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Paul Bonnifield
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Writing two or three novels at once gives me more creative freedom. Novels require time to "mold" like good cheese. Always having something else to work on keeps the creative juices alive. I had the fortune to live in Houston when three women started a group called WIVLA (Women in Visual and Literary ARt). These women wanted to create a group where creative women could gather and find support. Karlene Koen, author of "Through a Glass Darkley", supported my writing efforts and I won the Texas PEN fiction prize in 1999. Wanting to create a public forum for writers to read their works before an audience, Donna Perkins and I started a reading series named the Archway Gallery Reading Series in 1977. Even though I have left Houston in 2002 and returned to my home in Steamboat Springs, the reading series continues.

Fantasy and mystical characters are sprinkled through my work. For several years in the early 1980s I was part of a writing team going through the life readings accumulated by Franklin and Grace Loehr. Franklin Loehr wrote the book "The Power of Pray on Plants" and started the revolution that plants had feelings. The writers of the play and later movie "On a Clear Day You Can See Forever" consulted him, since in the 1960s Franklin was considered the authority on anything mystical. Wanting his work and the accumulated 2,500 life readings channeled through Grace Loehr to be written into journals and books for members and research guests, several people were given access to this work. Although Franklin Loehr's death stopped much of this work, I gained insight and information from working closely with him. That knowledge colors my creative writing.

Writing Excerpt. From the novel in progress "Shadow on Running Water". Three chapters from this novel won the Texas PEN award.

Its magical time, what Granddad calls the bright, red sunset which colors the sky and surrounding mountains until the valley becomes like the inside of a giant tulip. Magical time, when the ghost Indians come riding their horses, ignoring the fences and the haystacks in the meadow.

I'm thinking of magical time as I ride along on my horse, Paint, without a bridle or saddle, which is how I usually ride him. We speak in one voice, Paint and I, and I imagine myself as close to my horse as Danny said the Indians were to theirs. And the sunset is magical time--billowing red clouds that reflect the red color on the mountains.

Paint's ears perk up, his lazy walk across the meadow changes. "What is it?" I ask. He turns and looks to the left, his ears alert. Then I hear the faint voices. We both see them, heading toward us, the lead Indian leaning over the neck of his horse, as he shouts in his ear. I do the same thing, putting my head close to Paint's neck. Let's race them," I whisper. "Let's go."

I didn't have to encourage him. He leaps to his left, joining the Indians coming toward us out of the red mist like shadows, then like mysterious forms, then they are real. The lead Indian changes positions so his face is on the same side of the horse as mine, our faces no more than three feet apart. He's laughing and talking to his horse, and I'm excited, frightened, alive and determined to keep pace with him.

"Go Paint go," I yell. "Go Paint." He speeds up. I feel the muscles along his back tighten, until my legs can no longer grip his sides. I grab his mane tighter to keep my body from sliding down his back, all the time looking into the eyes of the Indian, who's laughing at me.

"Race little lady, race," the Indian yells at me.

"I'm not a little lady," I yell back defiantly. "I'm Jean Marie Carpenter." I pat Paint along the neck encouraging him to go faster still even though I feel I might fall off and be trampled beneath the hooves of the horses racing behind me. Ghosts or not I am sure their hooves would dig sharply into my body if I fall.

Paint pulls ahead. "Race old Indian, race," I yell and he laughs, I can see his white teeth, the sparkling, teasing eyes, his smile, not too unlike Danny DuBois's smile. And I wonder if he knows Danny's grandfather. I think he must. Our eyes lock momentarily, long enough for each of us to feel the excitement of racing and knowing that our souls are entwined through the dimension of time.

I feel Paint begin to slow and the Indians pull away. First the lead Indian, then all the others, and they are racing with each other again. The red mist swallows them up and only their voices can be heard, the pounding of the horses hooves and Paint's heavy breathing. He neighs, softly at first, then comes to a halt and yells with his horse voice from his very depth, his whole body shaking with the effort. The shrill sound echoes down the valley and mixes with the red sunset making me feel terribly alone, abandoned.

I look up on the hill, knowing I will see her, knowing she is standing beside her grave, even before I see her. "Good riding, Jean Marie," Grandmother Grace says, her voice carrying on the shrill echoes of Paint's. "Good riding."
"Thank you Grandmother," I answer, wondering as I often do why she will not stay in her grave, like a proper dead grandmother should do.

"You raced good," I say patting Paint on his sweaty neck, feeling his body heave as he gasps for breath. His ears still perk toward the spot where the Indians disappeared in the mist. He looks in several directions, as if trying to see them once more. But they are gone. I look up to graveyard hill and see that grandmother has gone too.

"Good racing," I say again trying to make contact with my horse. "Good racing, Paint." I pat him again, but his ears are still perked, looking down the valley.

He nickered loudly, his whole body shaking, his voice screaming, than listening for the call of the ghost horses. There is only silence.

"Let's go home," I say softly, trying to calm him. "They've gone back." But it does not calm him. He paces along the fence at the end of the meadow, as if he shouldn't be penned in, but free to race with the ghost Indians, free to run the full length of the meadow, which is as far as I can see. "I've raced this before," he says. "I've raced all the way to the end of the valley. I want to go further."

"It's time to go home."

After his breathing becomes less labored, he turns his head to nuzzle my foot. "I know you're here," he says.
"I'll give you a gallon of oats if you go home now," I say.
Magical words, 'a gallon of oats'. He turns toward the house at a gallop and he becomes my horse again.
As I walk toward the house, I image the footprints of the Indians walking ahead of me. I put each foot into the footprint, careful not to step on the edges, certain that the footprint will disappear. But their footprints are different. They always turn backwards. As I step forward, they step backwards. I can do this for a long time actually, but someone always breaks the spell.

"Jean Marie, we're waiting supper for you. What are you doing out there."

Mama's voice. That's what always breaks the spell and I have to return to our world.

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