
When I’m not writing, I knit.
Sometime in January a red knitted hat pattern was recommended to me on my Ravelry page. For those of you who do not know, Ravelry is a free website that connects fiber crafters (knitting, crocheting, sewing, etc.) from around the world. It had a giant database of patterns—some free, some for sale—yarn, pattern designers, and a personal page you can customize.
Anyway, up popped The Melt the Ice Hat. The designer, Paul S Neary, based his design on the hats Norwegians made and wore in the 1940s as a protest to the Nazi occupation. This hat was to protest the ICE occupation and raids in Minnesota. Proceeds from the pattern are donated “to immigrant aid agencies for distribution to those impacted by the actions of ICE.”
I immediately bought the pattern and ordered two skeins of red yarn. In late January, they may have been the last skeins of red yarn available—every knitter on Ravelry seemed to be knitting The Melt the Ice Hat. The hat has a wide brim of ribbing, a top of stockinette that decreases to a point. A braid and tassel decorate the tip of the hat. I was going to have to wait a few days for my red yarn, I cast on in blue.
It was a fast knit, but I wanted a longer brim and a longer more pointier top. So I kept notes of what I would do when that red yarn arrived. As I was knitting, I was also reading information about The Red Hat.
Evidently, the red hat from Norway was called a “Nisselue” Hat or Santa Hat and was actually outlawed by the Nazis once they figured out the Norwegians were wearing the hats as protest. The Guardian has a great article with pictures of The Red Hats here.
My favorite part of the Norwegian protest hats—when outlawed the protesters switched to wearing a paper clip on their clothes. Not as in your face as a red hat, but still a protest. If you scroll down to the end of the above linked article you will see examples of the Red Hat from the Norway’s Resistance Museum.

Then, I read the Nisselue was really a French voyageur cap. I looked up voyageur caps. Sure enough, French trappers in North America wore red hats shaped like The Red Hat, but a bit longer. Instead of the braid and tassel, the tip was often fastened to the brim with some type of cockade (a circle of ribbon that could be symbolic, flag colors, etc).
Of course, most articles about voyageur caps mentioned the famous Bonnets Rouges of the French Revolution. “In revolutionary France, the cap, or bonnet rouge was first seen publicly in May 1790 at a festival in Troyes, adorning a statue representing the nation, and at Lyon, on a lance carried by the goddess Libertas. To this day the national emblem of France, Marianne, is shown wearing a Phrygian cap.

The caps were often knitted by women known as Tricoteuse who sat beside the guillotine during public executions in Paris in the French Revolution, supposedly continuing to knit in between executions.” (Wikipedia) And of course there is the famous knitter Madame Defarge from Tale of Two Cities. I wonder if she sat by the guillotine and knitted Bonnets Rouges with the the names of the people to be killed coded into the brim of the hats.

The bonnet rouge is so interconnected with France the the official 2024 Olympic mascot was a conical cap, the Phryge.

After reading about the bonnet rouges, someone mentioned the hats were actually American Liberty hats, worn during the American Revolution. I looked that up, and not only is the Liberty hat a thing, but Minutemen reenactors have a poling the Liberty Hat every year in Bedford, Massachusetts. In New York City, the Sons of Liberty had a tradition to erect the liberty pole to protest the British. The liberty pole is topped with the liberty hat.
The liberty cap shows up in American art all over Washington, DC. Colonies and early states used the liberty cap on flags and in seals. There was even a liberty cap large cent coin minted from from 1793 until 1796. The coin features an image of the goddess of Liberty and her accompanying Phrygian cap. (We’ll get to that cap in a bit.) The American Liberty hats had the tips folded forward, rather than to the side. Most of the pictures show the hat without a folded brim and worn above the ears—or like in Bedford, installed on a Liberty Pole.
Many counties adopted the liberty hat as their symbol of freedom. The coat of arms of Haiti features a liberty hat atop a palm tree. For Argentina the hat is atop a pole being held by two clasping hands. Columbia also includes it in their coat of arms as a symbol of liberty and freedom. But as I mention before the liberty hat is sometimes referred to as a Phrygian cap.
Turns out the Phrygian cap is much much older.
“The Phrygian cap, also known as Thracian cap and liberty cap, is a soft conical cap with the apex bent over, associated in antiquity with several peoples in Eastern Europe, Anatolia, and Asia. The Phrygian cap was worn by Thracians, Dacians, Persians, Medes, Scythians, Trojans, and Phrygians after whom it is named. The oldest known depiction of the Phrygian cap is from Persepolis in Iran.” (Wikipedia)
The above link includes tons of pictures of the Phrygian cap in history. A carving of a Parthian wearing one from 203 AD. A 4th century BC bust of Attis—labeled Phrygian Attis wearing the cap. Roman artwork shows Paris of Troy wearing the hat. The Basilica of Sant’Apolinare Nuovo in Italy has the Three Wise Men wearing Phrygian caps. The cap was so common bronze helmets designed by the Thracian look exactly like a Phrygian cap, complete with the forward folding tip.
Just to round out the story of the liberty cap, I mentioned above that the Norway was called a “Nisselue” Hat or Santa Hat. So, Santa wears a modified Phrygian hat as do gnomes—and Smurfs.
The Melt the Ice Hat has a rich history. I enjoyed knitting it (twice). I have another one planned, but this time I’m going for the more voyageur styled cap. This hat is knitted in one piece with a elongated football shape. Once finished, one pointed end is tucked inside the other. This makes a double thick hat and if the brim is folded—quadruple thick and very warm. I’ll post pictures when I finish.



We’re in the midst of summer here in Southeast Pennsylvania, a time for hiking in the woods, camping in the forest, picnicking near a lake—even walking on the beach at the Jersey Shore. Nature is ours to enjoy, right?
We often view nature as “safe,” but seen through the lens of a horror writer, nature can also be unpredictable and dangerous. That’s the horror sub-genre of biological or ecological horror, in which nature has the final word. These days, with a rapidly changing climate, the natural world can pose an even greater threat.
Even though the term eco-horror may seem new, the idea of (hu)man vs. nature has been around for hundreds of years as a plot device. The natural world can be a pretty scary place, even when it’s not depicted as evil, and especially if you think you have it all figured out. Consider the films 27 Hours or All Is Lost.
“In eco-horror, nature isn’t good,” says JP Ruz on Slow Burn Horror. “But it’s not evil either; it just is.”
In mid-20th century films, natural horror frequently focused on creatures: Godzilla, that Creature from the Black Lagoon, giant ants (Them!). It was a way to address humanity’s fear at that time of nuclear annihilation and radiation exposure.
Creatures continue to be a common eco-horror trope because we can anthropomorphize them, from aliens (Alien) to yetis (Yeti) to sharks (Jaws)—all critters we can “fight.” Other living entities are harder to deal with (or stop) because they are so not human: plants (Little Shop of Horrors), fungi (The Last of Us), viruses (The Stand). Or they are meteorological: tornadoes (Twister), gales (Perfect Storm), snow (Avalanche), floods (The Wave).
Like life in general, humans are usually happiest when they feel in control. When they aren’t, the horror seeps in.
But author and poet Ashia Ajani, writing in Atmos Magazine, asks: “Even when there is a moral at the end of the tale, too much ecological horror begs the question: Should nature be conquered? Subdued?”

Ajani notes that “many of the movies recycle the same tropes: possessed creatures, gory vengeance, and supernatural phenomena that speak more to our own fear of annihilation instead of addressing the uneven wounds we’ve created all over the globe.”
Several recent novels that explore eco-horror include Annihilation by Jeff VanderMeer, also a movie; The Marigold by Andrew F. Sullivan, and The Brood by Rebecca Baum.
Naomi Booth, writing in the New York Times, adds, “In eco-horror, we witness acts of environmental violence currently hidden from sight; we might see who suffers most and who gains by that suffering.”
That’s because climate change doesn’t treat everyone equally, Ajani says. Instead it worsens existing inequities.
This is good fodder for story creation. As Booth says, “at its most effective, eco-horror compels us not to look away. It attempts to close the distance between the reader and sufferers of environmental disaster, and when it really gets under the skin.”
Speaking of skin, author Erica Ferencik, whose novel The Blooming releases early next year, noted at a recent conference panel on eco-horror noted that our internal body temperature is cooling (it’s no longer 98.6F, but roughly 97.5F), making it easier for fungi to invade through that very skin . . .

Twenty years ago, I was happy to host what would become the Bethlehem Writers Group, LLC, at its first meeting at the Barnes & Noble in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. As one who had mostly written nonfiction to that point, I knew my fiction chops needed a lot of work. In preparation for our first meeting, I read volumes about story structure, characters, conflict, the hero’s journey, description, point of view, and all the other facets of writing I still needed to fill my own writer’s toolbox. I created handouts and brought pages from a work in progress to share . . . if anyone actually showed up.
When the evening arrived, three people came. But by the end of the summer, word had spread, and we had about two-dozen people attending meetings. Most wrote fiction, but we had writers of nonfiction, poetry, screenplays—and even a game coder. Everyone wanted their chance to speak, but there wasn’t enough time for anyone to say much or get the feedback they needed. We started meeting twice a month, but people became frustrated. It wasn’t working.
Over time, many of our summer attendees stopped coming, and we settled into a group of about ten people—mostly fiction writers. But I knew it could fall apart again if we weren’t careful. So, we learned from our experience.
We evolved, developing patterns that have sustained us for twenty years. While our practices might not work for everyone, these are the basic rules that have worked for us:
Over twenty years, we’ve gone from a group of unpublished, uncertain writers, to one where each author has many publications and awards to their credit. I guess we found a system that works for us.

To celebrate our evolution over twenty years, we have published a new anthology: Celebrating: 20 Years of Sweet, Funny, and Strange® Tales. We have taken two stories from each of our “Sweet, Funny, and Strange” anthologies and brought them together in one volume. It’s available for pre-order, in print or e-book, from your favorite bookseller.
This fall, we’re also bringing out a new SF&S anthology—our ninth—comprised of tales of science fiction and fantasy titled: Illusive Worlds. Watch for it in time for holiday gift-giving.
Was being together for twenty years our goal in 2006? It wasn’t even a twinkle in our eye. But looking back at how far we have come, I guess we could say, “It’s a good start.”
~Carol L. Wright
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BWG is seeking stories of 2,500 words or fewer on the theme of Speculative Fiction (tales of science fiction and fantasy, broadly interpreted). The winners receive cash and publication, with the first-place winner being considered for our upcoming anthology, Illusive Worlds: Sweet, Funny and Strange Tales of Science Fiction and Fantasy, forthcoming in 2026.
Winners receive cash awards and offers of publication. (See below for details.)
First Place:
$250 and consideration for publication in our upcoming anthology: Illusive Worlds: Sweet, Funny, and Strange Tales of Science Fiction and Fantasy or Bethlehem Writers Roundtable
Second Place:
$100 and publication in Bethlehem Writers Roundtable
Third Place:
$50 and publication in Bethlehem Writers Roundtable
Susan Kaye Quinn has designed aircraft engines and studied global warming, getting a PhD in environmental engineering along the way, but now she invents cool stuff in books. She’s been writing across multiple genres for 15 years, with her latest works focusing on hopepunk, solarpunk, and the new stories we need to build a more just and sustainable world. Her short fiction can be found in Grist, Solarpunk Magazine, Reckoning, and all her novels and short stories can be found on her website: SusanKayeQuinn.com. She is the host of the Bright Green Futures podcast. You can read an interview of Susan here.


The Bethlehem Writers Group, LLC (BWG), is a community of mutually supportive fiction and nonfiction authors based in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. The members are as different from each other as their stories. BWG also publishes quality fiction through their online literary journal, Bethlehem Writers Roundtable, and their award-winning A Sweet, Funny, and Strange Anthology series.
Each anthology has an overall theme—broadly interpreted—but includes a variety of genres. All but the first anthology include stories from the winner(s) of The Bethlehem Writers Short Story Award.
Their first anthology, A Christmas Sampler: Sweet, Funny, and Strange Holiday Tales (2009), won two Next Generation Indie Book Awards: Best Anthology and Best Short Fiction.
Season’s Reading: More Sweet, Funny, and Strange Holiday Tales is the latest in A Sweet, Funny, and Strange Anthology and was a finalist in the Next Generation Indie Book Awards.

My long relationship with “the Scottish Play” dates back to grade school, when I was assigned the role of one of the Weird Sisters (was the teacher trying to tell me something?). Two other girls and I paraded around a faux cauldron to intone those famous lines:
Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
I’m pretty sure my class did not stage the entire five acts of Macbeth, which seems too macabre for that age group. But I suppose that early exposure to the witches/weyward ones led me to my writing path of paranormal and horror.
Seeing the play again recently reminded me how powerful it is, and how it still speaks to the human condition and the ability of power to corrupt. It is, according to Meghan Winch writing in the Lantern Theater’s program, “about an unfit and unaccountable ruler seizing power from the rightful sovereign” and illustrates that “the people below suffer most when there is instability at the top.” Stuff right out of today’s news feeds.

The play is also full of evocative phrases that live on even today, more than 400 years later: “when the battle’s lost and won”; “what’s done cannot be undone”; “I bear a charméd life,” and “the milk of human kindness,” among others. One particular phrase, in a line delivered by Macbeth, had special relevance to me as a mystery writer: malice domestic. These days it’s the name of an annual crime fiction fan convention.
The Lantern Theater in Philadelphia is an intimate space, a theater in the round; the onstage sparring with spears and swords took place only a few feet from the theatergoers. The aisle one seat to my right was a key passageway during the production: Macbeth and his Lady ran up that aisle, to murder Duncan, the king, and Macduff used it to discover the dead body. Settled in a front-row corner, I was so close to the action that I was probably the only audience member who could see the apparitions in Act IV, as they stood “hidden” behind a scrim to speak their lines.
And speaking of lines, a play (Shakespearean or not) embodies the oft-repeated “rule” in writing fiction: show, don’t tell. On the stage, dialogue and action are everything; there is no room for exposition. We understand the story via the words the characters speak and how others on stage react.
Regarding those infamous weird sisters, they seem to be more than mere witches. The lines they speak weave an incantation via the rhyme, the alliteration, and the strangeness of the words themselves. “Weird” from Shakespeare’s time did not mean “strange.” It stemmed from “wayward,” which referred to “destiny” or “fate.” As such, did the sisters make Macbeth commit the murderous crime? Or did that tendency lie within him all along?
That’s for you to decide.
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
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