You can find Holly's art in several art galleries through out Hawaii,
including: Pictures Plus statewide; Diamond Head Gallery, Waikiki Reef
Hotel; Sunshine Arts in Kaneohe; Haleiwa Art Gallery; and many more.
Each of Holly's works expresses her vibrant funloving disposition.
More of Hollys work is displayed in other pages and future issues. We
can't get enough of Her beautiful work.
Holly Kitaura   "Titti Kitty"                   www.hollyvision.biz                          Above  "Mermaid 5"
Although never formally trained, Holly has grown into a unique style of painting and remains passionate
about her  lifelong love with creating art. Each of Holly's works expresses her vibrant fun-loving
disposition and her extraordinary vision of the world. Whether she is utilizing watercolors, ink, acrylics,
enamel, or shimmering metallic auto paint.
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"That Thing We Killed" by Wayne Spitzer
SUMMARY: A young man's "blooding" -
a rite of passage in which an
adolescent male performs a ritual
killing - can haunt him forever.
Especially when he isn't sure just what
it is he has killed.
I still don't know what it was, that thing we
killed. I've seen things like it, in movies and
on TV. But those things were made up, or
based on the bones of extinct animals, like
monsters. This wasn't like that. This was
just an animal, though not one that any of
us had ever seen. Not around Glenbaker,
that's for sure, or anywhere in King County,
or all of Washington State.
It hadn't threatened us, as far as I can
remember. It turned on us, hissing kind of, a
limp trout falling from its mouth, because we
had startled it. I sure remember that mouth,
opened like a wet, black rosebud, showing
spiny teeth, a white palate. Maybe it had
lunged toward us. Maybe it deserved what it
got. I don't even remember who fired first or
why. It was a long time ago and everyone
involved is dead, except me.
We'd gone out that day to get a trophy for
my thirteenth birthday, even though it
wasn't hunting season. We made an odd
sort of family back then: Uncle Horseshoe
(because of his mustache), Hank, and
Frank Garstole, who lived in a cabin next
door. Uncle Horseshoe owned every kind of
gun imaginable, from Scout rifles to
muskets, and the walls of his house were
covered with every kind of trophy, the great
prize being a seven tine rack of moose over
the fireplace, which he said he'd killed alone
in the Blue Mountains in December of '62,
but which Frank said he stole from a
woodpile in Alaska.
Frank laughed at the thought of us going
out. "Horseshoe," he said, "Now what do you
think a game warden's gonna say when he
sees you outfitted like brigands?"

I remember Horseshoe just staring at him—
he was huge on staring. "Don't worry about
it, Frank," he said.

Frank said to me after they'd gone out,
"They're scarin' up their own trouble, boy.
Let 'em go."

But I ran after them.
We startled it, as I've said.
We were rounding a deadfall, bitching about
how it had been a wasted day, when we saw
it. I'd actually been looking at it for several
seconds, looking at it but thinking about
something else, until it moved. I saw it
complete for only an instant; it looked like a
snake—not a Rattler or a Moccasin, more
like a Python, or one of those Boas you
sometimes see in National Geographic, with
its giant body held up by an entire hunting
party—a snake threaded through a turtle.
But then it fled, hissing kind of, slinking back
into the water and paddling away, toward the
center of the lake.

I wasn't frightened by it. It didn't look or act
like The Giant Behemoth, or Reptilicus, or
anything else you might see at a matinee or
in comic books. It was just an animal, though
not one any of us had ever seen. But then
bullets went punching through its blubber.
Then the thing's blood went spraying in all
directions.

There was a rickety dock nearby, which we
used to get closer. I remember the spent
shells dropping and plinking off its boards.
The thing turned on us; I suppose it had to.
It tried to hiss but managed only a choked
gargle. Blood bubbled from its throat and
spilled from its mouth.

"Take the fatal shot," said Horseshoe.
.
He must have laid down his rifle because I
remember him helping to steady my own.
"Easy now, you'll own this forever—" I stared
the thing in the eye and squeezed the
trigger.

It threw back its head, rising up. It gasped for
breath, spitting more blood. It barked at the
sky. Then it fell, head thumping against the
deck. Its serpentine neck slumped. The rest
of its blood spread over the boards and
rolled around our boots and flowed between
the planks.

I was the first to step forward, looking down
at the thing through drifting smoke.
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"That Thing We Killed"  pt 2

Its remaining eye seemed to look
right back. I got down on my knees
to look closer. The thing exhaled,
causing the breathing holes at the
top of its head, behind its eyes, to
bubble. I waited for it to inhale,
staring into its eye—I could see
myself there as well as the others,
could see the sky and the scattered
clouds. The whole world seemed
contained in that moist little ball.
Then the eye rolled around white—it
shrunk, drying, and the thing's neck
constricted. And it died.
We went back the next day with
Frank Garstole and a bunch of
others with the intent of hoisting it
thunderstorm and whatever it was
we had killed was gone, slipped back
into the water, I suppose. Old Frank
sure had a laugh about that, chiding
Horseshoe, "Well, the bigger they
without a trace."

Horseshoe just stared, like he might
kill him right there on the spot. It was
the same look he gave me when,
visiting years later, I joked about that
rack of moose he'd found in Alaska.
We'd been sitting on his back porch
which was falling to ruin just like his
body, having beers, and—well, it
was a look that said it was time to
go. I went and never saw him again.
Horseshoe slapped my back,
massaged my neck. "How's it feel,
little buddy?"

But I didn't know what I felt. I could
only stare at the eye, now empty
I still think about that thing we killed,
from time to time. Sometimes I
dream about it. Sometimes in the
dreams I am in the water with the
thing, where it kills me rather than
me killing it. Sometimes, as I sink, I
see it hovering high above. I see it
through a cloud of blood and a
ceiling of water, rimmed in solar fire,
beautiful. Other times I am the thing,
and I rise, spitting blood, barking at
the sky.
© Copyright 2008 by Wayne K.
Spitzer
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INDY GREEN UNUSUAL
ART & MUSIC MAGAZINE
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The Echo of Thunder      PART 2
With all my heart," he answered
gazing into her eyes.
"Then help me stand," Shiann said.

The wedding continued without
difficulty, though             
thunder shook the building. Shiann
leaned against her   
groom's shoulder, speaking each
vow with a loud clear   
voice.

Later in the evening the groom was
awoken by the          
sound of thunder. He looked, but did
not find his bride    
in bed with him, or close by in the
room. He got up,         
wrapped a cloak around himself and
went outside.

He found Shiann standing atop the
corner of the             
stone wall, her pale arms
outstretched to the flashing      
clouds above. Thunder rolled down
the canyons and      
over the town. She swayed with
every rumble.

"What are you doing!" he yelled at
her.

Shiann turned and saw him standing
in the courtyard,     
her eyes gleaming as bright as her
smile. She held         
rain soaked hands out to him,
inviting him to join her.

"Isn't it wonderful?" she asked. "Do
you hear what they   
say?"

"I don't understand," he said.

"They say we can be together,"
Shiann said, raising        
her face to the sky. "Come join me."

And as he reached out to touch her
hand, lightning         
struck them both.
PART 1
The Echo of Thunder
by Steve Jones

Shiann, in the midst of
her bridesmaids, turned
to           
gaze at the  
approaching wall of
clouds with worried        
brown eyes. It was
harvest, when green
leaves turned    
to brown and red, and
storms flowed daily
from the         
ocean. A gust of wind
blew over them. None
of her friends were
concerned.

When she was a child,
and the storms would
come,         
she would hide in the
folds of her
grandmother's
dress. Grandmother
would stroke Shiann's
hair, and
tell her she was a child
of thunder, born in a
storm.

"Shiann," Grandmother
would say. "I's just your
kin    come to visit."

"It's time," the usher
said as he stood inside
the hall,       
only allowing his head
and one shoulder to be
seen        
outside. Inside, music
expanded to fill the hall.

Shiann dutifully led the
march, as she and her
line of      
bridesmaids measured
their course between
the             
standing crowd. They
took their designated
places          
opposite the awaiting
men.

The entire hall shook at
the first blast of thunder
and Shiann looked
away from her groom.
As she turned
her legs gave way
under her. He was
standing next to her,  
holding her hand, and
managed to gently
guide her as  they both
crumpled to the floor.
Her dress amassed on  
the floor about them
like a silken cloud.

The bride's
grandmother smiled
gently and nodded,      
knowingly.

Two of the groomsmen
were designated to
shut the windows
against the storm. The
bridesmaids went en   
masse to find a glass of
water. The groom
looked down at his
bride, trembling in his
arms.

"Do you hear what they
say?" Shiann
whispered to him.
"Who is speaking?" he
asked. "I don't
understand."

She looked around,
barely seeing the
concerned  faces  
surrounding her. Then
her eyes fixed solely on
her groom.

do this?" she asked.
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