Brian MacDonald
response

Standing
Julia Rolfe
Inspiration piece

Sometimes I ponder
How we both stood on this cliff.
You jumped.
and I stood at the edge,
pondering.

I stand still
and stand,
and stand,

and jump

back two steps
falling into the hands
behind me–
back to the hands who keep me dry
and out of the mud.

I’ll come back to the edge
to stand
and
to ponder

I’ll remember you jumped.
You were graceful and messy.

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Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Brian MacDonald
Response

The Butterfly Prostitute
Erica Szalkowski
Inspiration piece

Diego wanted to sleep with the prostitute, but couldn’t find a butterfly that she would accept as payment. The first time he tried to solicit her, he brought her a hand-caught swallowtail butterfly, but she scarcely glanced at the creature, mounted in a shoebox and pinned slightly askew, before slamming the door in Diego’s face. On the way out of her apartment building, he angrily threw the assemblage in the trash. He knew the butterfly prostitute only pleasured men who presented her with a beautiful or rare specimen, but had hoped that his simple swallowtail would have enough homespun charm to illicit a sympathy lay. It wouldn’t have to been her best effort- just enough so he could say he lost his virginity to the most famous whore in Baltimore. But, instead of topping his friend’s purported weekend exploits, he was forced to admit defeat as early as first period on Monday. “Heard you struck out with a whore. How does that even work?” his friend texted him during Algebra II. “Fuck you, asshole. I’ll get her,” Diego wrote back, furious. He wanted to add a few more lines of insults, but Sister Cecilia caught him looking at his phone before he could manage it.

The next time he visited the butterfly prostitute, he presented her with a atrophaneura neptumus dacasini, which he bought online because it was both relatively affordable and described as ‘rare’ by the retailor. The butterfly prostitute took a long time to consider the specimen, pursing lips which could make a man see God when to put to good use, drumming her fingers against promising hips, “Let me see about this one,” she told him, slipping back inside. “Can I at least come in?” Diego asked, not wanting to be seen waiting at a whore’s door. The butterfly prostitute merely raised her eyebrows and left him on her worn ‘welcome’ mat. Obedient for once, Diego waited, enduring the knowing stares of neighbors as they passed. One old woman even crossed herself as she walked by, and Diego gave her back the finger as she shuffled away. Finally, the prostitute returned and handed the butterfly back, “Sorry,” she said, without sounding apologetic, “I already have one of these. Mine looks better,” and then she snapped her door closed again.

Diego biked back to his mother’s apartment with a frustration too potent for words. On an overpass, he lobbed the useless butterfly onto the freeway, and watched a minivan grind it into dust. The satisfaction wore of quickly when he realized that he could have given the $40 specimen to some girl eventually. “Damnit,” he muttered, peddling aggressively. His friends always told him that he should go after the weird ones, the not-so-pretty ones who were just as desperate as he was. He didn’t want the fumbling attention of some four-out-of-ten with Daddy issues- he wanted something special, something hot and sweaty and as sexy as a music video. Everyone said the butterfly prostitute was special, and that’s what he wanted. What he deserved. Sure, his friends would laugh at him again on Monday, but they wouldn’t laugh forever. The butterfly prostitute would sleep with him, and then they’d stop calling him ‘GoGo,’ Calixta in chemistry would return his texts, and hell, he’d probably start concentrating better in school- after all, what would be left to daydream about? He was sure she would fuck him right into manhood, right into greatness, if only he could find her the right butterfly to augment her doubtlessly enormous collection.

Weeks later, he was still without a viable plan to impress the butterfly prostitute. His friends were no help – the just laughed at him and suggested he buy a more expensive butterfly. The more he asked for actual help, the less they laughed less, scowled more and said, “Let it go, GoGo. You won’t get with her. You won’t get with nobody if you keep this up.” On his bi-weekly trip to the principal’s office for bad behavior, Diego kicked the furniture on the way to relieve his frustration, trying to simmer down at least a little so he could face penitence more effectively. He gave the sturdy display case outside of the biology classroom a stronger kick because he knew it could take it and decided to dawdle there, taking in the sepia-toned miscellany behind the antique glass. Flanked by a fetal pig in old formaldehyde and deer skull with missing teeth, Diego noticed a shadowbox containing a small butterfly. The tag read “Xerces Blue-extinct.” Diego blinked, disbelieving. The modest butterfly didn’t look interesting enough to be extinct. He glanced furtively up and down the hallway before opening the case and leaning into the display case, briefly huffing its antique scent before snatching the Xerces Blue and putting the specimen box in his jacket pocket. With natural fluidity, he closed the display case and began walking back to class casually, easily, leaving only a dustless square which would go noticed by no one.

Immediately after school, Diego returned to the butterfly prostitute’s door, flaunting his stolen specimen. “This is a Xerces Blue. It’s extinct,” Diego announced, handing it to the butterfly prostitute with flourish. She raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows and took the shadowbox, examining the prone creature within.

“How’d you get this?” she asked, raising the box and tilting it back and forth so an indigo sheen passed along the insect’s gossamer wings. He noticed a little pale depression on her ring finger, like the one on his mom’s hand- the ghost of a wedding band.

“I bought it. There’s no way you have one of those,” Diego said eagerly.

The butterfly prostitute remained silent, examining the specimen. Finally, she asked, “How old are you?”

“18,” he said, lying up by a year.

“Fine,” she said, opening the door fully and standing aside.

Disbelieving, Diego followed her in. The small apartment smelled like cinnamon incense, and Diego thought Whenever I smell cinnamon, I’ll think of this. “I’m a virgin,” he blurted as she moved around the apartment, lighting pungent candles. She shrugged, “Get undressed. I’ll be back. I’m going to get changed.” The butterfly prostitute opened a door to a back room, taking the specimen with her. Diego leaned and watch her ass go, watched her roughly toss the Xerces Blue aside, watched her consider the single butterfly specimen hanging above a double bed with only one half of the covers mussed. The butterfly prostitute reached up, took the hanging specimen from the wall, and smashed it over her knee. The butterfly split down the middle amid sparks of shattered glass, and the wings fell to the floor as separate things.

_________________________

Note:  All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it.  Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and writing permission fro the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Brian MacDonald
First Cut
Response

Brand
Cristal Guderjahn
Inspiration piece

They were barking in the kitchen again, and their voices snapped against my walls and woke me when I would have rather slept. After four mornings of this, I could now recognize a few words. A loud “ken,” the Hebrew word for “yes,” and a rapid “Ima,” the term for “Mother.” Their words were sharp and overlapped, as if arguing. Every conversation they’d had since this woman arrived sounded like an argument, as if what they had to say—about broccoli, for example—was worthy of debate. I had begun to notice my absence from these conversations. Miriam refused to speak English, and I had a sense that she didn’t approve of our marriage. I pulled a robe around me and walked into the kitchen, and I spied the already familiar green package of menthol cigarettes on our table, with two cups of Nescafe, a full ashtray, a plate of burned toast. I took the Nescafe from the cupboard and dumped a teaspoonful into a mug. My entrance had stopped their conversation, and I could feel them watching me as I shoved bread into the toaster.

“Boker-tov,” I said, trying to sound as if I had forgotten about the night before.

“Boker-tov, Kristen.” Her greeting was a two-note song as she lit a cigarette. An attempt to sound pleasant, no doubt, but likely not an attempt for my benefit.

I glared at Barak. Why hadn’t he set her straight on my name? Since Monday, she’d been calling me Kristen, rolling the “r,” occasionally spitting the “st.” Krisstennnn. I had corrected her only once and refused to repeat myself or to let her think it bothered me. But I now hated her voice in my house, her enormous underwear hanging to dry in my bathroom, her hair color that matched the thousands of freckles on her face and fingers. And the smell of her hair spray. Twelve more days and she’d be gone.

Barak smiled at me, pointing at their coffee cups, a silent request that I make enough for three. I filled the teapot with water and grabbed the box of sugar cubes from the shelf. They resumed their conversation, and from her gestures this morning, I could tell they were discussing me. She waved her
cigarette in my direction, and I tried to pick out words I knew. The word “pull-kess,” for chicken leg. And “oof,” for chicken. Definitely discussion of last night’s dinner.

This family loved burned food. Every piece of meat had to be broiled and blackened. Even the strange homogenous stew with beef and potatoes had to be thoroughly cooked, until the sides of the pot burned the food into black flakes that swam among the meat and vegetables. To my husband, burned food was “nice” food. And to my new mother-in-law, who had stepped off the plane four days earlier with plans to take over my house, my cooking was “the worst” she had ever tasted. My cooking was far from delicious, and until her arrival, I had relied on frozen foods and canned soups for our evening meals. Barak didn’t seem to mind, as long as I overcooked everything. I hated to cook. Touching raw meat had always made my hands smell like wet dog. Garlic made me sick to my stomach. And I never knew what to make, or what seasonings to add, usually relying on salt, pepper, and dried basil for my most elegant meals. The occasional dash of paprika also seemed to embellish things.

The night before, I had broiled a large pan of chicken mini-drumsticks, Barak’s favorite. I chopped some raw potatoes, poured several tablespoons of oil over everything, added salt, pepper, and dried basil, and stuck the entire heap into the oven for an hour. He had given this recipe to me. It was the only dinner I could make from scratch. When I pulled the pan from the oven and a stream of smoke poured into the kitchen, I could imagine her praise; everything was dry and brown, and it smelled like chicken. Success. I chopped up a head of iceberg lettuce and dribbled Thousand Island dressing on it—in a charming cross-hatch pattern—applying dried crumbled basil for color. White bread. A tub of margarine. Candles on the table. I had even laid out my grandmother’s flatware, a now-miss-matched set of yellowing utensils that I had hoped would provoke conversation of finer home furnishings.

“Mah-zeh?” Her loud question startled me as she sat down.

“It’s chicken,” Barak said. “My favorite.” His arm appeared briefly around my shoulders, then disappeared. I stared at the freckles on her lips.

“This is not a meal. How can this be a meal?”

Each word had its own moment, each sentence its own gesture. “This is an appetizer.”

Before she arrived, I had wanted her to adore me, to consider me the perfect daughter-in-law, despite my Gentile background, my youth, lack of experience, inability to cook or keep a Kosher kitchen. She had already told me my face was “too pale and simple.” (“Krisstennn,” she had said, “ you should never go without makeup.”) I could tell by her frequent surveys that my mop-like yellow hair and propensity to wear black repulsed her. I was obviously in no position to defend myself. I’d have to rely on Barak, who had apparently resolved to suck on chicken bones, encourage her to start eating by enjoying his own meal.

“Ani roat-sah Nescafe,” she said. I knew she meant to make coffee; I stood up quickly. “I’ll get it,” I said, and headed for the kitchen, my cheeks burning. I listened to them argue and turned up the flame under the kettle. As I stood at the stove and stared at the wall, I thought of what else she might eat from my repertoire. Grilled cheese sandwich? Hard-boiled eggs? Or perhaps the
sweet potato rotting in the bottom of the refrigerator.

“Starve,” I whispered. “Just fucking starve, you hag.”

The kettle began to whistle, and I welcomed its ability to block out their voices. Barak walked in and pulled the kettle off the stove. I heard a door slam.

“She has gone to bed,” he said, and closed his arms around my waist.

“Your mother hates me,” I told his shoulder.

“Yes, she hates. But it’s not you she hates.”

How philosophical that sounded. Almost poetic. At least the drama was there. I wasn’t in the mood. We returned to the dinner table, and Barak and I ate without talking. Even in bed, we had no words. I stared into the darkness for several hours and listened to my husband quietly snore next to me, fantasized about his mother eating poisoned food, about me telling detectives that she had found something appetizing in the refrigerator and ate without us, that it was appropriate that she should die of poisoning because of all the venom she had brought into our home. The thoughts were enough to lure me into sleep, into several hours without criticism or self-doubt, recipes or garnishes.

We had married two months after my twenty-first birthday, in March, at an attorney’s house in the Hollywood Hills. I agreed to marry him to escape my overly attentive parents. I wanted my freedom, and they wanted to continue parenting me. I honestly just wanted to live on my own, but I had no means to do so.

Barak married me so he could stay in the country. We barely knew each other. Two weeks after meeting in a class at the junior college, I had moved into a spare bedroom in his apartment. Two weeks after that, we were married. He agreed to support me, and I agreed to stay married until he received his green card. We shared our first kiss on our wedding day. It was a horrible, salivating kiss. He’d obviously never learned how to kiss lovingly.

Within a month, Barak and I were sleeping in the same bed. We were so content, with thirty days of marital mastery under our belts, that we decided to hold what Barak referred to as a “proper American wedding” in the summer. Just a few friends, with a small ceremony at my parents’ home in the suburbs, and a reception in the backyard. Polaroids of our families together. A balding French accordion player. My mother invited a handful of her coworkers, and my father nodded as she read the final guest list. My mother was overjoyed, and she shopped with me for my dress, a lacy, knee-length frock that to me seemed too lacy and too short. As we stood at the mirror admiring it, she smiled with wet eyes and told me she thought I was “lovely.” Perhaps we could get my hair done, because it was my wedding day, and what better reason to get “pretty?” And I could put on some lipstick for a change. I’d wear her pearls, the ones that my father gave her on their tenth anniversary, as if wearing pearls would transport me into womanhood.

Barak and I agreed not to tell anyone about our earlier wedding, although we had to tell the minister, a woman from the Eternal Light and Tranquillity Church, and she promised to bring a realistic-looking marriage license that we could sign in front of the family. She also promised secrecy, which alone was worth her $45 fee. I couldn’t bear the thought of explaining myself, or my choices, to my parents. I barely understood them myself.

Our wedding plans included flying Barak’s mother out to California from Israel, and I was excited to meet her. But at the airport, I knew she wouldn’t be easily charmed. Something about her eyes alerted me, perhaps dark brown beads that immediately stabbed me with disapproval.

“You are not Jewish.” Her first words, apparently.

“Ima, she’ll be Jewish soon, don’t worry,” Barak said. This topic consumed our walk to baggage claim, with the two of them discussing it in fast Hebrew words I couldn’t understand. I’m sure he was telling her about my Judaism classes and my intention to convert, because she eventually aimed her gestures at me, again with her eyes locked onto mine, her question clear and sarcastic. “So you think you have what it takes to be a Jew?” She was smiling, which exposed the spaces between gray rectangular teeth.

I nodded and returned the smile, although a warmer smile, then looked at Barak and cocked my head, in an attempt at garnering some endearment. “I think so.”

I was trying too hard. Even I could see that.

“You think so?” Her entire body moved when she spoke.

“I hope so.” I did hope so, although it didn’t seem like such a difficult endeavor: six weeks of class, an oral exam, a ritual bath in front of rabbis.

“You are not truly married until you are a Jew.”

I looked at Barak and coaxed him to help me. He seemed amused.

“Ima, it’s OK. A rabbi’s going to marry us again when she converts.” She shook her head. She squinted until I could see only two dark slivers.

“You have no idea what it is like to be a Jewish wife. No idea.” Our first meeting.

—

Four days later in our kitchen, the toast popped up, light brown. I ate it dry, by the sink and let the crumbs fall into the drain. I wiped the counter and took my coffee into the living room and sat by the window, letting my eyes drift over Hollywood below me. Barak and his mother continued talking until noon, until the apartment smelled like a bar, until I had taken a shower and called my mother to see if she needed any help with the reception. My mother’s voice soothed me. “…a three-tiered cake, you’ll love it; it’s got cream cheese frosting, and I found out that Albertson’s makes lunchmeat platters, they’re really elaborate, with all kinds of turkey and olive loaf, even a little dish of mustard and mayonnaise right in the middle, so I bought three of those, and Grandma says she’ll make a nice plate of veggies, with some of that onion dip that Daddy’s so crazy about.”

I listened quietly and followed the creases of my pleated skirt with my fingers and hugged the receiver with my shoulder and chin, reminding myself that prenuptial doubts were obsolete.

What are we celebrating? I thought.

My mother-in-law chugged into the living room and settled into the overstuffed chair near me. She worked at her purse, removed items from it, counted cash, smeared coppery lipstick onto her wide lips. My mother continued at my ear with her perpetual list of details about clear plastic forks and floral paper plates.

“…and I found a small spray of lavender and white silk flowers that are just perfect for the top of the cake, and I think you’re gonna love the frosting…”

Barak walked into the living room and rubbed his hands together. “OK, everybody, let’s go spend some money,” he said, his volume above my mother’s. His mother squinted up at him and lifted her cigarette toward the ceiling.

“Barak, ani rey-vah.” Another command. She was hungry, likely because she hadn’t eaten dinner the night before, and also likely because she had smoked her breakfast.

“Yes, Ima needs to eat, Krissss-ten.” Barak almost choked on his laughter and had obviously found humor in his mother’s version of my name. I didn’t smile. I simply told my mother we’d see them later that evening for at the restaurant and quietly hung up the phone.

“I could make something before we leave,” I said. Of course the suggestion was futile. Her laughter was immediate. Barak’s followed.

An hour later at the mall, we settled on the 40-piece set of silver, with its whopping price tag and behemoth serving spoons we would never use. I could tell Barak’s mother was satisfied. She raised her hands on the way home in the car and said, “There!” Apparently a triumphant moment.

“It’s perfect, Ima,” Barak said. I could smell her hair again, an overwhelming scent of drugstore hairspray that swelled my throat. I rolled down my window and caught my husband’s grinning eyes in the rear view mirror. I hated the pattern, too asymmetrical, too modern, but I didn’t argue. She was so exhilarated to buy us something we could use, and she seemed pleased that we were replacing the yellowing flatware. I was grateful for the mood swing.

“Yes, thank you Miriam,” I said, leaning forward, fighting an unexpected urge to call her “Marian.”

At home, my closet was a dark cavern, a long tunnel of black clothing. On the shelf above my shoe rack sat a neatly folded, tissue-wrapped pink and white sweater, which my mother had given me the year before. I’d wear the sweater to the restaurant with my black silk pants. I was in the mood to make my mother happy on the eve of my wedding.

“Ah, Kristen,” Miriam said as I walked, pink-clad from the bedroom. I couldn’t help but stare. She stood nearly naked at the ironing board, filling the iron with water, her freckled flesh pouring out from a large white bra and beige half slip. “I am trying to learn how to heat up this i-run.”

I smiled softly at the chance to befriend her. She was obviously still animated from our afternoon shopping spree.

“I never use water,” I said. “I just plug it in and set it on high.”

“Ah, yes, of course, a simple method for a simple girl,” she said. I pulled a chair from the dining room table and sat down.

“This color you’re wearing is good for you,” she said. I thanked her. “It is so sad, a girl with such white skin wears so much black,” she said, and licked her forefinger to touch the iron quickly. “You disappear in black. How can people notice you when you disappear?”

“Well, I’m wearing white tomorrow,” I said. I hoped this would change our subject. “It’s all white. All lace.” I stood up and outlined the dress design with my hands, chopped at my knee to show the length. I watched her face drop, obviously not taking the pleasantry bait.

“I have watched you with my son,” she said.

“I love your son very much,” I said. I paid little attention to the turn in tone of this conversation, instead felt thrilled to have English in my home.

“I mean I have watched you with him,” her comment a bit louder than the last. “You two are not in love. You don’t know how to love my son.” Hands flew around her like hungry bats.

“Of course we’re in love; we’re getting married tomorrow.” I felt my fingers going numb. “Maybe you should think about what you know before you go assuming things.” Finally, it seemed, my courage had emerged, but I still felt numb in my throat as I said it.

“I know,” she said, pulling a finger to her temple and slowing her tempo, “Much. More. Than. You. Think.”

I stood—not wanting to leave, wanting to jab her in the ribs—and headed toward the bedroom to find Barak. The bathroom door was closed with a strip of light under it. I could hear the shower running, so I returned to the kitchen to start the kettle.

“Barak has told me about your ugly wedding, your wedding without love,” she said, still standing at the ironing board, testing the iron with her forefinger. “This is not a real marriage.”

“Right. Well, back then, I was helping your son,” I said, now leaning my shoulder on the door frame. “And now I’m loving your son.”

She shook her head and held up a sleeve to line up its seams. “You are a terrible wife.”

Again, I twisted my face. “What, because you can’t eat my chicken? Because I’m not Jewish?” I surprised myself with the volume. “You don’t even know why I’m a bad wife. I happen to know I’m a lousy wife, but you can’t know that. You haven’t been here. You haven’t seen us together.”

“You are a very rude little girl,” she said, smiling, again testing the iron.

I started to feel a rage. It began under my ribs and moved throughout my body, caused me to shake and my mouth to dry. I stood there watching her use my iron, my ironing board, my living room. For four days, I’d let this woman chain-smoke in my house, call me names, criticize my appearance, my housekeeping, my personality. And for four days, I’d been sugar-lipped, a nodding child, agreeable even to the most acidic of insults. I suspect her comment inspired my response.

“Rude? You’re calling me rude. Rude. Rude. Rude.” I may have repeated the word more than that, I’m not sure, but other words weren’t coming to me. I paced around her and looked at the floor, and then caught her eyes before stopping.

—

Her eyebrows slammed to the middle of her forehead. Insults spat out of me, insults about her weight, her spotted skin, her odor, horrid comments about her stained undergarments in the bathroom, her bad taste in silverware, her foggy teeth. I continued for a good three minutes before shutting up. She stared at me until I collapsed into the dining room chair and held my head. I thought my eyes would explode. It was me who said all those things, and I was done.

“Ah, so this is the woman my son has married.” Slow and controlled. She had this ability; I had to give her that. The smile infuriated me. “You are nothing. Your parents have raised a little girl who cannot make a good home for her husband.”

“At least I have a husband,” a cruel comment, even for me. Her husband had left just two years earlier, a fact I knew but that now didn’t surprise me, a painful subject even Barak avoided. I must have known I would regret it, that it would cause nothing but fury, and that it would destroy the evening. But to think things out, to consider the consequences and try to understand her side of things, was impossible. And unimportant. Yelling at her was important. Fighting back. Insulting her. Crushing her. It wouldn’t matter later. I knew she would return to her place in our family. I knew my apology was inevitable, and that I’d cry, and beg her pardon. I even assumed I would hold her before the wedding and tell her I was sorry beyond sorry, and that I’d never say anything like that again.

Then, the iron.

It began as a tender flat surface against my back, and I imagined it was her hand comforting my rage. She must have felt responsible for pushing me this far. Such warmth. She would prove that she wasn’t an insensitive beast.

Then, the heat.

It progressed into hot pressure that pushed my body to the table, and a hand appearing at my hair, shoving my face and bending my nose into a place mat. Insane heat plunged into my back through my roasting surface. I reached behind me, groping at unfriendly air to find no help. I smelled smoke, a plastic stinging that filled my nose and eyes, and then could see the triangle in my mind. It was a red fiery triangle that raised the skin and formed blisters.

A scream. Was it mine?

The heat turned to ice on my back, and then into nothing, a stony coldness that lacked form and motive. Maybe that one second seemed longer than it truly was. But that one second was vivid, and it would be the only relief I’d have for the next month or so. Burns like this don’t heal quickly. They take their time peeling, blistering, oozing wet. They require time. Gauze strips and white tape, ice packs that prevent the pain from penetrating the nerves. Then, they peel again, to reveal an even more sensitive layer of freshly pink skin. But that skin never returns you back to the old you, that person who didn’t have that three-sided scar between her shoulder blades.

In a moment, I wanted sleep, long tunnels of black that would carry me from the apartment and the stink of stale plastic smoke. The pressure released. But it felt good to fall into the placemat. Offer all the weight of my head to the table. All that soft, pink yarn around my neck, and I would never wear it again.

Of course this wasn’t love. We hadn’t waited for it, hadn’t hoped for the ache, we had only created it. We’d conspired against childhood, built a marriage out of nothing, lived what would become pleasant memories, only walked down an isle that deemed us married.

But somehow, in that short thirty days, his voice had developed an ability to comfort me, even now. I could hear him above me. Her too. I could hear the two of them yelling, him saying kind things about me, standing up to her, for me. I knew he would. We could build a marriage out of this, I knew it. And now I understood it. The heat. The burning. The voices and the anger. I belonged to her now. Hers. Her new daughter. Obedient. A homemaker. A chef who knew how to garnish. And this is how it would be.

Loud, quick voices above me exchanged more Hebrew, meaningless sounds that beat in my ears. How I wished those two would stop arguing. It was so easy now. I would need to prepare that stew after the wedding and repair all this damage. In my mind, the grocery list formed. Potatoes. Beef. And carrots. What could they be yelling about? I vowed that the minute she left the country, the second she stepped onto the plane, things would change. And next time I’d be ready for her. Praise. Adoration. Gifts. All mine. I would enroll in a Hebrew class. And wear lipstick. And wear color. Finish my lessons on how to be a Jewish wife. I’d always wanted to learn to smoke. Learn to burn food. Learn to understand why things were better when burned.

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Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Brian MacDonald
Response

Letter to Santa
By Paula Kaiman
Inspiration piece

Dear Santa,

Thanks so much for the wonderful surprise you left last night (I’ll never forget it)!

We returned home late—yet safe and sound—arriving just before twelve and in perfect synchronicity with the bare, beginning glimmer of the first crystalline snowfall of the season. Everything was aglow, suspended in the finest diamond dust ever. I wish you could have seen it, too (but then, of course, I know you did)!

En route, we toured our own small village, wide-eyed as first-time visitors just pulling in from out of town. The abandoned late night streets seemed as if they had been carefully laid out—with breath held waiting—by some invisible schemer for the sole purpose of welcoming us back home (I knew right away it was you). Richly lit store windows, flush with holiday trim, glimmered like stained glass and precious metal. The night flowed soft as folds of cloth.

Three parked cars and one moonlight window dresser were the only signs of human life (or was that you, by chance—working more of your secret, late night wonders?). Everything was so peaceful. The only sound, a barely-there, icy iridescence—pirouetting in the night—playing whisper-music on the air.

We lowered the windows and stretched our necks outward, just to feel it dance upon our cheeks. All that hovering silver! I wish I could have spent eternity in your midnight snowglobe.

Kudos, Wizard-Saint (you stole my heart again)! Still, as I recall those tip-toed twinklings, it seems a certain truth that the inherent magic was not so much in sparks of color, light, or sound—but in the black and silent, velvet-laden ether in between.

But you already knew I’d adore that, didn’t you, Old Dear?

With all my love (as always),
Paula

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Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Brian MacDonald
Response

Nina Simon
Inspiration piece

Ladies of the Night

You were no lady
just an abandoned kid
from the back streets of Glasgow
while I never knew starvation
nor lacked a mother’s love.

Yet when we met,
both of us felt the connection,
sisters in world of strangers
who didn’t understand.

You called me your brain
because I remembered appointments and facts
while you showed me the hidden side
of streets at night
as we danced till dawn
riding high on clouds of dope
or sitting in your kitchen
emptying bottles of wine
talking about our conquests
the night before.

It was dangerous but safe
and I never thought it would change…

Today
I went to your old flat
stood peering through the window
calling your name
but no answer came through empty rooms
only the echoed hum of memories
through smashed glass.

As I walked back down the littered stairs.
heels reverberating
on worn-down concrete
I can’t help wondering
if, on lonely days
when sweaty dregs of alcohol and curry
pervade the air,
you ever miss me too.

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Elizabeth Cordes
Inspiration piece

Snow falls about gently
like dandelion seeds
in a warm spring breeze.
It seems impossible
from a cloudless sky.

A misty red along the horizon
fades upward
into pink, purple,
then a blue so deep
you would wish to see stars.

But there are none.
There is no sun,
no moon.
There is no glare
off the ice
that surrounds me for eternity
in all directions.

A wooden fishing pole,
a line, a hook,
and myself,
bundled in my parka and mittens.
I crouch over a tiny hole and
drop the line down.

Is there life beneath
this frozen wasteland?
There is no passage of time,
no sense of waiting.
There is only ice,
and the immeasurable distance
between me
and the rest of the universe.

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Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Brian MacDonald
Response

Paul Hunter
Inspiration piece

Whenever Archangels are slumming,
they like to play Jazz.
Gabriel, of course, plays trumpet
and Michael plays saxophone.
Raphael plays bass,
And Uriel plays the drums.

I guess back in the old days,
Lucifer used to play keyboard with them.
He played a mean stride piano, way back when.
Now, he just plays old standards in a seedy little joint
Down the road a bit. With his hair slicked back, he spends his
Evenings buying drinks for all the pretty girls,
Between sets.  They never go home with him, though.

Sometimes when it’s late, and it’s only regulars in the club,
when everybody’s feeling warm and happy,
And Jesus says drinks are on him,
Then the Virgin Mary will join them for a bit.
She’ll sing a couple little numbers,
While the Cherubim and Seraphim do the Lindy hop.
Sometimes, Jesus even  plays guitar.
“Now there’s a man” Says Moses to Elijah
“Who knows how to play the blues.”

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Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Brian MacDonald
Response

Consumption — Amanda Miska
Inspiration Piece

I miss the days of that studio apartment on 4th Avenue.  Both just out of grad school, we basked in the novelty of being starving artists, which is easy to do when you’re not actually starving.  We ate:  bread, eggs, cheese, canned black beans, whatever fruits and vegetables were in season and cheap, and $3 bottles of wine that we’d call the nectar of the gods.  Our budget was boldly posted on the refrigerator door.  We made just enough to cover our bills.  We didn’t have cable television and our monthly allowance for entertainment was enough to see one movie or go to one show at a bar.  We took pleasure in the unexpected, like the day you unearthed your winter coat and found a $10 bill in the pocket or the impromptu Labor Day parade put on by our costumed neighborhood children who threw Tootsie Rolls at us.  We were grateful for the free dessert.

It’s strange how limits give you freedom—maybe that’s an artist thing.  Creativity was vital.  We made love—a creative endeavor in itself—because there was time and because our dial-up internet connection was too slow for porn.  The library was a favorite destination.  Books filled in for the television we didn’t have.  When we weren’t reading, we were writing or listening to our impressive CD collection, founded primarily on thrift store finds.  Thrift stores were treasure hunts for adults, like reliving childhood moments digging in the beach sand for lost coins in the days before the metal detector.  We furnished our apartment and ourselves with secondhand wares.  We took pleasure in our legs, walking or biking everywhere we could—we didn’t need a treadmill.  We quizzed each other at Trivial Pursuit cards with the fervor of Olympic athletes.

There was nothing more joyful than sitting down to a cup of coffee at our favorite local spot on Sunday morning, people watching and doing someone’s discarded Times crossword puzzle. It was like church. There was time, then, to feed our souls.  We cultivated them passionately, with prayer, with conversation, with art.  With potluck dinners and the laughter of good friends.  Our passion was for people, not politics. Politics were about power and control.  There was no love in the political.  No hope.  No ambiguity.  Everyone was right and everyone was wrong. Ignorance prevailed.  Some people assumed that we were the ignorant ones, too lazy to read up on new candidate platforms or take petitions door to door, but that was not the truth.  We chose to separate our lives from the things that drained the world of truth, beauty, and goodness. Those were our words for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

I remember crying the day we left that apartment.  No part of it lacked memory.  We had scribbled on its walls, spilled on its floors, breathed on its windows.  We’d spent five years there, but it was time to move on.  Grow up. Take on real responsibilities, like mortgages and college loan payments.  You started at a new job where the daily dress code included a tie—we jokingly, or perhaps prophetically, called it the noose.

Now there’s steak on our table, two cars in our garage, and fancy wine chilling on the refrigerator door.  Our CDs are in boxes in the basement.  Most evenings, you retreat to your office to work, and I sit alone on the couch, thumbing through a fashion magazine or watching some inane “reality” television show that in no way resembles real life.

I remember one of our writing instructors always said:  we’re fueled by what we consume. She fervently believed that we’d become better writers through osmosis:  if good words go in, good words would come out.  I believed her.  I saw it happen.  I even saw it happen with people—the good ones made me better and the bad ones turned me bitter.  I saw it with us:  the more we were consumed by our love with each other, the more fuel we had to carry us even through the worst situations.

We’re running on empty.  We need new fuel:  the clean-burning kind.

I want to burn again. To be consumed.  I want to be engulfed by art, by language, by love.  That kind of fire is not limited to a one-room apartment several miles across town or a certain moment in time.  It is in us and it is infinite. At any moment, if we fan it, it can spark.

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Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.