’t discovered in a bouquet of Arum lilies
by a local nurseryman fearful of harbingers,
or threaded into a garland of milkmaid flowers
or traded for a bracelet with a silver bird clasp.
When it was found, at last, the fairy-wand
had been cast aside, waywardly
buried at the bottom of an old toy chest
amongst a bestiary of once-familiar animals,
wooden blocks, broken teacups, an old rag doll
with red thread tied around its throat,
and a white horse, its mane unfurling like a gilded tapestry,
searching for its spiral horn.
or so the story goes
that when the fairy-wand turned up
it wasn’t cloaked in the watchful eye of an owl-faced tree
deep in the Hercynian forest,
or hidden in the heart of a fox-earth
scattered with five-petaled lilacs
and freshly churned butter.
It hadn’t been lost like a set of spare keys
under the doormat of a Highland brownie stone,
beside an offering of milk and bread
nor did the woman on the Red Line
mistake it for an umbrella and tuck it under her wing
on a rainy day in Boston.
It wasn’t discovered in a bouquet of Arum lilies
by a local nurseryman fearful of harbingers,
or threaded into a garland of milkmaid flowers
or traded for a bracelet with a silver bird clasp.
When it was found, at last, the fairy-wand
had been cast aside, waywardly
buried at the bottom of an old toy chest
amongst a bestiary of once-familiar animals,
wooden blocks, broken teacups, an old rag doll
with red thread tied around its throat,
and a white horse, its mane unfurling like a gilded tapestry,
searching for its spiral horn.
Interview with Damon Hubbs
1. Where do you find “magic” in your own life?
It sounds cliche, or worse, like a tagline for a bad rom-com . . . but magic is everywhere—in literature, art, music, film, conversation, the natural world, or in something as mundane as a trip to the grocery store. It's like that quote from Ferris Bueller's Day Off. "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it." Magic is always there. We just need to slow down and look around.
2. How does magic change as we grow older?
Magic doesn't really change, does it? We change, and therefore we find different things magical when we're 50 or 60 than we did when we were 18 or 30.
3. If you could meet a character from any story ever written, who would it be, and why?
It would be fun to have a Mad Hatter tea party with Jay Gatsby, Molly Bloom, Emma Bovary, and Raskolnikov. However, I'd like to meet Frog and Toad from Arnold Lobel's series of illustrated children's books from the 1970s. My mother read those books to me as a child and it made a big impact. Frog and Toad are always having misadventures and misunderstandings but at the end of the day their friendship makes the world a better place. That's pretty magical.
Damon Hubbs lives in a small town in Massachusetts. He graduated with a BA in World Literature from Bradford College. When not writing, Damon can be found growing microgreens, divining the flight pattern of birds, and ambling the beaches and forests of New England with his wife and two children. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Book of Matches, The Chamber Magazine, and Eunoia Review.
It sounds cliche, or worse, like a tagline for a bad rom-com . . . but magic is everywhere—in literature, art, music, film, conversation, the natural world, or in something as mundane as a trip to the grocery store. It's like that quote from Ferris Bueller's Day Off. "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it." Magic is always there. We just need to slow down and look around.
2. How does magic change as we grow older?
Magic doesn't really change, does it? We change, and therefore we find different things magical when we're 50 or 60 than we did when we were 18 or 30.
3. If you could meet a character from any story ever written, who would it be, and why?
It would be fun to have a Mad Hatter tea party with Jay Gatsby, Molly Bloom, Emma Bovary, and Raskolnikov. However, I'd like to meet Frog and Toad from Arnold Lobel's series of illustrated children's books from the 1970s. My mother read those books to me as a child and it made a big impact. Frog and Toad are always having misadventures and misunderstandings but at the end of the day their friendship makes the world a better place. That's pretty magical.
Damon Hubbs lives in a small town in Massachusetts. He graduated with a BA in World Literature from Bradford College. When not writing, Damon can be found growing microgreens, divining the flight pattern of birds, and ambling the beaches and forests of New England with his wife and two children. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Book of Matches, The Chamber Magazine, and Eunoia Review.
Cover Art Preview:
5-1 by Richard Hanus
5-1 by Richard Hanus
©Richard Hanus
Interview with Richard Hanus
1. Where do you find “magic” in your life?
Magic is ubiquitous—energy, inspiration, love's anguish.
2. What can we learn from magic, even when it is lost?
From magic, we learn an appreciation of the commonplace, the intrinsic worth of detail.
3. If you could ask an artist (living or historical) to create your portrait, who would it be, and why?
Ivan Albright—I envy his depiction of humanity's pathos, something I could never do.
Richard Hanus had four kids but now just three. Zen and Love.
Magic is ubiquitous—energy, inspiration, love's anguish.
2. What can we learn from magic, even when it is lost?
From magic, we learn an appreciation of the commonplace, the intrinsic worth of detail.
3. If you could ask an artist (living or historical) to create your portrait, who would it be, and why?
Ivan Albright—I envy his depiction of humanity's pathos, something I could never do.
Richard Hanus had four kids but now just three. Zen and Love.
