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Interview with Author Eleni Traganas

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Concert pianist, author, visual artist and composer Eleni Traganas’ award-winning activities have been listed in Who’s Who in America©, Who’s Who in the World©, and other biographical publications. Ms. Traganas holds degrees from The Juilliard School, with postgraduate studies in Essen, Germany, and Switzerland’s Lucerne Conservatory. Her deep affinity for the Romantic repertoire has led to innumerable appearances and lectures in Carnegie Hall, New York’s Alice Tully Hall, Town Hall, London’s Wigmore Hall, Berlin, Athens, and many of the major music capitals of Europe, where she also performed under the aegis of the U.S. State Department. She is a prize-winner of the Palma D’Oro International Piano Competition in Italy, has been a guest soloist at several international music festivals and featured soloist with The Israel Symphony, the Athens State Orchestra, the Municipal Concerts Orchestra, the American Symphony Orchestra, and other ensembles. She has recorded for EMI records, West German Broadcasting Co., RAI-Italy, National Radio & Television of Greece, WQXR, SiriusXM, among others. Author of the debut novel Twelfth House and Shaded Pergola, a collection of short poetry and haiku with original illustrations, Eleni Traganas has published in The Society of Classical Poets, The San Antonio Review, The Brussels Review, The Penwood Review, Amethyst Review, and over a hundred other literary magazines. She has held over 40 nationally-curated exhibitions of her artwork and is the founder/director of the NYC-based literary forum Woodside Writers.

Bio graciously provided by Eleni Traganas.

You can find out more at www.elenitraganas.com.

  • You are a pianist, composer, author, and poet. Obviously, you have a deeply ingrained streak of creativity. Is there someplace in your mind that these intersect? Is there some point of understanding or perspective that enables you to understand all of these arts? Is there a key or a common factor that enables you to understand each of these individually?

Phil, you omitted visual artist, in addition! I have held many nationally-curated exhibitions in the past. And it is precisely the visual aspect of self-expression that has the strongest hold over my imagination. This all ties in with the concept of synesthesia—or, in my case—chromesthesia, an unusual state of perception that seamlessly intertwines all sensory input into a unified and organic whole. In other words, through conceptual-auditory synesthesia, I don’t hear notes, for instance, when I am playing an instrument. I see sound, or swathes of sound that reverberate to specific colors. Like the key of A major, for example: I ‘hear’ a pinkish orange wash of tones that exude a strangely sugary, anodyne underlying taste. I also have a form of graphene-synesthesia in which numbers assume a dedicated color profile reflecting a personal vibratory association. For me, a number ‘2’ is soft ochre or pale yellow in essence, a number ‘7’ is a steel green in hue. From the limited statistics available on this specialized subject, approximately 1-2% of the general population have been born with this ‘neurodivergent’ trait, most always evidenced from early childhood. I explored this phenomenon briefly in my story Paint By Numbers https://masticadoresusa.wordpress.com/2025/02/05/paint-by-numbers-by-e-c-traganas/.  It never occurred to me that this was an uncommon ‘condition’, and it has simply formed the sensory backdrop as to how I process and express emotional perceptions. 

  • What is your writing process? Any favorite places to write? Any interesting quirks, traditions, or rituals you may have? How many times might you revise something before being satisfied with it? Besides you, does anyone else edit your work? 

Often, I ask members of my Woodside Writers forum what it is they love about writing. My own response has always been that it is the only creative activity I can effectively pursue while reclining in bed in the dark! Tying in with the aspect of chromesthesia, I require an absolute minimum of external sensory input and distraction in order to write: no screen time, no glaring monitors, no background music, no keyboard clicking away noisily impeding the tactile flow of nascent thought transferring itself from mental image to twitching pencil point. Scraps of paper are always at hand, especially at the ready on my nightstand when my mind often erupts spontaneously in subconscious ideas in the dead of night. I simply close my eyes, let my pencil scratch itself over a clean white sheet of paper—and voilá, a poem births itself out of nowhere. Then, the critical sense takes over in broad daylight: painstaking revisions, weighing the effectiveness of internal pulse, line breaks, word substitutions—agonizing editorial scrutiny and objective cold-blooded evaluation. This process may take days, even years, and sometimes I will shelve a work for decades before returning to it, airing it out, refining it before finally sending it off for publication. Every now and then, I am unable to retouch a single line of a poem as everything just seems to fall effortlessly into place at the first pass, chiseled into completion somehow from within. Strangely, those are the poems most often accepted by editors. Others, the mummified, over-processed poems, seem to pose a greater challenge when pairing them with fitting publication platforms. I rely on my internal objective analysis and review when editing: Beta readers can be of little use if you are striving towards an original voice in your stylistic goals. They can, in fact, be a detriment. Focus intensely, listen to your own voice and edit savagely and relentlessly. 

  • If you have an idea or emotion that you want to express, do you find that it might be expressed better via one art form than another? For example, if you hit upon an idea, and you have to decide whether you could express it better by writing a sonata versus expressing it in a poem or short story?

In all creative forms, you must have a compelling reason to break the silence, or interrupt the flow of time. For me, music has always functioned on its own transcendent plane, with the most immediate, soul-wrenching effect of all the arts on the body’s nervous system and neuronal processes. As Schopenhauer explains, music is the most sublime and significant of all art forms ‘capable of channeling a higher universal truth’. Expose a plant to a week’s worth of Mozart or Bach and it will flourish exponentially in lush and healthy foliage, almost as if in gratitude. Read short stories to it, or flash some paintings in its presence, and the effect might be positive in some indirect way, but will most likely be negligible in the long run. The rewards of performing music on stage are indescribable: when all the stars are in alignment, one becomes a direct arbiter, a transmitter tapping in to a profound cosmic source, acting as a medium or middle-man, so to speak. The nifty thing is, though, that as a writer, one has the tools at one’s disposal to describe in words what the process of composition involves, what the visual artist sees or feels. Through writing, one can channel the composer’s mind and merge with his psyche, one can become an artist like Albrecht Dürer or C. D. Friedrich (my favorite painters, by the way) and explore their creative process through intense focus, allowing their personas to communicate directly to you through your writing. Alright, this hearkens back to my previous remark. The most direct mode of self-expression in my case is the easiest: one which involves simply grabbing a pencil and a scrap of paper and going at it—even while reclining in the dark! 

  • Did you have a professor at Juilliard (or at any school for that matter) from whom you learned lessons that you have valued throughout your life?

I will always remember one particular instance involving my mentor Paul Badura-Skoda (1927-2019), the pre-eminent Mozart specialist active in the Viennese performance scene. We were seated at dinner in a posh restaurant in Nuremberg after a performance, and when the waiter placed a platter of the famous Nürnberger Bratwürstchen before him, he joyously clapped his hands, burst out in a snaggletoothed smile, rolled his eyes heavenwards and exclaimed, ‘Oh, sausages! I am such a lucky man!’—just like that, nodding in excitement with his tuxedo and stiff white tie. It was an artless proclamation of endless delight in the simplest of everyday things. And that is the message I took away that evening: that the most seemingly insignificant things can have the greatest impact on our happiness and overall state of being, something I try and incorporate into my writing at all times. I also credit many of my teachers at Juilliard and elsewhere for generously giving of their time, eschewing any financial recompense in return, and that ethos of selflessly assisting others has always remained with me as a guidepost in life: Give freely with no worldly expectation. 

  • Do you ever think that you just want to quit everything and take up a job with more regular hours like teaching or maybe being a consultant to arts organizations or museums?

Quit? Unthinkable. Unimaginable. Does a poet wish to muffle their mouth or cut out their tongue? Does an artist willingly agree to blindfold their eyes? Does a lark aspire to bury its voice and chain itself to a land-locked sand dune? Being an artist implies endless, eternal freedom.

  •  When are you thinking of retiring, if ever? What would you do in retirement?

Retire? Unthinkable. Unimaginable. Why would I ever contemplate putting an end to all the joyful pursuits I am now engaged in? Depending on one’s point of view, if having fun and enjoying oneself is the definition of retirement, I probably have been ‘retired’ most of my life!

  • From what I can see, you spent many years in music before you decided to write a novel. What motivated you to write a novel? What were the challenges of writing a novel? What are the personal rewards? Do you plan on writing any more novels or books of poetry? Are any coming out within the next few years? What should we watch for?

Writing for me has always gone hand-in-hand with performing. I have kept extensive notebooks and journals for as long as I can remember, with volumes of teen-aged poetry and stories stashed away in forgotten corners of my desk drawers. Unfortunately, performance preparation involves constant practice without let-up. I recall periods in my life during which I would immerse myself in 7-8 hours of intensive daily rehearsal. That left little time to plan & plot an extended narrative. The time eventually arrived, though, allowing me to plunge into the necessary and exhaustive work, and Twelfth House was birthed. Yes, I do have plans…but have learned to exercise restraint and to never divulge one’s endeavors in advance. To do so always seems to result in a dissipation of momentum.

  • What first interested you about music and when was that?

I am proud to say that my background is non-artistic, and that afforded the opportunity to develop and discover myself ‘sui generis’ as it were without parental pressure and undue influence. I have vivid memories of a moment long ago when I was about three years old. My parents brought me to an old stone-edificed church in the Bronx where we were living at the time. It was a reconverted Protestant building which now served our family’s Eastern Orthodox community. I was sitting in the front pew and gasped with something akin to recognition when I noticed a facade of glimmering organ pipes near the altar. I can’t describe the sensation that came over me, but I do know I fell into some kind of trance state and burst out spontaneously in tears! Afterwards, my parents took me down to the adjoining parsonage. My eyes were immediately drawn to an imposing upright piano in a corner of the room. I ran up to it, and, mesmerized by the black and white keys, started coaxing soft melodies from the keyboard. I was enchanted by the magical sounds! Soon, the priest came up and started humming some tunes to me and it seemed like the easiest thing for me to just play them back to him. To be seated in front of that piano was the most natural thing in the world for me then, something I seemed to have instantly recognized from long, long ago. Soon afterwards, my parents bought me a toy 32-note piano and I remember spending hours and hours improvising on it, exploring tones and sound combinations until the poor instrument finally fell apart! It would be years later, however, when I would eventually get my own ‘real’ piano and begin lessons. At the age of eleven, I was hired for my first job as church organist. And since then, throughout the decades, the high point of my week continues to be the hours spent up in the organ loft playing for Sunday morning church services. 

  • Who do you read? Who’s your favorite author and why? Who do you consider your greatest influences in writing, or music, or art?

I love Rainer Maria Rilke, especially in German, as I believe his unique melodiousness cannot be adequately translated. My admiration for him prompted a pilgrimage to his final retreat in Castle Muzot, Switzerland, where the caretaker kindly let me spend an afternoon alone at the desk where he composed The Duino Elegies. I do admire T. S. Eliot, although he seems to be in and out of favor as the wayward winds blow. I also remember reading the first chapter of Wuthering Heights as a twelve-year-old and feeling the force of the windswept moors completely overwhelm my imagination. That experience led to another pilgrimage up in Yorkshire to visit the Brontë Parsonage. I am intrigued by Tang Dynasty poetry, especially that of Wang Wei, hold Bashō and the Japanese poets in high esteem; I have devoured all the world classics—Russian, French, Greek, German, Icelandic, etc.—and remain an avid bibliophage to this day. I love reading and writing historical fiction, and admire well-researched contemporary works: the Egyptian-inspired novels of Pauline Gedge, Ken Follett’s Kingsbridge series, most novels by Anya Seton, everything (well-researched or not) of Philippa Gregory’s, Sharon Kay Penman, Rosemary Sutcliff, Pearl S. Buck, to name a few, and I retain a soft spot for the Saxon Tale series of Bernard Cornwell. But above all, J. S. Bach forever remains my guiding light and keeper of the keys to my soul.

  • Of all your accomplishments, which one(s) do you consider your greatest?

Here, I must circle back to the ethos of selfless giving. Returning the love I felt from my parents during my childhood, and especially being a caregiver to my mother throughout her health challenges, watching over her devotedly at home as she gradually faded and slipped into death shall remain the most sacred and fulfilling privilege of my life’s journey.

  • Making a living in the arts is no doubt demanding. What keeps you going? What keeps you motivated? What are the rewards that motivate you to keep pressing on?

Being up on stage is a thrill like no other: time is suspended, you are living intensely in the moment, in a reality that unfolds within its own intrinsic laws. Play Chopin and you ‘speak’ to your listeners in an emotionally rich language of universal balance. Play the strange music of Russian mystic Alexander Scriabin and you immerse your audience in a mesmerizing and hypnotic world of vibrant colors and celestial sonorities. And when you bring them back to earth at the end of a recital and they show their appreciation with applause, perhaps a standing ovation, and occasionally with a tear of gratitude in their eyes, you have most definitely reaped your rewards.

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Photo provided by Eleni Traganas

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“The Hailstorm” Short Story by E.C. Traganas

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​It was still dark, opaquely black, with just a faint strip of light from the village square’s streetlamp peeking through the shutter. It couldn’t possibly be time to rise. I pulled the itchy goat’s wool blanket with the threadbare satin hem over my neck in half-sleep as I lay on the wooden floorboard with only a thin comforter for my mattress. I had slept badly the night before: a field mouse had somehow wandered in from the storehouse below and found its way into my room. At one point, as I frozemotionless on my rock-hard pillow alerted by the faint pitter-patter of the tiny foraging rodent, I had locked glances with its beady seedlike eyes in mutual alarm before pulling the blanket up even tighter hoping to ignore its intrusive presence. But it was now long gone, and I struggled to shake off the torpor still holding me in its grip. ​

​The alarm clock on the mantel had shot off with a shrill clang simultaneously with neighbor Kira Katina’s cockerel sounding its second pre-dawn crow. It was precisely four-thirty, well before sunrise. There was no delaying now. I jumped up and sprang about with the elasticity of a hare, rolled up mymattress, folded my bed-things and dressed myself in the early morning chill. Then, the green-painted wooden shutters had to be opened. One of them, overlooking the steep reclining cobblestone path to the busy square, was kept permanently locked. Aunt Lidia was not too keen on encouraging neighborhood eyes to pry into her formal living room. The other two windows opened onto Kira Katina’s stone cottage several feet below on the mountain slope. I pushed aside the delicate tatted cotton lace curtains and unlatched the shutters one by one. Straight ahead the mountain range receded towards the town of Nemea still hazy with the indigo dust of nightfall. To the left, thedistant lake mirrored faint salmon undertones of the rising sun now barely visible. The starry vault stretched expansionless above, and I breathed in the crisp morning air immersing myself in the ancient aura of my surroundings with every breath. It was rumored that Aesclepius the mythical Greek surgeon had once walked these very paths millennia ago, and that an ancient lying-in clinic for women in confinement had been founded in his honor not far from the village. These thoughts absorbed mymind as I set about brushing my hair and lacing up my sturdy oxfords. It was mid-September, and I had volunteered to help with the seasonal grape packing on Uncle Stavro’s vineyards. 

​The cold dew on the roofless concrete patio shocked mytired body to attention. From the exposed outdoor tap, icy water poured forth from the mountain spring above. I looked up as Isplashed the freezing liquid on my face and watched as the heavy charcoal-colored rain clouds swiftly parted, clearing the sky in the eastern horizon. In the distance, a tractor could be heard pumping its way down towards the valley. I walked into the kitchen, bleached wooden floorboards creaking under foot. Uncle Stavro and Aunt Lidia were already at breakfast and Iimmediately sensed the unspoken tenor of urgency in the air. On the ivy-patterned oilcloth spread over the wooden table lay a modest breakfast of fresh, warm goat’s milk, powdered coffee, and dried crusts of yesterday’s bread.

​“Hurry, up,” Aunt Lidia commanded. “You’re always so late. We have to leave soon. Did you sleep well?”

​The pungent smell appalled me. “I’m sorry, but that goat’s milk—I don’t think I can drink it. Do you mind if I boil some water for tea? You do have rusks, don’t you? I remember we bought some in town last week.” 

​Uncle Stavro wiped his sleeve over his milk-stained whiskers and laughed sarcastically. “So this is what my sister has done to you in that sleek and civilized metropolis of hers, eh! Eat what you want, but we’re leaving in ten minutes—sharp!”

​Suddenly, I felt acutely aware of my over-refined fussinessand ‘city’ ways. I watched them attack their humble breakfast with the vigor and ravenous animal spirits of a falcon at its quarry, and felt ashamed, realizing that, however I attempted to assimilate myself into their native lifestyle, there remained some habits and traditions that would permanently estrange me frommy relatives.

​When I had finished my tea, the house was locked, the unwieldy skeleton key placed under the pot of flowering basil, and we were off to the vineyards in Uncle Stavro’s tractor. Aunt Lidia fastened a paisley bandanna over her hair then drew a bulky woolen goat’s blanket over our legs to keep away the morning chill. When we arrived at the fields twenty minutes later, neighbor Kira Katina and her daughter  were already hard at work, both carrying large wicker baskets on their shoulders and winding their way between the rows of grape vines picking out the ripe, gilded clusters for packing. I was struck by their thick, ochre-colored tights and black leather slippers that gave them the appearance of graceful, elegant dancers weaving in and out of every cane with artful skill and precision.

​Aunt Lidia sat herself down on a clearing of nettle stumps and baled hay between Mihali, a village elder, and a young bare-chested and sun-browned boy of about fourteen. “You can sit next to Taki,” Aunt Lidia said, pointing to the young day laborer whose mud-caked toes were poking out of his patched brown rubber sandals.

​“OK, now tell me,” I asked with eager anticipation. “I want to know all there is about grape packing.”

​“You have to move fast here,” Taki said, his shy smile exposing a broken front tooth. “Just pick the largest bunches from the baskets, three to a row, and place them together evenly in the crate and line them with sheets of pink paper from the pile. That’s all. Whenever you need another crate, just call out.”

​Well, if that’s all there is to it, I thought. I began slowly, clumsily at first, arranging and rearranging each cluster of grapes, straining to make something of an artistic composition out of the layout. I fussed about and consciously strove for the effect of aesthetic perfection, an exemplary crate that any greengrocer would be proud to display in his prized storefront collection of comestibles. When I called for another crate, Uncle Stavro came poking over to inspect the work.

​He took off his cap, shook off the dust then refitted it over his balding head. “Meh, it’s all right,” he said flatly. I was crushed. “But, look here,” he pointed with a stubby finger, “the edges are sticking up unevenly. They’ll be bruised. Try again.”

​This time, I waited and deliberated, silently holding a cluster in my hand. I closed my eyes for a moment to focus myresolve. Then, I fixed my gaze on my neighbor worker’s hands, absorbing his energy, letting his effortless experience and unselfconscious skill flood my thought channels. I began again, without deliberation this time, simply allowing my hands to guide themselves, enabling each bunchstem to come to life and settle itself perfectly into its pre-ordained niche, abandoning any thoughts of forced calculation. The crates now filled themselves automatically as I allowed myself to ride the spirit of their force, blindly, subconsciously, through a mystical process of mechanical memory. Soon, I was listening to the idle chatter allaround, threading the air along with the subtle wildflower-scented breezes.

​“How are the walnut trees going, Mihali?” asked Aunt Lidia.

​“There are twenty of them this year. Three we’ll use for preserves. It’s enough for Katina to handle for our daughter’swedding next January.”

​“How’s the boy—what’s his name—Antoni, isn’t it? He’s from a good family, is he? And Rena’s dowry?”

​“We thought we’d give her twenty acres. Along with Antoni’s forty, that’ll give them a good livelihood for now. But he wants to live in the city. All the young people are moving away. Pretty soon, there’ll be only us elders left in the village.”

​“Ah, Mihali, I feel for you,” Lidia empathized. “Since Amalia married, we’re all alone now, and our only son left for the city. He wants nothing to do with our village ways. What do you think, eh, Taki?” she asked, her eyes still fixated on her work. “Will your parents let you leave, too?”

​Taki didn’t reply. He just grinned and let a roguish expression steal over the corners of his mouth revealing a small dimple on his right cheek. Then, spontaneously, his lopsided lips opened and burst out in song, an old demotic folk ballad that Ihad never heard before. The lyrics were typical: a young man falls passionately in love with a village maiden called Marigówho he secretly meets in the moonlight. She refuses to marry him; her eyes are set on another. But his heart is aflame and he vows that on the next full moon he will kidnap her and take her away. 

I listened transfixed by the haunting melodic line, and felt the rising warmth of the midday sun gradually fill the air. As my hands worked abstractedly, my roving glance suddenly focused on a nearby pile of hay which seemed to be pulsating and rustling with a secret life force from within. 

​“What is this?” I shrieked in shock. “All this time this—this thing is lying there watching my every move and you said nothing?” 

​Taki and Aunt Lidia burst out laughing. “It’s just a harmless insect,” my aunt said derisively.

​“This thing is massive!” I protested. “It’s at least six, seven inches— ”

​“It’s a giant walkingstick,” Taki said, “a megaphasma. They’re everywhere. Look, they have no wings, they can’t fly—” He fearlessly picked up the slender straw-colored creature between his brown calloused fingers and held it tauntingly over my head.

​“Stop it! Please, take it away—”​

​“Just so you’ll know what rich little treasures we have here in the village,” he said smiling knavishly.

​Overhead, converging layers of nimbostratus clouds were rapidly starting to block the sun. Uncle Stavro sensed precipitation and coaxed the women to collect as many grapes as they could. “God forbid there’s a hailstorm,” I heard him mutter. “It will be our ruin.”

​The baskets and crates were hastily covered with blue tarp,and as the first raindrops began to fall Uncle Stavro called us all to the small wooden shed nestled at the slope of the hill overlooking his grove of fig trees. Aunt Lidia unpacked a woven hamper and spread out a meal of sour bread, cheese, olives, tomatoes and scallions on an oilcloth over the bare earthen floorwhile Taki was sent to unstrap a large wicker-wrapped wine bottle from the tractor. We tore into the food and ate heartily—all seven of us—cramped as we were in the narrow ramshackle enclosure, sharing drink from a pair of tin cups. 

When the plates and napkins were cleared away, Mihali produced a ragged pack of cards and shuffled out a game of Kumkan with Taki, while the women grouped themselves together with their knitting. I sat with Uncle Stavro before a small opening in the thin wooden wall, the only source of light.

​“You know,” he said teasingly, “right there where you were sitting, your mother was once bitten by a scorpion when she was a little girl. She almost died.”

​“Oh, no—why didn’t you warn me, Theio?” I asked. “It was bad enough to be surrounded by swarms of wasps and dragonflies. And, wait—snakes, horseflies, spiders, who knows what other hideous creatures. If I had known that,” I said brushing myself  briskly, “I might have just stayed at home!”

​“That’s just why I didn’t tell you,” he chuckled. “And the horseflies—they’re the worst, aren’t they!”

​The sky darkened abruptly and low-flying clouds swept over the vineyard almost touching the ground. A faint rattle on the corrugated tin roof increased to a deafening clatter; tiny crystalline pebbles suddenly began to pound through the window and in the distance, through a wedge of sunlight near the fig grove, they glistened like illuminated chips of pearl jewelry. No sooner had they appeared, when the rainfall subsided.

​“Thank God it wasn’t serious,” sighed Aunt Lidia while crossing herself.

​“Doxa si o Theos—God be praised!” nodded Kira Katina.

​The clouds drifted away rapidly, the sun reappeared, and from the direction of the distant town of Nemea, a rainbow formed in radiant ethereal particles stretching above us in a pastel-colored arch over the valley. I looked out the window entranced by the spectacle. The mountain range that housed all the neighboring hamlets formed an endless procession, like an army of ancient helmeted warriors—sentinels of a collective past that joined everyone present in a shared ancestry—spreading in grandiose symmetry steplike towards infinity, one stony crag rising behind another in every direction like a mythical landscape. This is my mother’s birthplace, I mused enraptured, letting myself be drawn into the grandeur of themountains, and the archaic legacy of the vista.

​We returned to work for two more hours, and I now let myself be absorbed into my labor with a rush of exhaustive fury. At four o’clock we loaded the crates onto Uncle Stavro’s tractor and headed back to the village following behind by foot. 

 “You worked hard, didn’t you?” he said encouragingly. “That was real farm work you were doing.” I thought there might be a veiled patronizing undertone somewhere in his praise, but only smiled in reply. 

When we arrived at the junction on the main road, the agent was already waiting for us with his truck. After inspection, he congratulated Uncle Stavro on his yield for the season, and settled a price for the load. As I began to ascend the steep slope home, I overheard his whispered murmuring as he drew my uncle aside. 

  “I see you have a new worker. We’ll have to redo some of the crates, you know. We’ll deduct for the extra labor. Make sure this doesn’t happen next year.”

​I knew I had overslept the next morning. When I awoke late at seven thirty, the village was eerily quiet except for the occasional bleating of the ewe below in her pen. Padding to the kitchen, I found the note my aunt had scrawled on a torn strip of lined notebook paper resting under a pack of rusks: 

‘Gone off to work on Mihali’s harvest. Back by sundown. Have dinner ready when we return.’

It was good to stay home.

Author of the debut novel Twelfth House and Shaded Pergola, a collection of short poetry with original illustrations, E.C. Traganas has published in over a hundred literary journals. She enjoys a professional career as a Juilliard-trained concert pianist & composer, and is the founder/director of Woodside Writers, a literary forum based in New York. www.elenitraganas.com

If you would like to be part of the Rural Fiction Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines.

Please share this story to give it maximum distribution. Exposure is our authors’ only pay. You can also help our contributors gain exposure by back linking to them and to RFM’s homepage.

Illustration: “Village Square, Corinth” — Watercolor & gouache by E. C. Traganas