Colleen Anderson
Response

Market Street
By Dominic Mazzilli
Inspiration piece

Market Street. The pulsating heart of town throbbed with wealth and an everlasting flow of people in, but not necessarily out.

Market Street was a wide, seemingly endless street paved with large gray cobblestones. It was only interrupted once on its path around the upper third of town, effectively creating a trap which could only be exited by running the length of it. Aside from that single break, which was Broad Street or “The Gutter” as it was called by the less fortunate peoples, no other roads, or even alleys, led into Market Street.

One could simply enter with the intent of passing through to some errand on the other side of town, and find themselves lost for hours. A constant chatter of a hundred dialects mixed with several musicians and near constant fireworks filled the air, spilling into the world around and diving into the colorful cracks of the crowd. As pinwheels spun ever faster and streamers overhead danced in the joy of it all, all sense was forgotten and all direction lost. Thousands of customers and traders of a hundred races went into the dozens of shops and came away with more than any of them intended. These goods that came and went were the lifeblood of town and everyone eventually took part in this give and take.

As you struggled through the blinding colors and laughing folks you might spy the lanky and yellow eyed hunters of the south or the webbed hands of the fish farmers, but no discrimination was here: everyone was just part of the river. One could see every culture on a single street.

Your nose would be grabbed by the scents that spilled from bakeries and street carts serving all manner of delicacies and treats. Sweet bubbling taffys and hot, steaming, meat pies would make your mouth water, you would think of the hot potato broth and crispy meats that lined up around you.

At one point you may stop, even as hundreds streamed around you, and stare straight into a sky of kites and fireworks. Streamers would whirl above you and a happy bubbling beat would strike up nearby. Dozens of voices would fill your ears and hundreds of fragrant aromas fill your nose as every imaginable object and good was sold around you.

And then you would be back into the crowd: yet another customer of the much too kind shop owners, and an oblivious prisoner of Market Street.

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Chandra Achberger
Calm Chaos
Chemigraph, 5×7 on 1970s Kodak Photo Paper
Response

Chandra Achberger
Inspiration piece

Never
By Amy Moffitt
Response

You may forget me,

(you have, in so many ways

and so many times

forgotten me so completely)

but I will never forget you…

kneeling in the graveyard

with your tracing paper

using black charcoal

to copy the stones.

I walked some distance away

and contemplated you,

long legs folded to the earth,

long arms making moving white lines

against the dark green of

the graveyard bushes.

The wind blew,

(or at least I think it did),

and though I know that at that moment

(as in every moment of my life)

I carried shame for what I was not

and disappointment with the world

I remember this as perfection,

the most beautiful and pure expression

of whom we would always truly be,

you the quiet artist, with the eye for the other,

me the driver, helping you

and standing back on the side of the hill,

holding my breath,

in awe of you.

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Betty Nichols
Response

Cherish
By Jenny Forrester
Inspiration piece

I cherish the Bluebird of My Happiness. Beyond myself and even beyond The River, The Writing, The Story of My Story. The Bluebird is Everything. I’m here for her, because of her, and with her. The Wide-Mouthed Underminer can’t consume us, The Gray-Area Gaslighter can’t torch us, The Swirling Chaos Child can’t divide us. There’s a thing about Others and Us. We cherish. They perish.

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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.

Betty Nichols
Inspiration piece

I Am Six Souls
By Jenny Forrester
Response

I’m paper to your tree, grass to your leaves, monster to your color, lines and curves and blue. I’m shelf to your mantle and candle and stone. I’m layers, you see? That’s one of me.

Another soul is my mass. I’m large, pink, and watery, and some of the same layered things from my first soul, but sometimes I’m just this. Large. Pink. Watery.

Third Soul is the middle, gregarious Soul. I’m moonlight night and toads and hidden fox. I’m night though. The third night thing. I’m mostly that.

My fourth soul is a small girl getting pushed aside, wishing for more joyful joy but you won’t let me have that. You’re a shamer, some liar, some lord. I’m a fighting child soul. Fierce favorite soul four.

Soul five. More shadow for fierce girl soul. Also my favorite. Like four.

My sixth soul is offset. I do this for survival. I shift so you can’t put me in your box or take me out. You can’t reach me. I love my sixth soul. I love because of my sixth soul.

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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.

Crow
By Robert Haydon Jones
Response

Eustace had always been a Crow. He had also always been a male Human. Part of Eustace would always dangle. When he took flight, something always glinted. It always felt good. He liked feeling so beautiful. Once, early on, he was diving and glinting and preening in the glint — going faster and faster – when, suddenly he was not alone. He was flying in perfect tandem with a companion. It filled him. He smiled – and then deep chortled for hours.

Crows were a minority and that was okay. The wild thing centered in Eustace and all Crows would never be tamed. Only Crows knew that their wild interior was independent and totally in charge. The others never suspected that the force that could suddenly propel a dozing Crow into an arching epitome of beauty suddenly capping off a reckless, exquisite dive with, say, a soothing, surprise, Immelmann Turn, was a dictator. A bad ass dictator.

Still, it was great to be a Crow! Once, Eustace attacked a heavily fortified position and traversed it left-to-right before they really saw him. Then he came all the way back, right-to-left, while they were still discussing him – their response was so tardy and so drunken that Eustace’s companions laughed and laughed and laughed. He had always known he would reverse course and come back. Of course, it was not his decision. That was scary. Very scary. Very thrilling. Very Crow.

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Jiggle Memorial
By Robert Haydon Jones
Inspiration Piece

The idea of his wife suddenly dropping dead, say, just as she was leaning over toward him to ladle out yet another helping of her delicious scrambled eggs, immediately demolished him.

She was just about to turn 80. She and Eustace had left marriages for each other 45 years back. He was a selfish, vain, mean, besotted lover. She had flung herself at him and had gotten so stinking drunk and so insanely stoned that it was literally decades before she understood what she had done.

When she finally saw it, if you had asked her if she would do it again, she would have laughed her deep guttural laugh and said, “Of course.”

Then after a short silence, she would have said, “Of course,” again because she really liked what those words did to her and to him.

Of course, the sudden, interruptive thought had crushed him completely. He had loved her unceasingly all this time, that was the awful truth. When he envisioned her cascading backwards and hitting her head hard on the floor as the stroke snuffed her out, an awful lot came with. The fire department had been good. The ambulance team had been very good. They had even pushed on a tad longer than necessary after they realized she really was gone forever.

In the next milliseconds, Eustace notified the seven children, appeared at the Services, cremated his wife and let the dust settle. Then he was alone. It was awful. All this time, she had been his faithful companion. He was a great lover only because she knew he was.

The eggs were delicious as always. She was a brilliant cook. Eustace wondered if all brilliant cooks were fabulous lovers.

He doubted it but he didn’t know. That vexed him.

Christ, he loved his wife! Maybe a lot more than she loved him! How could he ever take her for granted again? It just wouldn’t be the same if he couldn’t take her and her sweet ass for granted.

What was he going to do? Was he a great lover or not?

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Chandra Achberger
Inspiration piece

“Will You Come?”
By Kamika Cooper
Response

The journey to Restoration Valley had taken two and a half days. The weather had been perfect: clear skies, pollen-free breathing, and the temperatures reaching a high of 65 degrees during the day. Amina and Fir had packed just enough food and water to sustain them along the way. But sustenance and weather were never the paramount concern. Every time they thought they found a new, safe place to live, they soon found themselves among the hunted, requiring them to go on the run once more. They wanted the safety, and freedom Restoration Valley was rumored to provide. Though they had no idea what that meant – there were only rumors – anything had to be better than their current reality.

Amina, Fir, and some 40,000 other people who looked like them were in grave danger. They had been for some time but were blinded to the truth when the hunting began. They were among those who, for a few generations, were lulled into a false sense of safety by their wealth, privilege, and education. Believing themselves to be equals with the very people they were running from now, they allowed themselves to become too comfortable, letting their guard down too soon.

They cleared the cover that the trees had provided for the last day of their journey and exited the woods to find the lush, steep green hill said to be the valley’s entryway. It was so tall and wide; It looked as if they would need to reach the sky before descending. A reassuring voice entered their minds: You only need to make it to the top. Once there, you will be safe.

They heard yells behind them; Hunters were near. Tired – so very tired – and nearly out of steam, they began to run up the hill. They were halfway up when the first shot rang out. Fir looked as if he might give up. Amina pulled at his elbow, nudging him upward, knowing that she could not descend into Restoration Valley without him. Fire spread across the back of Amina’s thigh. Though she had never felt a gunshot before, she knew this is what had occurred. Fir’s arm abruptly wrested from her loving hand, and all hope was lost. They were in pain, bleeding, vision blurred, and gasping for air when they reached the valley’s top.

All the gunfire stopped.

Light surrounded them, lifted them, and carried them down into the valley. Their wounds began to heal, and as they regained their vision, they saw the most beautiful, smooth structure before them. It looked to be constructed from hematite. The benevolent, soothing voice entered their minds again.

We have healed your injuries, but we understand that some scars do not heal as swiftly. You are free to return the peak if you wish, but know that you are welcome on our ship and our planet. If you are willing, we have come to take you to your new home. There may be many new challenges, but we can promise that they will not be the ones you are facing now, and you will never be among the hunted again. Will you come?

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Lisa Pimental
“345”
Inspiration piece

Why You Should Drift
By Amy Moffitt
Response

Look.

The lemon-yellow butterfly

has fluttered by and gently

returned and

dipped its head deep

into the morning glory blossom

again, and again.

Listen.

The bird on the porch rail

has the clearest, most

insistent song, it

came from nowhere

quick and bright, and

it sang to your heart

before you saw it.

Feel.

The breeze is tracing

a blessing across your forehead,

up your arms,

conspiring with sweat

to embrace and refresh you.

Taste – while you still can

the blackberry on your tongue,

its satisfying heft

giving way to a

baptism of new wine.

Smell (can you?)

the rain in the air, remember refreshment and

the gift of green leaves,

the sight of running streams,

fat and alive.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

No one was ready for this.

Ride the waves as they come…

You must drift to survive.

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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.

Rusty Lynn
“Bubbling Sea”
Response

Listening to Crosby, Stills, and Nash, The Captain, and thinking……

Take This Stranger From My Boat
By Kathleen Finn Jordan
Inspiration piece

Dreaming of drifting in a boat on a bubbling sea
Drenched in wind and blue and blazing sun and
A runaway train streaming from the land
A virus disk wants to be friends
Wants to eat me up…wants to
Take away the breathing of the ocean air
The breathing of the closeness where

“Take this stranger from my boat”
Distance me from it at a bounty’s cost
The cost of hugs, kisses, joined hands and
Work and team and running to the hoop
The joy of being together with special friends and the cheer
and hoots of the game, the arena. the stage, the cherry blossoms…
Take this stranger from my boat
And from all who avoid its encounter
Masked and gloved with bleached hands and troubled faces
Hoping, dreaming, not of a return to the remembered past
But of a new invigorated planet loving and protecting tomorrow.

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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.