Bearlodge Writers

Jim Bowers

Voices From The Underground

Available from Many Kites Press.

Also Available from Amazon.com

Jim Bowers Bio

Having received degrees from Dartmouth College, Yale University and the University of Redlands I taught English at several colleges and universities in the U.S., including a year at Yale teaching an advanced writing course. I also taught in Finland, China, The Czech Republic and Lithuania.

My short stories intend to probe the human soul, from the depths of depravity to the heights of ecstasy. By bringing to light the evil in us as well as the good we can embrace the paradox of our complexity and delight in the joy of living.

Publication Credits

In the Shadow of the Bear Lodge, Many Kites Press, 2006
Voices from the Underground, Many Kites Press, 2006
Foreign Ground: Travelers’ Tales, Pronghorn Press, 2003

Writing Excerpt

GRACE

In my nightmare shadows deepen. The undergrowth of doubt and helplessness tear at the throbbing ganglion of nerves in the dark forest of my soul. Asleep, there is no hope, nothing that can be done. The trees coalesce into rigid walls. The threatening sky, the fertile earth, are hard, impervious. The walls diminish until they become a concrete grave, the wooden coffin a last, final protection against the decay of that spark of light we call life.

Buried, I still live a death in life, meaningless, beyond human control. In that grave life of motionless limbs I have no choice but to cry out soundlessly. My only hope is in the glimmer of light. In it is power, strength to do what I can not do myself.

I awaken horrified, only to fall again into a black hole. I descend a spiral staircase of turreted granite without windows. At the bottom a massive wooden door will not open. Suddenly I am inside a room where groups of persons engage in lively conversation, all strangers yet strangely familiar. I find myself drawn into a cluster of hideous personages, fearsome to behold despite the pleasant sound of their speech. I cannot understand a word of what they are saying. At first I remain silent, aloof, refusing to join in their laughter, determined to have nothing to do with them. Then I am part of the group, laughing and crying, listening and sympathizing, until I merge with each one, and we become a single, ethereal body. Instead of fear I feel warmth, joy, even ecstasy.

The unforgettable dream occurred over fifty years ago. The joy remains. The despair I had felt has long since disappeared. I had done nothing, only dreamed, yet somehow a transformation took place. I emerged from the forest into sunlight, drawn outside myself into a bliss of reverence by the rose-fingered rays of the sun. For the first time I could see the beauty of a single, red rose in a slender vase on my bedside table.

The stifling grave has become a many storied mansion which I roam in meditation and in dreams, listening to delightful conversation among the personages of my soul. Now I not only hear but also understand the voices within. I encourage them to speak for themselves on blank pages of a book I am writing. And so they do. Standing aside, I smile as each story unfolds of its own accord and wait patiently to discover what the ending will be. 

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