Pharoah Bolding
Response

Remember Grey
By Guillermo Warley
Inspiration piece

He remembers his mother’s pain. Her crying at night, how helpless he felt when he could not console her. Back then it was all his father’s fault, the villain that had left her, breaking 25 years of marriage.

It was so long ago. All the stories he heard about his parents’ marriage were skewed. What his father had done, what he hadn’t done but should have done. The dismal finances, and the treason.

He was just a teenager in those days, and he took sides. He took his mother’s side. Options were only black or white at the time. So many incomplete versions, so many biased opinions heavily influenced by emotions. There was pressure. From close friends of the family, from relatives, and from society and its rigid rules about what is right and what is wrong.

It would shape his life for years to come. His thoughts on relationships, his perception of love, even his own happiness. He dutifully took care of mom, the victim, the wronged woman. He suddenly grew 10 years, assumed a role of mediator, peacemaker, and breadwinner. All of it way too soon for such a young man.

He listened to his mother, for years to come, constantly making excuses for not working, for not trying to find love again, for not starting over. Eventually, like a self-fulfilling prophecy, she became a bitter and sad woman. A defeated person who did not have the will, or perhaps the courage, to pick herself up and move on. She had already “invested” 25 years of her life, why should “she” have to start over because of his father’s decision to leave?

He grew older. A decade and a half passed. His own life taught him about relationships and how inherently complicated they are. He reconnected with his father. He now knew about marriage and about fatherhood. He had learned the difference between the intent of “till death do us part” and real life. Devoid of the intense initial emotions, no longer blinded by his mother’s pain, he could finally hear the other side of the story. Conversations, letters, emails. A different story slowly emerged.

He learned that black and white explanations are rarely true, or sufficient. Different facts, different circumstances to those that had been engraved in his mind for years. He saw the gray, both on his father’s thinning hair and on the reasons for the divorce from his mother.

He saw a man not unlike himself across the tables of many cafes along the narrow streets of Buenos Aires. He asked tough questions, he did not spare his father any criticism, he made sure his father understood his pain, his mother’s pain, the roles taken, the opportunities missed. But most importantly, he listened. They both did. He finally understood. He found peace within himself. The lesson learned, though long and painful, was a worthy one. It now guides his own life. He no longer takes sides quickly. “Remember gray” he says to himself when faced with many of his own conflicts. Remember gray, indeed.

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Oregon Coast – Newport Beach. Photo taken by Pharoah Bolding.

Blaine Klitzke – Double Falcon Summer (Click for MP3)
Inspiration piece

Beach Comber
By Pharoah Bolding

Response

He always enjoyed the beach.

He couldn’t help but find himself immersed in the experience of nature whenever the opportunity to roam the beach arose. The sand between his toes; the moist winds careening in from the sea; the calming serenity of the sunset on the aquatic horizon. To him it was like nirvana. He needed this; he needed to get away from the insanity of the city. He needed this reprieve from smog and congestion and traffic jams and foul-mouthed exchanges. Life had been pretty intense as of late and, well, being on the beach like this was equally refreshing and strengthening. He inhaled a slow and steady dollop of oxygen, reveling in the feel of the fresh ocean air as it traversed his interior before exhaling as slow and steady possible. He decided right then and there that once he was done with his afternoon’s business that he would saunter around this little seaside town and look into a timeshare opportunity. He loved it here. He began to dream of starry nights with luxurious ocean breezes . . . fine wine and long summers . . . freedom from his obligations . . .

. . . then the cold steel his ivory cotton slacks and midnight-toned leather belt held clutched to his abdominal region scratched against his weathered stomach skin.

That brought him right back down to reality.

This was no vacation – and he was no tourist.

The beach was just a setting – a setting for a deadly game. As much as he wanted to immerse himself in it . . .

The beach would have to wait.

He had business to attend to.
Blaine Klitzke

Inspiration Piece

(Please click the link to download – MP3)

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Pharoah Bolding
Response

A Little Excitement
By Helen Lewis
Inspiration piece

I blame my mother-in-law, Amelia. If she hadn’t been visiting us when my husband Greg staggered into the kitchen with his clothes torn and gently smouldering, announcing he’d finally got the time machine to work, no-one would have suggested throwing a dinner party to celebrate, and the worst night of my life might still be the sixth-form disco when I was carted off on a stretcher after hyperventilating during a slow dance with Dave Harrison.

On the night of the dinner party, Amelia and I were in the kitchen peeling prawns when Greg poked his head round the door and announced the guests had arrived. I followed him into the living room.

Oscar Wilde was standing on the hearthrug, reading from the copy of The Importance of Being Earnest I’d left on the mantelpiece for him to sign. In his other hand he held a lit cigar, which he was waving about for dramatic emphasis. Mrs Beeton, Amelia’s guest, was perched on the edge of Greg’s favourite armchair, surreptitiously running a finger over the top of the lamp table to inspect for dust. Reclining on the sofa was a young man in a gold-edged toga. He was dipping his hand into the potpourri bowl on the coffee table and popping handfuls of its contents into his mouth.

‘Your guest?’ I whispered, elbowing Greg in the ribs.

He nodded.

‘And he would be?’

‘Caligula.’

There was a choking sound from the sofa, and several pieces of damp pot-pourri arced across the room and landed on the hearthrug, narrowly missing Oscar’s shoes.

Caligula jumped up, shouting obscenities in Latin, and tossed the pot-pourri bowl over his shoulder, decapitating the shepherd girl figurine Amelia gave us last Christmas. As the old adage goes, every cloud has a silver lining.

Amelia chose that moment to make her entrance. ‘Bonsoir, bonsoir,’ she beamed, lifting her kaftan and giving a little curtsey. ‘I am so enchantée to meet you all.’ Greg says his mother has been peppering her speech with French phrases ever since she took a Cordon Bleu cookery course in the seventies.

Amelia ushered us into the dining room, and to our places at the table, where a glass of white wine and a serving of prawn cocktail were waiting for each of us.

Caligula sniffed the wine and held his prawn cocktail glass up to the light. He slammed both glasses down in front of Greg.

‘I’ve got my own. Those are yours,’ Greg explained, returning the glasses.

Caligula shoved them back.

‘I think he wants you to taste them,’ said Amelia.

‘Whatever for?’ asked Greg.

‘Maybe after ingesting some of your dried flowers earlier, he thinks you’re trying to poison him,’ suggested Oscar.

‘Look -’ began Greg, but he stopped short when he caught sight of the expression on Caligula’s face. He took a sip of Caligula’s wine and ate a spoonful of prawns from his glass. ‘Yummy,’ he said, smiling broadly and rubbing his stomach as if talking to a toddler.

For the next minute and a half Caligula didn’t take his eyes off Greg. At last he took the prawn cocktail glass by the stem and tossed back the prawns in a single gulp. He did the same with the wine. He wiped his mouth on the edge of the tablecloth and gave a satisfied belch.

The main course was another of Amelia’s spécialités.

‘What is this?’ asked Mrs Beeton, suspiciously.

‘Chicken korma,’ said Amelia, proudly. ‘It’s very à la mode.’

‘And this on the side?’

‘Mango chutney.’

‘Is it supposed to be that colour?’

‘That’s how it comes out of the jar.’

‘I see,’ said Mrs Beeton, her voice dripping with condescension. She prodded at the chicken listlessly, and then put a piece in her mouth and winced. ‘It has a rather … unusual consistency.’

‘Consistency is overrated,’ said Wilde. ‘I’ve always considered it to be the last refuge of the unimaginative.’

What wit. Oscar and I laughed like drains. I don’t think anyone else can have heard him.

Caligula must have decided we weren’t trying to poison him after all, because he polished off the chicken korma with aplomb, and motioned to Greg to top up his wine glass. He then leant across the table, took the pencil from behind Greg’s ear, and started drawing something on his paper napkin.

When he’d finished he gave it to Amelia.

‘And what has our budding Da Vinci drawn?’ asked Oscar.

Amelia put on her reading glasses and held the napkin at arm’s length, squinting. She turned it around a couple of times.

‘It, er… looks like a self-portrait… and he’s… mon dieu, he’s having sex with a horse!’

From the other side of the table there was a tiny gasp followed by a hefty thud, and Mrs Beeton disappeared from view.

Oscar came to the rescue with a bottle of smelling salts. When Mrs Beeton came round, she thanked him for his kindness.

‘My good woman, think nothing of it,’ he replied. ‘One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing.’

At that moment there was a horrible retching noise. Caligula was throwing up into the fruit bowl.

The arrival of Amelia with the dessert was a welcome distraction.

‘Tell you what,’ said Greg, ‘why don’t we have our dessert out on the patio? It’s a lovely evening.’ Everyone was happy to agree, and get as far away from the fruit bowl as possible.

Amelia’s dessert, tiramisu, was a great hit. Neither Mrs Beeton nor Oscar could find anything scathing to say about it, and despite his dodgy digestion, Caligula came back for thirds.

‘Have you left something on the stove, Mum?’ Greg asked, as he was scraping the last traces of dessert from his bowl.

‘No,’ replied Amelia.

I sniffed the air. There was a smell of burning coming from inside the house. I sent Greg to investigate.

‘I don’t want anyone to panic,’ said Greg when he came back, ‘but the living room’s on fire.’

*

When the fire engine eventually arrived flames were licking from the bedroom windows and a black pall of smoke hung over the whole street.

‘Been having a fancy dress party?’ asked the fire chief, chattily. I glanced around. An ageing ‘hippy chick’ wearing a kaftan and a headband was pacing up and down the pavement, taking photos of the blaze with a mobile phone. A young woman in a crinoline and shawl was sitting on a neighbour’s wall, fanning her face with a paper napkin, a man wearing a velvet smoking jacket and carrying a silver-tipped cane was chatting animatedly with one of the younger members of the fire crew, and a youth in a toga with a golden laurel wreath perched precariously on his head was throwing up noisily into the gutter.

‘Fancy dress?’ I said. ‘Yes, something like that.’

Greg came over to the fire chief and started blabbering incoherently about the shed.

‘Now calm down, sir. We have everything under control.’

‘I think my husband wants to know whether the garden shed is still standing,’ I explained. ‘He keeps his time ma- … I mean… his tools in the shed.’

The fire chief gave me his best ‘we’ve got a right one here’ look, but he made a call on his walkie-talkie, after which he was able to confirm that the shed was not only still standing, but was completely undamaged. Greg hugged him.

As soon as the fire engine had left, Amelia announced, ‘You two are coming to stay chez moi while all this mess gets sorted out. I insist.’

I didn’t have the energy to argue.

We all made a point of seeing our guests off. We said our goodbyes outside the shed.

Caligula was the second person that evening to be on the receiving end of one of Greg’s hugs. As Greg embraced the young despot there was a clinking sound, and as he pulled away, three bottles of wine fell out from under the Emperor’s toga and smashed on the garden path. Greg pushed him through the shed door with somewhat more force than was necessary.

Amelia turned to Mrs Beeton. ‘I’d like to say what a plaisir it has been to meet you,’ she said.

Mrs Beeton managed a smug smile. ‘Well…’ she began, but Amelia hadn’t finished.

‘I’d like to be able to say that, but I can’t. I’ve never met such a snobby, stuck-up vache in my whole life.’

Before Mrs Beeton could say anything in response, Greg ushered her hastily into the shed.

I turned to Oscar. ‘I’m sorry to have to say goodbye so soon,’ I said, ‘but I think, all things considered, it’s probably for the best.’

‘My dear,’ replied Oscar, ‘I am quite ready to return to my own time, thank you. As I always say, a little excitement is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.’

I couldn’t have put it better myself.

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Jack Hernandez

Inspiration Piece

Pharoah Bolding 

Response

There was something about her.

He noticed it in the curvature of her back, the neat yet liberated way her hair tickled her neck, the smooth lines of her petite and slender body. When he looked at her he saw epic musical numbers, poetry and time signatures intertwining creatively. He saw monarch butterflies and coral roses, both fragile yet visually arresting in their own way. That is exactly what she was, mind and body. She had limitless potential, and whether she found herself under the gaze of the silver screen or the beaming lights of Broadway he knew that she would be a star. He saw vanity mirrors and successful casting calls in her future.

Too bad she could not see the same.

Confidence is a fickle beast that way.

She looked back at him, the point of her chin softly masked by the slope of her left shoulder, a loving smile perched upon her lips. He instinctively smiled back.

Adoration is a fickle beast as well.

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Pharoah Bolding
Response

Attain to Innocence
By Nickolas Lotze
Inspiration piece

Wounded’ness becomes an idea turned vehicular

traveling through darkly lit tunnels expanse;

wounded romantics rushed stage left

exit by blaring ambulance;

not for sakes of discernment,

but a second chance.

Viewed through hospital doors automatic,

residence in the emergency room refusing treatment;

expectations rise no higher than traumatic,

and the views kept obscured by misinformed consent;

tragedies often sit opposite the pragmatic.

Flashing lights in the night mix

with feelings deflated by a grieving process,

with fingers crossed behind our back in regards to

something resembling a plan to find a fix,

trying to separate the dead excess

from what’s left intact of your wholeness,

and what can be written off as expendable losses.

Time will always sacrice parts of itself,

in the interest of pleasing particular part

of ourselves ’ll keep us from taking risk;

offer refrain to recover;

satisfied with everything it lacks

and with its inert ability to see reason.

A method seems to be strategic in

ever meeting the half a person of you ’s left;

realization you’re half of what you began with,

and these are simply facts enforcing our gullibility

in so much hopes are the same as unreasonable expectations

and in this crooked state of mind we’re hoping to find

a tangibility representing a better present,

able to exist far into our future serving as a distraction.

And so we wrap ourselves up with tragedy

and this becomes an adaptive strategy

serving as a wall to keep everyone at arm’s length

and only stokes our issues with abandonment,

the what ’s, pain and other irks

stale accomplishment.

The real trauma becomes the sum

of all of our assumptions;

shattered laid with us on the floor,

alongside innocence in the trust lost we’ll never get back,

betrayal has forced us across a line in sordid affinity,

feeling the same way when a young person is robbed of virginity.

But it’s in colossal betrayal

we gain the awareness

and understanding of what was once compromised

wasn’t measured in terms of infinity

and we’re shown we have the ability

to transcend into a type of secondary purity.

I suppose the only question left

is when will you attain to innocence?

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Pharoah Bolding

Response

The baby was passed out in the stroller, head back, mouth open, not nearly as funny as when adults do it.

The man who had stolen the baby stood shirtless at the ironing board. Ironing helped him think. He thought about Bernie, his old partner, before he got clipped. He could practically smell Bernie’s breath.

“How you gonna get money for this kid? Let me ask you this: how you gonna ask for ransom when you don’t know who he belongs to? You need to think before you act. I ain’t just saying that.”

Irene Plax

Inspiration Piece

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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.