Heart to Heart with Anna
Revitalize your spirit and connect with the vibrant congenital heart defect (CHD) community through 'Heart to Heart with Anna,' the pioneering podcast that has been inspiring and informing listeners since 11-12-13. Join us as we dive deep into the personal journeys, triumphs, and challenges of Survivors, their loved ones, esteemed medical professionals, and other remarkable individuals within the CHD community.
With unwavering dedication, our heartfelt conversations bring to light the stories that need to be heard. Gain invaluable insights, expert advice, and a sense of empowerment as we explore the multifaceted world of CHD. Our mission is to uplift, educate, and enrich the lives of every member of this incredible community.
Embark on a transformative listening experience where compassion and understanding thrive. Discover the resilience and unwavering spirit that resides within each person touched by CHD. Together, let's build a community where support and knowledge flourish, bringing hope to the forefront.
Tune in to 'Heart to Heart with Anna' and embark on a remarkable journey that will leave you inspired, enlightened, and connected to the beating heart of the CHD community.
Heart to Heart with Anna
"The Heart of a Heart Warrior" Chapter 8 Featuring Megan Tones and Julie Kerr
Ever wondered how a heartfelt community can transform lives through stories and shared experiences? Join me on this special episode of "Heart to Heart with Anna" as I express my gratitude for the overwhelming birthday wishes from the congenital heart defect community. You'll be introduced to the latest literary gem from Baby Hearts Press, featuring mesmerizing readings from talented writers Megan Tones and Julie Kerr. Megan's "Overworld" takes us on a touching journey with a busker violinist and a generous listener named Elise, while Julie's poignant poem pays a beautiful tribute to the legacy of cellist Jacqueline du Pré. Plus, hear exciting updates on "The Heart of a Heart Warrior" series, where Megan once again brings her editorial expertise to the forthcoming Volume 4.
Prepare to be enchanted by the surreal transformations and fantastical elements in "Overworld" where Peter's bizarre metamorphosis leaves Elise pondering her reality. Experience an imaginative world where Elise and Peter's fluid shifts between human and animal forms highlight the magical nature of their journey. This episode is brimming with creativity, transformation, and heartwarming connections, perfect for aspiring writers seeking inspiration and guidance on contributing to Baby Hearts Press anthologies. Don't miss out on the chance to immerse yourself in these incredible narratives and the supportive platform they offer!
Links mentioned in the episode:
Baby Hearts Press — https://www.babyheartspress.com
Scribophile — https://www.scribophile.com
Anna and Megan's writing group on Scribophile: https://www.scribophile.com/groups/heart-to-heart-writing-group/
To get a copy of The Heart of a Heart Warrior: Volume 3 Transformation, visit the Baby Hearts Press website at: https://www.babyheartspress.com
Become a podcast subscriber: https://www.buzzsprout.com/62761/support
Thanks to our newest HUG Patron, Ayrton Beatty and long-standing Patrons: Laura Redfern, Pam Davis, Michael Liben, Nancy Jensen, Alicia Lynch, Deena Barber, Carlee McGuire, Carter & Faye Mayberry, and Frank Jaworski. We appreciate you!
& so much moreA bi-monthly podcast where we share the stories of our Caregivers, patients and...
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Look, even those people are gawking at us, waiting for us to put on a show. Then they'll talk about it for years to come. Hold on to my back, it's sundown.
Speaker 2:Welcome to Heart to Heart with Anna. I am Anna Jaworski and the mother of an adult with a single ventricle heart who turns 30 years old next month. That's the reason I am the host of your program. Yesterday was my birthday and I want to thank all the kind listeners who sent me notes and messages on LinkedIn and on my phone and on Facebook. You guys are amazing. It's so humbling to be a member of the congenital heart defect community and to be surrounded by so many wonderful friends and acquaintances.
Speaker 2:Today's episode is another special episode of Heart to Heart with Anna, where I'll be featuring the newest book that Baby Hearts Press put out last year. Now today's episode features two congenital heart defect writers Megan Tones, my co-editor, and a piece by Julie Kerr, whose mother wrote for my book, the Heart of a Mother. Megan reads her own work and I read Julie's piece. I missed putting out an episode last week because my family and I were under the weather, but we'll finish up chapter eight today, and then next week we'll do chapter nine and then at the end of the month we'll do chapter 10. And that will conclude this very special book, the Heart of a Heart Warrior, volume 3. Now I am super excited about starting Volume 4. Megan has graciously offered to be my co-editor again. I'll be sharing a little bit more information about that in the last segment of today's episode. So we'll enjoy the rest of chapter eight.
Speaker 2:And then, for the last segment, I'm going to talk a little bit more about writing for Baby Hearts Press and what that entails. I'm so excited that Baby Hearts Press has an opportunity to provide a platform that allows members of the congenital heart defect community to become published writers. Allows members of the congenital heart defect community to become published writers. There are so many people who want to write a book but they don't know how to get started, and taking part in an anthology is a very gentle and sweet way to get started in writing your own book. I'll talk more about that at the end of the show. Sit back and enjoy listening to Megan Tones read her lovely piece Overworld and to hearing me read Julie Kerr's piece.
Speaker 1:Have a great day everyone. Overworld by Megan Tones For the third song in a row. Elise stood entranced by the busker before her. The sound of passers-by was muted by the narrow alley and his spell. He played something baroque on his violin and Elise thought she recognized it Part of Vivaldi's Four Seasons perhaps. His left hand rolled over the changing octaves in perfect sync with the right, which mastered the bow with such speed that a heavy dust of resin mounted up on the strings, bridge and body so well rehearsed that he needed no written notes to guide him. He was free to be in the thrall of the music, hopping up and down in a sort of jig when the music was merry, swaying when his fingers lilted into man-collier and thrashing about when it approached metal. It was only when he started this strange dance that Elise noticed that he had no shoes, though he wore well-tailored black pants and a white shirt. I'm not surprised he's busking. Then she thought he must be really poor if he can only afford half an outfit. Engrossed as he was, the maestro was not without manners. He managed a tiny nod of acknowledgement at the occasional coin dropper from the main thoroughfare and Elise saw the way to his heart. She turned to her right and opened her small leather handbag. As she did so, a thick strand of hair dropped from her braid and over her left eye, almost the same blonde as that horsehair bow, she thought, from either side of the strand. She watched him, watch her. She smiled at him and dropped one dollar.
Speaker 1:The violinist moved to another number, this time in a minor key. Elise dropped another dollar and he added some harmonic improvisations. The piece grew more jovial as Elise continued to empty her purse. Gold fell upon silver, which made a bed for notes Now bankrupt. She turned the purse towards him, to which the busker flashed a smile through his self-made maelstrom. The last notes of his serenade ended and he began the ritual of packing up for the day. First he scooped his takings from the case, then he brushed the dust of resin from the strings and body with a soft cloth and the tenderness of a parent wiping their child's face.
Speaker 1:The chin rest removed, he replaced the violin. He eased the tension of the bow and slid it in a soft slip case. Elise watched him lay the chin rest and bow next to the violin and close the lid. Why no shoes, she ventured. Can't you find any that fit? You could say that His voice sounded as lively as his notes. You know, I was just going to buy lunch, elise said, but I spent all my money. I know a place not far from here.
Speaker 1:Elise soon found herself sitting opposite Peter as he had introduced himself over Bergens and the Myers Centre eatery. So what do you do, he asked. I'm a personal assistant at a law firm. It sounded less demeaning and more important than secretary. Even now, with her head filled with thoughts of how tonight might end, the shrill, broken glass ring of her work phone intruded along with the doorbell sound effect on her computer. That signified a new email. I'll let you in on a secret. He leaned across the table close enough to warm the blood in her veins. I work as a waiter, but I'm really a violinist.
Speaker 1:What did you want to be as a child? She took the lid off her coke and stirred it with her straw. A few bubbles escaped to the surface and broke Promise. You won't laugh, he nodded. Well, when I was about five, we used to have this cat. I just thought it was so unfair that he didn't have to go to school and got to play all night. So I vowed to be a cat when I grew up, you were more imaginative than me then. I always wanted to be the fifth ninja turtle, but each heartbeat was beginning to feel like a shoal of fish swimming through the chambers of her heart. I'm not a fighter.
Speaker 1:He had given her only half of the famous expression. Shy of an admission as a lover, elise tried to coax the other half from his lips, almost as perfect as his hands. So what does that make you then? What are you doing after work tomorrow? He countered. It's just that I have to go make coffees for a few hours, but I'll be in the same place tomorrow. She watched Peter fold his burger wrapper into an origami crane. With a small smile, he placed the crane on his empty cup and walked away violin in hand. Café au Crane. Such a waste of those hands, she thought. For a while Elise pictured his hands transformed over time by his aunt. The fingertips of the left hand were heavily calloused, maybe with a slightly metallic scent. The right hand soft but no less skilled. Tomorrow she would see him again.
Speaker 1:For once, elise's lightheartedness back at the office was real the usual making coffees for superiors and other ingrates. Just another thing she had in common with Peter didn't singe her with frustration the way it usually did. In fact, it was almost fun as she engaged with others about overcrowded buses and email jokes. The city even looked different through the office window a steel grey all round. Her buildings seemed to have no end and the sky no beginning.
Speaker 1:As Elise pushed through the mall, she listened for a lonely violin amongst the rushing commuters and music from evening traders. She sustained a firm elbow to the shoulder from a businesswoman who yelled through immaculate red lips into a mobile phone. As she looked elsewhere through silver-rimmed spectacles, she looks like a stupid fish, elise thought and giggled to herself. She walked towards the winter garden and he was there In an instant. The notes captivated her and drove everything else away. He laid eyes on her and silenced by a mid-stroke. So what's the plan? She asked. You get to see my room? He took her hand before she could protest. Elise noticed the bright green nail polish from the office. Christmas party oh, I should have cleaned that off, she thought. Peter's calloused fingertips tickled her palm and the thought left her. Instead, she imagined those same fingertips brushing her nape as they walked down Albert Street together and turned into Elizabeth Street.
Speaker 1:Peter turned up a narrow staircase next to Elizabeth Arcade. Elise gripped the railing hard as she followed him. By the top of the first flight all she could hear was the echo of their shoes. By the second landing, she guessed she was out of screaming range too. Above the stairwell hung a spiderweb clad bowl. She thought of news stories of bad places and worse people. What if Peter was some darling of the underworld? Certain death could be awaiting her for all she knew. She took a mental inventory of possible weapons in her handbag. It netted spray deodorant and a nail file. How much further is it, she asked. Just one more flight. Peter turned around. I guess they could use a lift in here. Elise felt her shoulders relax a little at this joke and her breathing became freer. But there was something she didn't quite trust in him, as though his shadow had detached itself from his feet to stalk her from behind. She gave a backwards glance and by the time she looked forwards he was gone, true to his word. The stairs had ended and he was partway into the hallway that followed. It's the door on the right. At the end he said there's a Hare Krishna restaurant on the left. Elise allowed herself to be ushered through the door.
Speaker 1:The room seemed to defy the length and height of the hall twice over its depth. Likewise, it was only the obvious shop fixtures a counter with an archaic cash register, a staff room and velvet curtain change rooms that grounded it in reality. The rest of its features gave the impression of the ruins of a ship's hull, run aground in the side of the building. Vast and unpolished, the floor had a slight slope. In the opposite direction of the street, all the windows hung open and askew in their casements. A giant mural of Tennyson's Lady of Shalott was painted on the wall. There were oddly placed conveniences, as if they'd been thrown about by a collision. In the middle of the floor was a sheetless mattress amid a few crates that served as seating. A rusty fridge hummed loudly in the corner. The room itself even smelled as though it had been holding some rare cargo, with its scent of incense and damp.
Speaker 1:Elise was torn between horror and wonder at the room. Before her bladder called for a baser reaction I need to use the bathroom. Before her bladder called for a baser reaction, I need to use the bathroom. Under Peter's direction, she walked down the short staircase behind the counter. The shop counter doubled as a kitchen bench and wardrobe, its shelves stacked with a minimum of clothing and crockery. She passed it and went through the beaded curtain. There was a bathroom stall, a corner shower with a curtain rail only, and a stainless steel sink. Most women would be disgusted, she thought, but Peter's minimalist approach to living was beginning to appeal to her.
Speaker 1:She opened the toilet door and all thought was erased at the sight inside, a mural of the Queen Street Mall in oils occupied, all walls painted such that the sitter would appear to be standing at the lower end of the mall, near Edward. Oils occupied, all walls painted such that the sitter would appear to be standing at the lower end of the mall, near Edward Street. The toilet itself was an anticlimax a cracked, yellowed seat, although the cistern contained the vanishing pipe from which the rest of the scene to spread. Still unable to tear her eyes from the walls, she blindly shut the door behind her and slid the bolt across. On the back of the door, the artist had portrayed what could only be some kind of derm befalling the city. Where George Street ought to have been, there was an expansive sky reaching to the ceiling, occupied by some giant creature that appeared to be part bird, with rainbow feathers falling from its wings and tails like a hail of comets on the city. On closer inspection, the picture was not as apocalyptic as it seemed. Above the toilet roll, which was affixed to the now-demolished Queen Street Central Building on her right, she saw where one of the comets had hit. Rather than destroyed, the building was changed. She could see the faint outline of a door leading out to a balcony, and she was sure that the building had never sported a balcony in its day. Other buildings had sketchings of upper levels and new windows, as though they too had been growing under the strange rain. As she stood to leave, she took one last look at the creature's eyes. They looked familiar, set in that inhuman face that held as much serenity as an eastern deity.
Speaker 1:There was no mirror above the sink, so she ran a brush through her salon-dyed hair and peered at her face in her compact mirror. Her mascara was slightly clogged and she pawed at it. Who am I kidding? A guy like Peter wouldn't care if and she pawed at it. Who am I kidding A guy like Peter wouldn't care if I wore no makeup at all? I'm ready to go now. She called. Her words echoed back at her Peter. She drew the beads aside and peered out. The door to the apartment was closed and Peter was nowhere to be seen. Elise called his name twice more. A scrabbling from the ceiling too loud to be rats or possums, coaxed her gaze upwards.
Speaker 3:Embark on a heartwarming odyssey with Baby Heart's Pressure Gateway to uplifting stories for the CHD community. Introducing the Heart of a Heart Warrior book series inspiring those born with heart defects and their loved ones. Discover the heart of a mother, the heart of a father and my brother needs an operation. Books celebrating strength, love and familial support. Visit babyheartspresscom and be part of our loving community. Uplifting hearts, one story at a time.
Speaker 4:Heart to Heart with Anna is a presentation of Hearts Unite the Globe and is part of the Hug Podcast Network. Hearts Unite the Globe is a non-profit organization devoted to providing resources to the congenital heart defect community to uplift, empower and enrich the lives of our community members. If you would like access to free resources pertaining to the CHD community, please visit our website at wwwcongenitalheartdefectscom for information about CHD, the hospitals that treat children with CHD, summer camps for CHD survivors and much, much more.
Speaker 1:Oh how Peter had changed. From his toes, sprouted claws, his skin gave way to feathers and his bones had stretched and bent to form wings. The transformation failed Peter's face. It shrunk an ears and pinched nose the only features that realized birdhood. Wings outstretched. He leapt from one of the rafters and flapped madly in a circle around the room. He came to rest on the floor in the back corner, his claws scraping the boards, wings beating against the walls. Elise watched him grip the curtain rail of one of the change doors with his beak. He hoisted himself up and made a perch of it. Then he took flight again.
Speaker 1:Elise edged towards the door, unblinking above her. The cobalt feather drifted downwards. The smell overpowered even the heady incense in the room. I'm not imagining this. She thought. The feather reminded her of a blue budgie she had owned as a child. His name had also been Peter, elise thought. As she plucked the feather from the air, she inhaled the familiar scent and remembered how Peter, the budgie's warm body, thrummed to his heartbeat as he sat in the palm of her hand.
Speaker 1:"'elise, let me try and explain'. He began to walk towards her, now the lilt of his gait reflected in the creaking boards. She covered her eyes with the feather like a mask. To listen is enough for me, she thought. Through the blue, elise could make out his impossible movement. His legs bent at inhuman angles, his head enswayed from the bird-like stance was too much. Somewhere in the midst of her flight she thought of those Cluedo cards. With the character's head atop a coloured bowling-pin-shaped body On the stairs, she realised how the Lady of Shallot must have been rendered. He needed neither ladder hand nor brush. Maestro Peter had done it all with his bare wings.
Speaker 1:The trail of saxophone notes from a blind busker in the subway corridor tore through her deadlocked mind. As Elise ran to Central Station Through the crush of commuters, she tore a stocking on the stair. As the train doors sealed behind her, the city shut out. She found a seat next to a woman reader. That way she might start a conversation, or a seat next to a woman reader. That way she won't start a conversation. Or worse, try to pick me up. She looked past the woman at her reflection in the window. Her hair was blown about like a shattered ghost and she could see the whites of her eyes. For the rest of the way home she studied the other commuters Two men in suit, jackets and tyres, with recent haircuts and neat shades, discussing the price of housing in outer suburbs. A youngish man in high-visibility clothes listening to an mp3 player with a small esky on his lap. Two schoolgirls giggling and peering down at their phones. I will never be like them again, she thought to herself.
Speaker 1:For the first night in many months, elise dreamed she became a child again. As she stood with her mother at the threshold of Hardgrave Park in the inner city, a mammoth-striped tent filled the clearing within it, a force which buffeted the walls and ripped the pegs out of the ground and flailing into the silver moonlight. Elise's mother gripped her hand and their eyes met. Are you looking forward to the Circus Fantastique? Her mother spoke with apprehension and excitement, as though she greeted her daughter after her first day of school. Elise squeezed her mother's hand. Don't worry, mum, have school. Elise squeezed her mother's hand. Don't worry, mum.
Speaker 1:The flaps of the tent rose open by an unseen hand and the ringmaster came out. It was Peter. His feathers sprouted out of his collar, curtailed by a well-placed top hat. Behind him, a blind busker with the body of a polar bear followed, bearing a leashed Labrador in one hand and a saxophone in the other. Elise recognized him from the mall and subway in the city. A few other creatures followed, with the heads of city buskers, the latter ones frozen in motion and drifting like anemones in an invisible sea. None of them were restrained, nor did they try to attack her, although they were close enough for her to prove them real.
Speaker 1:Peter broke her out of her wonderment. He snatched Elise in his talons and rose into the air. Her mother's demands to have her returned grumbled, hysterical as they rose higher. Elise wanted to shout that she longed to join the circus. Peter's shirt and sleeves tore against his gigantic wingspan and the fabric fell like snowflakes into Elise's mother's hands.
Speaker 1:Where are we going? Elise asked you want to join the circus, don't you? Yes, they burst through the roof of the tent and out over the cityscape. Wow, it all looks so different from up here, she thought as they went over the matrix of lights, through cars and buildings. Do you want to see the lions, he asked her. She nodded and they landed in King George Square. City Hall still housed the children's library and she would have longed for its books if not for the sights outside.
Speaker 1:The statues of lions were alive. She patted their bronzed and furry backs when they advanced harmless as hounds to their mistresses In the day. The lions are men, peter said, as he perched in a bottle tree he had caught a worm and upturned his head to swallow it. But tonight tree, he had caught a worm and upturned his head to swallow it. But tonight, elise woke up in the early hours of the morning. Those final words in her head and a maddening itch in her knuckles. What did he mean? What would happen tonight? She picked up the keepsake that proved her vision of Peter was real. Each strand of the feather was hard, sleek and straight was real. Each strand of the feather was hard, sleek and straight. She closed her eyes and inhaled its aroma. The itching in her hands intensified and a hunger swallowed in her stomach. In her thoughts she saw Peter the Budgie again hopping from perch to perch and pecking at his mirror. It might have been an auspicious omen had his tiny life not ended by the catch she had longed to be.
Speaker 1:After work the next day, elise stood outside Peter's room. All day her colleagues had whispered about the black dress she had worn to work. Was she meeting a man? They had asked. You could say that she had replied with a coy smile. Say that she had replied with a coy smile. She reached up to her ears and turned her earrings, and a memory of Peter the Budgie ringing his bell with his beak flew into her mind. Her hands had itched all day and she looked down at them. She still hadn't managed to remove that garish nail polish and now her hands had broken out in a red, spotty rash. Dermatitis and grief. Merry Christmas, she thought To sword and mock.
Speaker 1:Elise listened through the door and heard scratching and thumping on the other side. Her heart lurched as she pictured Peter in his betrayal of humanity. Again, music broke into her thoughts and Elise realized he had only unpacked his violin. Music broke into her thoughts and Elise realised he had only unpacked his violin. The door was unlocked and for a while Elise watched from the threshold as Peter played his apologies. He stood in the middle of the room where he had flown only yesterday and looked up at her from a song that begged her to come in. His hospitality garb had been replaced with something a little more bohemian Loose pants and a shirt which would not look out of place at the Circus Fantastique. So forlorn he looked like many others she had met in her art classes and sometimes felt a little too sorry, for, unlike Peter, they had been boys that nursed soul terrors and mined their wounds in the hope of finding gold or a sympathetic girl in the process. Only for Peter, it was his body, and not his soul, that was tormented.
Speaker 1:She closed the door and walked down the stairs, her footsteps amplified by her stilettos, which she commanded with heel-toe precision. His eyes followed her every move. But wasn't it she who wanted to be a cat when she grew up? And did that not make him the bird? So are you going to tell me what happened yesterday, she asked. He put the violin down the bow, crossed over the bridge. I didn't mean to change like that. I tried not to scare you.
Speaker 1:He walked towards her now like an animal approaching its mistress for a scolding. Elise held him, for she knew she had seen his deepest secret and it was something wonderful. There are so many truths to tell, he whispered. Then I would like to hear them all. Then I would like to hear them all. I'm not really a waiter. It's not often people tell lies to make themselves seem less impressive. I had to leave you on the first day because I thought I was going to become the bird.
Speaker 1:He gazed towards the window. What's it like At first? My heart feels like it's spreading wings, except one wants to fly east and the other west. After this tug of war, my bones lighten and the feathers cut through so seamlessly. It's as though marrow becomes feather. That sounds painful. The image of Peter as a bird walking came back to mind. Does it hurt to walk? Yes, but it's very liberating to fly. I know you dreamed of us. Then she turned his face towards her and smiled Good Shall we try going out again. Maybe we should wait until dark. No, you'll just have to trust me until then.
Speaker 1:Peter had chosen the perfect confessional at the South Bank War Memorial To Elise. The distance affected disembodiment on the city, a sea of silent buildings On the southern side of the river. Elise picked out a student dressed in ragged pants and a homemade t-shirt which read Critical Drinker. A group of serious cyclists rode by, dressed in bright lycra and chatting loudly like birds. Then there were groups of Japanese or Chinese tourists sharing a barbecue, their languages like song, as they marveled at and photographed attractions. Right now Elise felt just like one of them, seeing the city in a way she'd never seen it before.
Speaker 1:I call this the overworld. Peter said what do you mean? Overworld? Each city has an overworld of artists and architects that create the city and change it all the time to capture the imagination of its people. From here you can't see the people in the buildings and streets, only the buildings and streets themselves. Before they were constructed, somebody imagined them. Elise stared up at the stone archway and silently read a plank which revered the dead and wondered you say you dreamed last night? Peter interjected yes.
Speaker 1:On her way to Peter's apartment she had seen a security guard outside a bank, motionless as a statue, thinking of her dream. She had tried little tricks to attract his attention Brushing her hair, checking through her purse, pretending to stub her toe. Their eyes had locked and she saw what she wanted a trace of the lion. By night, he said. In the day they are men, but at night she turned and moved close enough to kiss him, but he pointed behind her. Look to the west, elise.
Speaker 1:Elise looked over to the Victoria Bridge where a small crowd of pedestrians had gathered. She pointed them out to Peter. Look, even those people are gawking at us, waiting for us to put on a show. Then they'll talk about it for years to come. Hold on to my back it's sundown.
Speaker 1:She took hold, ear pressed to his back and listened to his heart beating and almost tearing in his ribcage. Ear pressed to his back and listened to his heart beating and almost tearing in his ribcage. The bones grew lighter and his outstretched arms seemed to bend to snapping points. Sleek and strong feathers shredded his shirt. Elisa's gaze was drawn to a crimson-plumed shoulder and further along to an elongated bicep concealed by vermilion feathers. She tightened her grip on his shoulders. Beneath her nails she felt trapped feathers. Peter's body stiffened and he turned his head 180 degrees to face her. Elise saw little windows to pain and fear in his wide, dark eyes and he took flight towards the river. Only when they had left the war memorial did Elise realize he could not carry her weight. He flipped like a kite in a high wind. A rain of feathers fell around her as she hung from his shoulders. Like a novice trapeze artist.
Speaker 1:She looked down at a crowd of upturned faces and palms, grasping for the rare plumage. Critical Drinker was there. Grasping for the rare plumage. Critical drinker was there, red-faced and grinning. The tourists flashed their phones at her. Their shouts grew louder and more incoherent, their faces dull and grainy. Oh no, elise thought I think I'm going to pass out. Feathers came away in her hands and the sea went skyward. Adrenaline came white-hot and she clawed at the air. Her screams came as squalls. The faces of the crowd changed and they ran. I've changed too, she thought. As a large cat she'd found her feet easily by her tail and whiskers. She landed with perfect grace.
Speaker 1:Elise looked down at her pale paws. The claws still painted their Christmas green. Where's Peter? He had flown towards town, probably back to his apartment, to her surprise. Running on four legs was easy to master and she cleared Victoria Bridge faster than the buses. Her fellow pedestrians dodged left and right to evade her, some almost landing in the path of oncoming traffic, others tossing phones and parcels into the river.
Speaker 1:She crossed narrow streets in a single leap and dashed between traffic on George Street. Back on Peter's block, she slunk close to the wall until she found the sweet-smelling staircase. Partway up the stairs she noticed her paws had left a trail of paint in their weight, a dark yellow with black tinges. Breathless and slowed to a crawl, she made her way along the wall to his door. She stood on her hindquarters and scratched down the length of the door. On the other side, a heartbeat hammered and wings flapped.
Speaker 1:Peter answered the door, his torso half-balled, and more feathers falling around him. They lit spatters of paint on the floor while other feathers needled their way back under his skin. Elise stood shivering as he wrapped his wings around her and pulled her inside. Elise stood shivering as he wrapped his wings around her and pulled her inside. You're terrified, he said. Elise nodded and looked down at her furry yellow body protruding from around her now ridiculous little black dress.
Speaker 1:She finally understood why Peter wasn't wearing shoes on the first day. She had no idea where her own had gone. He led her across the room to the mattress where she lay curled in a ball. Her tail touched her nose and she stretched ball-length, hiding her front paws under the pillow. Can you play for me, she asked. He obliged and Elise lay on the mattress and closed her eyes. As man and beast, he was an artist. Only the language changed from notes to paint. In the transformation In her mind's eye, the music caught up the feathers like leaves in a high wind, and she imagined nights of bestiary and art where she would learn to embrace her newfound existence, and days of humanity where she would laugh. Megan Tynes is a research assistant by day and a writer by night. She lives in Brisbane with her husband and four puppies and hopes to become a writer full-time. A previous short story, thirteen, was published in Issue 9 of Ripples magazine. You can reach her at meganjtynes at gmailcom.
Speaker 2:A Moment of Rapture with Jacqueline Dupre by Julie Kerr. Her first note is a thunderbolt crashing above the forest of instruments. She holds her cello close and I sense the power in her touch. Her bow blows the strings and lets each phrase ring over me, wave after wave. Her fingers breeze up the fingerboard higher and higher. Her music is fire, though I shiver as I listen.
Speaker 2:Julie dedicated this poem to Jacqueline Dupre, whose brilliant career was cut short after she contracted multiple sclerosis at 28. A few months after the poem was written, dupre died at 42. They published the poem in Julie's high school literary journal. But it has an even better story.
Speaker 2:Julie went with her cello teacher, lauren, to a concert by cellist Lynn Harrell. He had purchased Dupre's 1673 Stradivarius cello after her death, and so Lauren gave him a copy of Julie's poem. He read it and put it into his cello case. Five years later he was again playing in Seattle and Lauren was talking to him and asked him whether he remembered that poem. He whipped it out of his cello case, but he still kept it. So her poem traveled all over the world with the Stradivarius, dupre's cherished instrument. Julie Kerr was born August 24, 1971. She had single ventricle and transposition of the major arteries, treated with a Fontan operation at age 12 and a Fontan revision at age 28. Operation at age 12 and a Fontan revision at age 28. When she died in 2007 at age 35, she'd been happily married for seven years. With a PhD in mathematics, she was a very successful cryptanalyst for the NSA in La Jolla, california.
Speaker 2:This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis or treatment. The opinions expressed in the podcast are not those of Hearts Unite the Globe, but of the hosts and guests, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to congenital heart disease or bereavement.
Speaker 4:You are listening to Heart to Heart with Anna. If you have a question or comment that you would like addressed on our show, please send an email to Anna Jaworski at Anna at hearttoheartwithannacom. That's Anna at hearttoheartwithannacom. Now back to Heart to Heart with Anna.
Speaker 2:I hope you enjoyed listening to Megan's fanciful story. I think she is so talented. Everybody is really going to enjoy the fourth book in this series of the Heart of a Heart Warrior because Megan Tones will again be gracing us with more of her writing. So let's talk about book four. The theme for book four will be reflection and growth, and this theme is going to delve into the personal journeys of adults with congenital heart defects as they reflect on their experiences, challenges and growth throughout their lives. It can explore topics such as self-discovery, self-acceptance, resilience and the transformative power of their heart conditions. This volume can provide introspective essays that inspire readers to reflect on their own lives and embrace personal growth. Every book in the series so far has had a different theme, and this book will be on reflection and growth.
Speaker 2:If you are interested in writing, I have started a group on Scribblefile called Heart to Heart and you can join it. Scribblefile is a free platform on the internet that is perfect for helping writers hone their skills. What I love about Scribblefile is it's free to join. There is a paid version and in a paid version there are some perks. I'm not going to go into a lot of detail. Everybody can go on the internet and find it themselves at Scribblefile. S-c-r-i-b-o-p-h-i-l-ecom. I will be in the group. Megan is already in the group with me. We have several other people from the heart community some people, I think, who are not part of the heart community but who are intrigued by what it is we're doing. The great thing about the group is that we can critique each other's work, we can provide encouragement for each other, and it's just an easy way for us to get together. I'll be doing some workshops, and Scribblefile itself provides workshops to help people improve their writing. So I hope that if you're interested in contributing to book four, whose theme will be reflection and growth, that you meet up with us on Scribblefile, and this will give you a chance to meet some of the other contributors to the book. It's never too late to start learning how to write, and I believe that everybody has a story to share. I hope you'll explore your own stories that you would like to share and that you'll consider taking part in book four of the Heart of a Heart Warrior. I'll also be gearing up for my next Kickstarter campaign.
Speaker 2:I can't believe that we're preparing to celebrate the 25th anniversary of the Heart of a Mother. The Heart of a Mother was the very first anthology I put together. We will be revising the book, bringing it up to date. There were some chapters we felt were important to put in the book 25 years ago that we don't really need anymore. So we'll be refining the book, tuning it up a little bit. It'll be beautiful in a hardcover book. Just like we did with the Heart of a Heart Warrior, we'll be partnering up with some other charities in the congenital heart defect space so that, once again, our campaign will have a buy one, give one option and we'll be able to share this book full of stories from mothers around the globe that will inspire and educate and uplift other mothers in the CHD community.
Speaker 2:Now, friends, if you would like to support what I've been doing for the last almost 30 years with Baby Hearts Press, I would so appreciate it if you would visit my website, babyheartspresscom, to order a book.
Speaker 2:Yes, my book is available on Amazon, but everybody knows that when you are dealing with middlemen, the middleman needs his paycheck too.
Speaker 2:So that means that the publisher gets less money, and if I have less money, that means that there's less money for new projects. Publishing is something that is very important to me and has been for almost 30 years, because I believe that the stories we have need to be shared and sadly, writers in the congenital heart defect community are frequently rejected when they go to the big publishers company devoted to the CHD community would give everybody in the community an opportunity to get published, to get their stories out there. So please consider supporting Baby Hearts Press. And if you don't have the money to buy a book right now, if you could ask your librarian to get a copy of the book, that would be a great way to make the book available not only to you but to members of your local community wherever you are. And the book is available through Ingram so libraries can get copies of my book that way. Thanks again for all the birthday wishes. My friends and I hope you have a wonderful week and remember you are not alone.
Speaker 4:Thank you again for joining us this week. We hope you have become inspired and empowered to become an advocate for the congenital heart community. Heart to Heart with Anna, with your host, anna Jaworski, can be heard at any time, wherever you get your podcasts. A new episode is released every Tuesday from noon Eastern time.
