Betty Nichols
Inspiration piece

Sit With Yourself
By Margaret Simon
Response

The chicory radicchio is said
to be the ultimate crunch in your daily salad,
rich in vitamin K.

This red dagger isn’t dangerous.

The flame that is the yellow body of a bee
harmlessly flying from tree to tree
pollinates, perpetuating life.

This red dagger isn’t dangerous.

When you are faced with the sharp points
of a knife you use every day,
look closely. The stain of death
may be the blood of birth,
the path of its blade leading to light.

This red dagger isn’t dangerous.

A snow-filled valley will green in spring.

Sit with yourself.
Give it time.
(c) Margaret Simon

________________________________
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.

Cathy Stevens Pratt
Inspiration piece

Here to There
By Amy Souza
Response

Can you get from here to there?
Abandon that tree limb
For the next phase
Grass to sky to building to river
Submerged
Whatever you dream feels real
When you’re in it
Contours tell a part story
Your brain fills in the rest
A vertical life stretches long with
Promise
Coursing through inky veins
Until one day maybe you’re let in on the secret
You’ve always longed to know

________________________________
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.

Cathy Stevens Pratt
Response

Mind of Bees
By Amy Souza
Inspiration piece

You must have a mind of bees

To keep you company on quiet days

That stretch unending toward decades alone

Your voice unused to connection

That cracks when employed

The bees can buzz you through

Become friends. They don’t like to

Let you get a word in edgewise but

You should try. Crack open those

Dusty vocal cords to speak

Your sorrow until you scream above the

Humming blustery beehive and

Let them see who they’ve been

________________________________
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
Response

Egret Blues
By Margaret Simon
Inspiration piece

It’s a tryin’ time to be a symbol of peace
Tryin’ during this time to be peace
full of a sad song in the air
There’s a sad song swirling in the air
tropical winds just don’t care.

That hurricane down south in the gulf
A storm makes peaceful turn to rough
I’m walkin’ this line waitin’ for a sign
A sign of weather’s high-pitched whine
A whine can’t keep from cryin.

Egret blues echo in Lord’s sunrise
Lord’s sunrise blurs my sideways eyes
I’m catchin’ the tailwind, ready to fly
Ready to fly through the bright new sky
A horizon of Peace by and by.

________________________________
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.

Jennifer Fendya
“Going Somewhere”
Inspiration piece

Jenny Forrester
Response

I’m leaving. You, throngs of people who’ve become The Man under the guise of sticking it to Him. ‘Twas ever thus with your kind. And you. You, tiny man with your tulips and your pinup girl pins, asking me if I’ve lost weight under the guise of being complimentary and caring. You, small woman with your making fun of your thin lips under the guise of being anti-racist. You, eensy man with your not liking mayonnaise under the guise of being woke. You, anti-government revolutionary with your womanizing of women of many ethnicities under the guise of being a lover of women. You, rebel with your arsenal under the guise of protecting the constitution of the united states. You, drug-user, using and abusing yourself under the guise of personal freedom and solidarity with the incarcerated. All of you, squiggly lines, headed to a vanishing point. Vanishing. Your voices, blending and ending. But I see the mountain. Sovereign. I’m headed there on the loud road, blocking out your noise, going somewhere, leaving all of you, you throngs, you mind-controlled, you tiny, small, eensy, pseudo-kind, pseudo-revolutionaries, pseudo-pseudos. Headed somewhere, outta here.

________________________________
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.

Jennifer Fendya
“Cuspy”
Response

Jenny Forrester
Inspiration piece

A millennial/gen-y cuspy ecology graduate who should know better, wipes off the baby goats with towels. The mother goat in the video sniffs the towels, licks them, doesn’t get to lick her baby clean, doesn’t get the nutrients…I cry and cry, consider telling the millennial/gen-y cuspy ecology graduate with land and goats and a house that I’ll probably never have, a piece of advise…but she’d probably just get pissed off and rage-vague-post and then tell all her friends and they’ll call me Boomer and cancel me. And the mother is so hungry, needs the nourishment, her licking will warm the baby, but the millennial/gen-y cuspy ecology graduate who should know better posts cute baby goat pics and gets a lot of likes. I envision the mother, so hungry, needing to birth two more kids after that first toweled-off kid, having to load up on the feed given her, missing out, the baby goat missing out, the next kids missing out. Because the millennial/gen-y cuspy ecology graduate…should know better but doesn’t.

________________________________
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.

Cathy Stevens Pratt
Inspiration piece

If You Call Me Again
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Response

“If you call me again, I will report you,” I say with impatience, as I press the disconnect tab on my phone. I haven’t ordered pizza since The Big Change. What’s more, I certainly don’t give my credit card information to anonymous callers.

I shake my head and return to my puttering. It’s probable that the individual, the one who was phishing for access to my funds, failed to realize that his number showed up as “private,” rather than as a serious of digits, and that he failed to realize that my threat was as real as was his intent to secure a large, pineapple and cheese-covered, pie for me. It’s probable, too, that he was tasked by Jake.

I shrug as I rearrange another scoop of dirt in the closest window box. That container houses rosemary, basil, parsley, and celery because it sits in our southern window. In our northern aperture, my sister and I grow chives, mint, sweet peas, and radishes. The radishes, alone, are useful in their entirety. The other plants’ roots don’t get eaten but get added to our compost bucket.

Sis and I need those green friends as much as we need the cherry tomatoes, rainbow kale, and curly lettuce that are growing under heat lamps in our main room. Fresh food has been otherwise unattainable to us (and most of the rest of the world) from the time of the blight. Simply, outdoor horticulture is impossible.

Whereas the planets’ princes can access greenhouses, the majority of us inhabitants can do so only in our dreams. More exactly, the corporations that run the world’s indoor, vertical farms are almost as avaricious as were pharmaceutical companies of the Twenty-First Century. Last century, people died of cancer even though most forms of the disease were curable. This century, people die of malnutrition despite the fact that sufficient tons of crops are grown to feed everyone. Scarcely one per cent of civilization ingests wholesome eats.

I look up at the temporalmeter. The screen indicates that Vangerline will be home soon. Her shift at the tiny house manufacturing facility will be over in less than one hundred and fifteen minutes. Sis, who is a floor framing expert, enjoys a great job security.

These days, everyone lives in tiny houses. Sure, I’ve seen pictures of, and remember Mama and Papa’s tales of houses large enough to swallow up five of ours, but I don’t remember ever walking around inside such behemoths. Even wealthy folks, those people who can regularly purchase the fresh produce grown in exclusive hydroponic high-rise buildings, don’t own homes more than thirty feet long, more than eight and one half feet wide, or more than one and one half stories high.

I almost married the scion of one such family. In addition to their thirty footer, his parents own a compact car! That young man never travels on buses, trains, or via the subway. He never crowed to me or to his peers about his family’s transportation extravagance, though, in view of the fact that his best buddy’s parents own a full-sized sedan. Allegedly, his best buddy constantly brags about it.

How could anyone, no matter their fiduciary status, afford to fuel such a large conveyance? Even among the elite, among those individuals who can afford fresh salad, daily, few can likewise regularly buy enough grain to manufacture biofuel.

Anyway, that blackheart’s name is Jake, Jake Kingsmaker. He took me to homecoming and to prom during our senior year and offered to pay my tuition if only I’d attend the same university as he.

Mind you, literal free ride or no, I had no interest either in being someone’s embellishment or in attending classes that I couldn’t replicate online. Besides, I had heard that Jake’s older brother had gotten several girls pregnant in succession and then had promptly abandoned his resulting progeny as well as deserting their mothers. Seeing as Jake already dressed, smoked, and gambled like his older sibling. I presumed he’d similarly style himself after him in the intimacy arena.

Moreover, I’m as handy with power tools as is Vangerline. After I finish my associate’s degree, I plan to exploit her connections and to attach myself to a vapor barrier crew. Although I’d love to train as a plumber, for the reason that most of them make enough money to buy twenty footers, I lack the resources necessary for apprenticeship fees.

At any rate, Jake didn’t take kindly to being rejected. He asked his parents to make me a persona non grata at all of the online schools, having forgotten that my uncle founded one of the original correspondence colleges. Uncle Mac had seen the wisdom, long before the advent of copycat institutions run by affluent parties for rapacious reasons, in making learning nearly free for the impoverished majority. Before he died of scurvy, Uncle Mac had made sure that a school, where ordinary youth could learn about medicine, farming, and all of the other civilized arts, existed.

True, his school’s initial offerings were relatively primitive studies such as graphic design and coding, but as various technologies became available in shareware, Uncle Mac’s institute was able to offer more and more majors. At present, his college’s catalog rivals those of brick and mortar universities and of for-fee online choices.

It’s amazing that someone can become a veterinarian or a gardener through online training. However, I wouldn’t waste my years studying landscape architecture unless I could make sense of working for minimum wage in a museum. I’ll leave animal science to others, too, as I seem to be allergic to various sorts of dander. For two weeks after my senior class trip to the state controlled animal husbandry park, I was sneezing and rashy.

Since he was stymied by my academic protexia, Jake tried to hit back in other ways. Once, he managed to provoke town officials into dropping in on Sis and me and serving us with papers that would let the officials condemn our home. Those bosses were defeated as we are up to code or well past most minimums for eighteen footers (Vangerline knows a lot more about home construction than just the specifics of foundations. It’s a point of pride that our home is superior to kindred dwellings.)

Further, one of the inspectors that had been induced to make Sis and me homeless turned out to be a fellow who had grown up with my parents and who had been sweet for our mom. As a sort of compensation for the grief he had caused, that man left behind two tickets for a hamburger joint. He had received those vouchers when another powerful denizen had bribed him to perform yet another “important” assignment (Bung keeps the families of many middle managers afloat.)

To cut a long story short, Vangerline and I saved up those coupons for her birthday. That year, when celebrating her newest number, we indulged in synth burgers topped with real (!) pickles and served with sides of real (!) carrots. After our once in a lifetime entrees, we splurged and bought slices of real (!) apples, for dessert. Sometimes, it’s okay to blow an entire month’s pay on a single folly.

After a short span had passed, Jake tried again to sprinkle misery on my life. I’ve become increasingly surprised at the amount of time he’s been able to devote to such treachery as the school he attends, allegedly, is demanding.

To be more precise, one day, while I was hanging laundry, a mean cuss of a dog came running into our yard, directly toward me. In response to his impending attack, I began to sing dog music.

The pup abruptly stopped, tilted its head, and then lay down. It began to whimper. I had never told Jake that I possessed an affinity with animals He was always too busy trying to get his hands inside of my clothes or asking to copy my calculus notes to care about the details that comprise me. I’m no horse whisperer – I’ve seen only the horse at the state controlled animal husbandry park, but I have a certain empathy with smaller animals. No, my communication skills don’t extent to squirrels, rats, pigeons, or anything else hunted to near extinction, but is limited to the domesticated brutes owned by the rich. Don’t ask – my discovery of my ability is a story in itself.

Many months went by without any new challenges from Jake. Come springtime, though, I received a snail mail stating that by visiting a nearby resort, i.e., by stepping into a lauded one hundred plus-sized camper, I could claim my prize. The letter declared that my lottery ticket had won the popular vacation destination’s jackpot.

The problem with that missive was that I no more buy lottery tickets than I eat wheat toast or oat cereal for breakfast. All I can afford is synth flakes drowned in artificial juice. I crumbled the letter into a ball and tossed it to Mouse, the former attack dog. Mouse responded by trying to lick my face. I countered with an offer of a belly rub.

A few weeks later, rumor went wild that the fancy place, to which I had been directed, had collapsed and then had been declared a hazard by the fire marshal. There’s a reason that even our skyscraper farms top out at thirty floors.

More recently, I hear that Jake is getting married. He’s decided to cinch up, according to local gossip, with Penelope White. Like Jake, her parents own a thirty footer. Unlike him, she grew up riding in a station wagon; her parents are wealthier than even Jake’s bestie! I heard that her family is in a stratosphere of holdings that enables them to not only eat daily salads, but also to drink daily smoothies.

Additionally, unlike Jake, Penelope spent time in the armed forces and then in the Peace Corp. She trained military working dogs and then spent a few years in Scarsdale, where she tried to help the indigent grow greens.

I do know what she sees in Jake. Even if philandering is common among the men in his family, so, too are dreamy blue eyes and golden manes of hair. I’m guessing that Penelope handles misbehaving with silent commands, fur, and teeth. I’m guessing, too, that she won’t be reliant on Jake or on her own family for sustenance. If she wasn’t going to become Jake’s bride, I’d be happy to get to know her better.

All in all, I’ll never know whether or not the credit card phisher was one of Jake’s thugs. The kid was pretty unsavvy, so it’s highly possible. On the other hand, maybe Jake’s association with Penelope is forcing him to turn to people who are more sophisticated than common hoodlums.
Somehow, I doubt it.

There’s now fewer than fifty minutes until my sister’s due home. I pick a few leaves from a basil plant and pinch off a few sprigs of parsley. I plan to chop those herbs and then sprinkle them over the synth meat I will sauté for our dinner.

Before I start fussing on our camp stove, I take an envelope out of our kitchen drawer and turn it over in my hands. Inside of that covering are the seeds from the apple slices we ate at the fancy restaurant. I was able to salvage four of them.

Maybe if I started with a deep pot, I could grow more than herbs and vegetables. If I sell one of our two chairs, I could make room.

________________________________
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.

Cathy Stevens Pratt
Response

Herr Mittemeister
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Inspiration piece

A bird whistles. Herr Herman Mittemeister hums an accompaniment. His voice shines.

Likewise, his hair and nails are neatly trimmed. His uniform is free of wrinkles. His face, however, is lined and shadowed. It is his visage, rather than his singing, which provides a counterpoint to the avian’s melody.

Mittemeister looks through his cell’s window. He regards the nightingale with which he is trying to harmonize. He then looks past the tree, on which the bird perches, to the Danube. His prison sits on Handöfel Island.

Mittemeister can see only one shore. There, the town of Tolksburg rises. In that town’s marketplace, merchants are settings up stalls.

Among the sellers are the farmers, whose land fringe the valley containing the river. Similarly, there are tutors, whose homes dot the hills around the valley. As well, creative persons self-referenced as “craftsmen” vend vessels, paintings, clothing, and more. Additionally, peddlers ring bells and beat pots to draw attention to matches, to toys, to live animals, and to knives.

Four years earlier, when Mittemeister, Eric Kluger, and Carl Grosser were enrolled in university, they had dared each other to skip a day of class. Rather than listen to their professors’ lectures, the threesome had walked among women bickering over apples and mackerels and among butchers busy with large, broad blades.

The streets had been crowded and the air, too, had been chockablock with the hoots of the wind, the chants of sellers, and the music of birds (many of those sky fish had been the same species as the one with whom Mittemeister made music from his cell.) Regardless, at the time, the noise had meant that Mittemeister had barely been able to hear his friends’ “wisdom.”

The boys had settled in a beer garden and had been comparing the worth of various brews. Eric preferred Schwartzbier, but Carl was partial to Doppelbock.

“We’re both right. Let’s, dear sirs, drink to beer. What is better than a beer?”

“A friend. What is better than a friend?”

“Be realistic.”

“Entirely. What is better than a friend?”

“The three of us, our coterie!”

“How cliché.”

“Yup.”

“Heads, I win, and you buy. Tails, you lose, and you buy.”

“Huh? Let me see that coin.”

“No. No. Be a gentleman, Sir. You buy.”

“It’s too expensive.”

The two had leaned toward Herman Mittemeister for his opinion on who should pay. Their conversation was abruptly interrupted.

An elder, in green work fatigues, hobbled past their table. He was huffing and puffing while making his way to the seating area where men in expensive-looking woolen coats had gathered. That elder bowed slightly upon approaching the well-heeled magistrates.

Eric shadowed him.

The beggar extended a cupped hand. The men of power ignore his gesture and spoke amongst themselves.

“Beautiful morning.”

“Remarkable, Sir.”

The beggar interrupted, “sirs?”

The men continued to ignore him.

“I adore market mornings. It’s beneficial to witness productivity. Erroneously, I had believed that after the bridge was completed that the townsmen would be badgering us for more projects, but, as you can see, they seem preoccupied with chickens, pies, flowers, and knitted hats.”

“Remarkable.”

The beggar interrupted, “sirs?”

“Word is that some of the workers were injured…”

“…and dared, subsequently, to apply for pensions!”

“Remarkable.”

The beggar again interrupted, “sirs?”

“They received nothing, right, Heinrich?”

Herr Schultz nodded.

The beggar once more interrupted, “sirs?”

“‘Nothing,’ I said.” The magistrate picked up a stone and hurled it at the beggar.

His companions, too, pelted the beggar.

“Remarkable.”

Eric shouted at the men, “stop!”

From a distance, Carl taunted, “yeah, stop, stop, stop, good sirs.”

The magistrates tossed all manner of uncharitable phrases at the limping beggar.

For his part, the old one merely pointed to the bridge.

One of the rich ones shouted further epitaphs at him.

The old man crept closer to the wealthy ones.

They threw more stones.

“A disgrace!” called out Eric. “He’s a sage, a man to be venerated, not disparaged.”

“You’re blind,” retorted Carl, who had walked nearer to the commotion. “He’s a day laborer who was injured while working on the bridge. He wants alms. My father says such men are parasites.”

“You, my friend, are a privileged idiot,” responded Eric.

“You waste your days twiddling,” said Carl.

“I say not.”

“I say so.” He pushed Eric.

Carl and Eric began to fight. Mittemeister tried to separate them but was thrown against a merchant’s stall. The magistrates stopped pelting the beggar and regarded the boys.

Eric and Carl had rushed deeper into the market, where they “acquired” lethal tools from some of the fish mongers (those dealers, who were bored with scaling and gutting, welcomed that entertainment.)

The two youths upheld no gentlemen’s code of conduct. Neither blocked each other’s attacks, preferring, instead, to reduce the distance between them with each parry.

On one level, the two were well-plumaged birds. Carl wore an orange shirt topped with a matching vest emblazoned in gold and green. Eric’s blouse was stippled gray and his vest’s ornaments were beige. On another level, they were stupid boys.

“Our friendship club,” screamed Eric as Carl fatally wounded him and then stepped away from Eric’s body.

Mittemeister, who at last, too, had left the beer garden and had run to the scene of the fight, pulled the knife from Eric’s body. He stabbed the beggar. “For Eric, Sir. Good morning.” He then threw himself over the beggar and sobbed.

Tolksburg grew instantly quiet. No nightingales sang. No hausfraus fought over cakes. No merchants touted socks or knitting needles.

“And you are little better than Eric,” said Carl before he disappeared into the crowd.

“I just wanted peace among friends,” was all that Herman answered before he was dragged away.

****

To the right of his cell’s window is a calendar. A date is circled on it. To the left are a bed and a three-legged stool. On the bed rest a charcoal stick and some charcoal drawings.

After the murders, Herman had pleaded innocence, claiming that his had been a righteous intent. His words, however, had been entirely ineffective; while he was offering up arguments for his freedom, his lawyers had spoken amongst themselves about racehorses and brothels. Thereafter, unceremoniously, he had been deposited in jail.

Mittemeister again regards the wall calendar. It’s the fifteenth of the month, the day when Carl ordinarily visits. Herman never specifically questioned why Carl calls on him every two fortnights. Long ago, he had stopped questioning Carl altogether.

Be that as it may, the guards like Carl’s visits. He brings them chocolates and whiskey and promises to compliment them to his father. Accordingly, they let him access Herman’s cell and the prison’s music room. Every month, Carl gives Herman a recital.

Sometimes, though, Carl fails to appear. Those times, Herman crumbles his drawings and talks to himself. “Good morning sir. Good morning. Another Handöfel morning. Ah, morning. One morning. Two mornings. Three, ten, then a year, two years. Four years of mornings. I’ll be as old as that beggar, soon.”

Mittemeister looks at his pile of drawings and crumples each one. “Mornings come. Mornings go. I remain. Morning after morning, I remain all because of a singular morning.”

He shakes his head and searches, beyond his window, for the nightingale. “Hello sir. Good morning. You will, as well, I suspect, have a good evening. Evenings as well as mornings. Imagine! You sit here or you sit there. You decide. You choose. Yes, good sir, good mornings!”

Someone knocks on Mittemeister’s door. The guards never knock. A key is turned. The guards never unfasten the door.

A young man of similar age to Herman Mittemeister enters. He has a ruddy complexion. He smiles. Before speaking to Herman, Carl looks at the calendar. Next, he embraces Mittemeister.

“So, what do the folk of Tolkburg say about me this week?”

“It is wonderful to see you so healthy, Herman.”

“Almost as healthy as you.”

“You will be. Soon. You’re leaving.”

“Good morning to you, too, Sir.” Herman untangles himself from his friend and looks out of his window. “I’ve not yet sprouted wings.”

“Wrong.” Grosser hands Mittemeister a large envelope, which Mittemeister slowly opens. Inside is a notice. In addition to the notice, the envelope contains many drawings, all of which resemble the ones he had just destroyed.

“The townsmen have forgotten, Blessed day!”

“Not the officials?”

“No.”

“Really forgiven?”

“No, but forgotten. That’s nearly the same. Not all of life requires patience.”

“My sentence requires.” Herman turns once more toward the window. With his back toward Carl, he asks, “Is Frauke well?”

“Her father, Herr Wexler, remains impartial, but Frauke pushed him. Lucky bird, you, that Wexler heads the council.”

“So, we’ll have no wormwood piano or discolored music sheets this morning? No Bach or Beethoven?”

“This offer is grander, more than generous, indeed a miracle!”

“No! No! No! Parole to Zwischen Street would still be an imprisonment. I’d still live in a locked room. I’ll still suffer more mornings, mornings, mornings.” Herman again looks for the bird, but it is no longer visible.

“Isocrates taught that learning is a combination of practice, ability and …”

“The bird is gone. Gone! Why ought I to trade one musty hole for another? I was here when you last visited as well as the time before that. I will be here the next time and the next.

“Mornings. Mornings. Do you remember the street market? The beer? The patrons? The autumn leaves? The people? There were so many people and so many goings-on, yet it was just one morning.

“Eric had promised that skipping school would be fun. I like fun. You like fun. It was just supposed to be one morning.

“Do you know that every day, after sunrise, a bird sings to me? When the river’s currents increase, it flies away, only to return and then to flee again.

“I can neither fly nor flee. I can barely sing. My mornings begin where my nightmares’ end. Every morning is the same morning.”

“We live in the present.”

“Not me. I dream, always, of that morning in the market and then I dream that dream all over again. I go from sleep to morning to sleep to morning.” Herman thrusts the envelope containing the drawings and the letter at Carl.

“It was a long ago morning.”

“Will you listen, Sir?”

“Leave with me, Herman.”

“Why? No one believed me that morning. Forgotten is not forgiven”

“I believed you.”

“But I have no belief in you. You come and go despite your similar deed.” Herman shakes his head.

Carl pats Herman’s shoulder and then exits. He locks the cell door.

Mittemeister rattles the door and then shouts through its food slot, “Sir, will you never listen? Tummler is to be hated, Hoch to be adored, while Schultz and Wexler remain idiots. Mornings! Mornings! My life is nightmares of that wretched morning.”

Much later, Herman, who is once more looking out of his window, whispers “Frauke.”

****

Sometime later, guards escort Mittemeister to a nondescript building. A nearby sign reads “Zwischen Street.” A young woman with impeccable posture and steely eyes answers the door. Her father, Herr Wexler, hurries to join her.

Wexler signs the guards’ ledger. He motions Mittemeister inside.

Once the door is closed, the woman hugs the Herman, and is about to kiss his cheek when Herr Wexler coughs. The woman backs away and bows slightly to her father. Softly, she says, “welcome home, Herman.”
****

Inside a chapel, a minister, several armed guards, Herr Wexler, his daughter, Frauke, plus Carl Grosser and Herman Mittemeister crowd around a small desk. Frauke Wexler and Herman sign a paper.

Carl sticks a flower in Mittemeister’s lapel.

Frauke, who is dressed in finery, beams.

****

Mittemeister looks out of the lone window in his small chamber. His room is furnished with a bed, a three-legged stool, a table, and a sink. He shakes his head at what’s missing from his view and then hums the counterpoint to a nightingale’s song. He is not answered.

Frauke, pregnant, regards the charcoal sketches Herman left on their bed. “You are enraptured with the music of hatchlings, but not with me. I ought never to have encouraged your sky, your clouds, your rain, or your nightingales.

“Other men care for livelihood, for women, for drink. Not you. You’re nature’s lover. I wish you loved me, not your rivers and feathers.

“At least, I celebrate your talent. At least, I appreciate that you’re special.”

****

In the Tolksburg market, a merchant calls out, “Over here. Yes, you. Hurry while you can still buy a Mittemeister. Note the fine lines, the round shapes. No other artist equally captures the tiniest aspects of aerial beasts. He’s our Grosse Künstler!”

Another merchant chants louder, “No! No! Shop by me. I, too, have Mittemeister’s work. Look at the Danu pouring under the bridge. Regard the stone’s shadow and the water’s depth. You could drown just by looking. Good prices are to be had here.”

Yet one more merchant attempts to outshout his peers, “I’ve the best! Mittemeister’s interpretations of Handöfel are here. Did you ever see such contrast between what is and what might be? Did you ever witness such brilliance given over in limited strokes? If you want something cheery, I’ll sell you cherubs. Today, though, you must look at the curls on these winged messengers. Mittemeister’s a mad genius. Some say that his birds resemble Herr Wexler!”

The second merchant screeches, “don’t leave without purchasing. You can’t visit the Grosse Künstler, but you can buy from me. These works boast fine lines. Look at the careful shading.”

The first merchant counters, “Buy from me. I’m friends with his friend’s friends’ friend. I get the newest and cleverest of his art. Look at this one; a bird and the river! For years, he’s only rendered decrepit buildings, diseased citizens, and deal fowl. Today, I have a couple laughing and a river flowing.”

The third merchant trumps him, “no, look at this one; I call it “Morning Murder.”

****

Mittemeister’s work hangs in his prosecutors’ council chambers and in their homes. Yet, the corners of his home remain unadorned. In fact, he frequently feeds his fireplace many of the images that he could otherwise have sold.

Elsewhere, things appear proper. There are stacks of coins in his proper kitchen. Three young children play tag in his proper office. His wife greets visitors in their proper parlor.
Toward the end of each day, the family’s nanny bathes the children in a proper bathroom and tucks them into bed in a proper nursery. She then retires to a proper servants’ wing.

Frauke and Herman talk together softly in their proper salon.

Herman sighs, “so much money.”

“So many mouths.”

“For charcoal, Frauke. Each is a morning’s work, at most.”

“For freedom.” She sighs, remembering spans when he had put his charcoal away and had laid his head over her heart. He has not touched her for a very long time.

Herman sighs, “yes, such elaborate freedom. There are guards at the front door and at the back. They are not stationed to keep robbers out.”

Frauke gets up, wipes her hands on her apron and sighs. “Herman, make me a picture. A bird, maybe one perched on a branch above the river.”

“Maybe not.” He begins to cry.

Frauke kneels beside him and rests her head on his lap. She, too, cries. “I missed you so much when you were imprisoned.” Carl offered to marry me. My father offered to send me away to another country. I would not abide either.”

“Maybe, I could draw one more bird. Maybe, it could be perched.”

“The children would love it.”

“The children…”

“…are growing. Greta needs a ‘big girl’ apron. Stephen should be wearing long pants at his age. Just sketch a few small ones.” Tiny puffs of air move out of her nostrils.

“One. No more. A bird. A morning’s work, at most.”

****

In the middle of the night, while his servants, his spouse, his offspring, and their nanny are asleep, Herman paces. Every few minutes, he looks out of his workspace’s window. He sees the moon. He sees the river.

A few hours into this pattern, an apparition resembling the dead beggar appears. The ghost waves at Mittemeister, “come.”

Mittemeister shakes his head. “I’m a would-be artist, nothing more.”

The ghost reiterates, “come. Reach the bridge. Touch the keystone.”

Amazingly, the guards at the backdoor are missing. Mittemeister walks out into the night.

****

Frauke and the children are dressed in black. Herren Wexler, Tummler, Hoch, and Schultz bow their heads over hymnals. Carl Grosser smiles at Frauke and then clears his throat before reading. A dirge plays.

Grosser whispers to the magistrates, “too much, sirs, too much.”

Herr Wexler answers, “it was a mistake. Probably Mittemeister thought the gallery owner was a robber. Odd, though, that the guards were absent. They’ve been fired.”

“Why would he try to steal his own work? He hated it. He destroyed far more than he sold.”

Herr Hoch quietly added, “remarkable. First Handöfel, now this.”

“Will the merchant be charged?”

“Yes. The proceeds will provide for the family. The council can ill-afford the upkeep of…”

Carl interjects, “…orphans and a widow? I encourage you to review the law.”

All mourners exit except for Schultz. Herr Schultz looks at a paper, which slipped from his hymnal. It shows a bird taking flight. He tucks the sketch into his jacket.

________________________________
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.

Jonathan Ottke
“We”
Pen, ink, paper
Response

Ancestral Mantra
By Kamika Cooper
Inspiration piece

we hope you live
we hope you thrive
we hope you find the strength
to fight and speak your mind
we hope you soar
no matter clear or cloudy skies
and that the dreams you dream
awaken you with pride

may you be patient
may you be kind
may you give more than
what you take from the divine
everything given
will be returned to you in time
but hold on tight
it’s going to be a bumpy ride

we wish you laughter
we wish you grace
we wish you safety as you
travel on your way
don’t you ever
regret the path you take
and if you fall just
get back up and try again

may you always feel our love despite your pain

________________________________
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.

Anya Drapkin
“Rain Dance”
Ink & crayon on paper
Response

Piqued on Ashby
By Darice M. Jones
Inspiration Piece

Ayele heard the “bop, bop, bop” of the drums as she drove by

From her inner ear to her base bottom backbone

Those drums reverberated, making her pull her car over quick

She could see the thick veins atop dark chocolate hands that rose just high enough above the skin

Then came down hard and fast

Steady and knowing

“Bop, bop, bop, bop.”

These fitty-le’em shades of boogie brown

Strong folks, mostly men – who didn’t really know each other like that

These bulging biceped Saturday super-heroes

who could do even more than Badu

And c’make you pull your car over

Ayele could not only see them in her minds eye, she could smell them

Frankincense, Myrrh, Black Love, Cocoa and rhythm

Her heart sped up at the thought of rounding the corner and descending the stairs

Today she might have to join the other impromptu amateur dancers, who couldn’t resist the vibe

Today she might have to spend every dollar in her wallet, supporting all the rows of Black vendors

Each with their own “bop, bops” on display

Headwraps, rings,

oils, tees,

red-black-greens,

toothpastes-neem,

incense holders,

Black icon posters,

paintings, masks,

mud cloth bags

Everything Ayele’s soul-space got

She fed to her own little

“Bop, bop, bop.”

Written during Black History Month, In the Year of Stevie Wonder 2021

________________________________
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.