Julie Christensen
Response

Haunting Landscape
By Kathleen Finn Jordan
Inspiration piece

Laid out, sprawling and dotted, once choked with trees

The spits left after the logging

…..punctuate the melancholic presence with a scream

Space everywhere and the rumble of the sea against the wall

…..drums and throbs with the haunted themes of this landscape and these people

I long for the solitude it breathes and the silence that is its own treasure

Only the birds talk and the people listen

Silent and always thinking dark

Everything dark and secrets live here

Ancient secrets and those found in modern and postmodern crannies

Haunting landscape that etches rivers in my soul.

Aberystwyth

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Tracy Burkholder
Response

White Lavender
By Kate Copeland
Inspiration piece

When my heavy heart carries away
on heavy legs; when I am just
unable to think beyond winter,
where leafless love combines
the cold air with Christmas Stars;

When I feel somewhat quicksandy
and my heavy eyes miss sparkles
in the longing water,
this bright blend with Blue;

Then is when I set my head back
and trust the crisp-cripple sky,
covered in clouds, finding strength
for a new Spring to come;

Then is when I trust a goddess
painting waves of White Lavender,
and if you want to know
what I truly feel, know this:

I collect Palms in cornered parks
and precious days ahead;
I carol songs that sing of a longing place,
think of love in a life.
I hold on to roots, despite the White.

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Brian MacDonald
Response

Andrea Dye
Inspiration piece

white horse Kermit chews
whiskers twitch in fresh clover
green muzzle – full soul

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Brian MacDonald
Inspiration piece

Andrea Dye
Response

Respectful of nature,
Children build away from danger.
Jumping in, now protected.
Perhaps a middle way.
Is our nature to defy Mother?
C’est la vie.

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Julie Christensen
Inspiration piece

Wide Open Wonder
By Kathleen Finn Jordan
Response

The slopes and angles kiss the eye
The light and shadow taunts
The sparseness hungers for colors bright
To bathe, enliven these haunts
The brushstroke trees prickle the air
The sharpened tines shoot tall
A little bird seeks a tiny lunch
The landscape disappoints in winter’s thrall
Landscape as character in so many lives
Playing a role and dictating what’s done
The slopes and angles welcoming some
For others a choice a beach and some sun
But wanderers seek the quiet the sparse
Painting in mind on a canvas so vast
The thoughts deep in mind and brushing the soul
A feeling of depth and contentment at last!

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Jennifer Fendya
“Alas, she loved them more”
Response

No Room Left For Me
By Stefanie A. Shilling
Inspiration piece

it started with a
few photos on the dresser
the record playing

knick-knacks filled the shelves
in came her dining table
place settings on lace

perfume filled the room
taking the air from my lungs
floors scream for relief

my shoes are still there
buried under fear, alas
I no longer fit

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Jennifer Fendya
“…an open gate”
Inspiration piece

Open Endings
By Stefanie A. Shilling
Response

she lived alone now

her children long grown
lured away to the bright lights of the big city
her husband resting in eternal peace
in the family cemetery

neighbors first showered her with
condolences and casseroles
now just the awkward
pleasantries at the post office

each morning, she walked
from the house to the main road
checking that the gate was still open
then she walked home, alone

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Of Books and Libraries
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Response

“MooMaw, tell me a story.”

“Sure.”

“Tell me about libraries.”

“Well, I’ve long been something of an anorak.”

“A parka?”

“No, a ‘boring,’ nonsocial person.”

“Why?”

“I like my garden and my violin. I was never interested on clubs, except for youth orchestra.”

“Oh! Tell me about books. Mommy has three of them but keeps them locked in her cabinet.”

“Books are worlds. Through them I discovered aesthetics, the artistic dimension of invention; technique, the skill dimension of discourse; and ethics, the moral dimension of creativity.”

“So you’re a professor to make other people read books?”

“Something like that.”

“Are yours locked away?”

“Heavens! Of course not! Did you never notice this shelf?”

“So many books, MooMaw!”

“Would you like to read one?”

“Could I touch it?”

“Sure. Reading trumps mental brumation, always.”

“Huh?”

“Mental torpor, lack of critical thinking, missing assessment skills. You must read and read and then read some more.”

“Can I really touch it?”

“Sure.”

“Wow!”

“Did you know that prescriptive ethical theories and descriptive ethical theories have existed for more than a millennium but were first legitimized in the Twentieth Century?”

“MooMaw, I don’t think you teach gardening or violin.”

“Nope. Philosophy.”

“That won’t help me with fractions. Also, your words are too long”

“Sorry.”

“Explain this one to me—it’s in this book’s title—‘incommensurabilities.’”

“That means ‘things that don’t match.’”

“Like your socks?”

“Well, they sort of match. They’re the same fabric and length, just different colors.”

“Like my hair and yours?”

“Actually, I was a ginger before you were born.”

“I made your hair change color?”

“No. Hair color changes when people get old.”

“So what’s the word mean?”

“‘Not matching per causality.’ ‘Causality’ is about intent and actualization.”

“Your words really are too big for me. Do you like this book?”

“Look at the cover, again, I wrote it. I’ll try to explain. That bike that you wanted but didn’t buy because your allowance wasn’t enough is a simple example of an incommensurability.”

“Whatever, MooMaw. Do you have an easier book? Another one that I can touch?”

“Absolutely. Take this one.”

“Thanks. I like holding them. I like sniffing them, too. Why doesn’t Mommy let me touch hers?”

“They make her sad. One of hers, she wrote. Another one of hers, her dead twin wrote. The third one of hers, your PopPops wrote.”

“Mommy’s still alive even if Auntie and PopPops are dead.”

“Another case of causality. Anyway, you would’ve liked libraries. Imagine a building filled with room upon room of ceiling-high bookshelves.”

“Not possible. Hardly anyone has books.”

“Libraries belonged to everyone…”

“This one’s called Grimms’ Fairy Tales.”

“It’s scary.”

“More than incommensurabilities?”

“Different.”

“What if you were a kid who couldn’t reach high shelves?”

“There were ladders. Better, each library had a room with low shelves. That room for special for children.”

“Children had their own book room? Was your book there? PopPops? Mom’s? Aunties?

“No. University books didn’t sit in children’s library rooms.”

“What sat there?”

“Books about dolphins, friendships, rockets, dragons, families, daffodils, and kites. What’s more libraries provided an hour, at least once a week, when a librarian, meaning, a person working at the library, would read to children.”

“Did they read Grimm?”

“Yes, and other frightening tales.”

“Wow! Do you like being a professor? Did PopPops? Mommy? Auntie? Why did Mommy quit?”

Mommy became very sad when Auntie died.”

“ I don’t want to be a professor. I want to be an ear, nose, and throat doctor. I know the word for that; ‘otolaryngologist.’ Did PopPops help you with gardening or violin? Did he teach them to Mommy or Auntie?”

“PopPops taught math. I met him when we both worked at a university. He didn’t like digging in the dirt or practicing music. He did teach Mommy and Auntie had to dance with numbers.”

“Like this?” (she spins).

“Not exactly.”

“So, did Mommy or Auntie teach math? Philosophy?

“No and nope. Mommy taught literature, she taught about books.”

“Why not about gardening? She loves her roses and Lily of the Valley. I can pick her roses but not her Lily of the Valley. Mommy says they’re poisonous.”

“They are. Please never touch them.”

“Was Auntie a professor, too?”

“No, she was a cattle rancher. She fell in love with a cowboy, whom she then married. After their wedding, she moved to his farm.”

“Did she have books? Do you still know her husband?”

“He remarried. The had no children, so he saw no reason to keep in touch with Mommy, PopPops, and me.”

“That’s sad.”

“Yes.”

“Will you read some of Grimm to me? I know how to read but I like hearing your voice. Afterwards, can we bake chicken potpies and pick some of the edible flowers in your garden?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Moomaw, do you still play your violin?”

“Of course!”

“Will you play some songs for me after we pick the flowers? Music helps me with spooky things. I want you to read Grimm but I don’t want to be very scared.”

“Deal.”

“When we make the potpies, will you tell me more about libraries?”

“Yes. Not all goodness can be digitalized.”

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One-Eyed, Long-Nosed, Espying Rooftop Pigeon Eater
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Inspiration piece

As soon as Harriet entered the building, she headed to the seventh floor. There, on the rooftop, was the pigeons’ nest.

The last time that she had climbed so high in the complex, she had thought that Jarad was going to propose to her. Then, rather than sit on one of the provided benches, she had placed herself on the floor, near the raised beds of tomatoes, peppers, and squash.

He had spotted her and had sat nearby. Yet, his posture had been curious; there had been no kneeling on a single leg. What’s more, there had been no tiny box filled with a precious ring.
Instead, Jarad had looked directly at Harriet and had told her that he was breaking off their affiliation.

Thereafter, he had fled.

For a short span, Harriet had stared at the door through which he had left. Her lover had given her neither reason nor rationale for the destruction of their union. At least, he hadn’t lied about the whats and wherefores.

It wasn’t so much that Harriet had become unhinged by the mysterious woman’s voice on their answering machine. Neither had she become unsettled by the large withdrawals that Jarad had “surreptitiously” made from their shared bank account.

However, it had been the headhunter Email that Harriet had seen on Jarad’s laptop when a stomach ailment had made him bolt for the bathroom before deleting his screen. The job referenced was in Asia.

Harriet’s mother had never liked Jarad. She had complained all along about things like gaslighting and forced isolation. Harriet had ignored her, telling herself that if not for Jarad, she would never have sought therapy and would have remained in dysfunctional friendships.

On balance, her therapist, too, had pointed out the gaslighting. Meanwhile, Harriet’s former friends had remained loyal. First, they had reconnected with Harriet on social media and, thereafter, they had reconnected in person. Although Jarad had honked a lot about those reestablished associations, given her therapist’s help, Harriet began to reengage in them.

Anyway, after her would-be plighted man had run away, she had stayed on that rooftop. One benefit of her apartment was her access to that outdoor space. The umbrellas and waterproof lighting were nice, but the gardens and the urban wildlife that was attracted by the gardens were nicer. Harriet had espied all manner of birds, some squirrels, a snake (!) and a handful of lizards on that roof.

That fateful day when Jarad had broken up with her, she had also seen the pigeons’ nest. Peaking beneath the belly of a morning dove had been two eggs.

Now, four weeks later (she hadn’t dared to revisit the location earlier since even envisioning such a visit had brought tears), she again had climbed onto the roof. Curiosity had overcome grief.

Whereas the young nestlings were not yet able to fly, they were practicing flapping. Their down was mostly gone, replaced by adult feathers. Their life seemed to be proceeding according to expectations.

Harriet sighed and then took pictures of those young with her cellphone. After the crumbling of her and Jarad’s partnership, when Harriet had returned to their apartment, she had apprehended that not only had Jarad removed his things, but that he had, likewise, taken her computer, her favorite paring knife, her tiny bottle of expensive perfume, and her car keys.

Fortunately, after Jarad was arrested at the airport, her belongings, including her car, had been returned to her. Further, the officer who had knocked on her door had been welcomed eye candy.

Additionally, Harriet had been able to collect funds from Jarad’s hidden bank account. It was useful that her sister was married to a skilled lawyer for whom cat and mouse games were a main source of income.

At any rate, what Harriet wanted most was quiet and normalcy. At least, on the rooftop, where a neighbor was growing honeysuckle and another was farming roses, there was a semblance of peace. Plus, there were baby birds! So, before she felt emotionally well enough to return to work, but after she had recouped her fiduciary losses and then some, Harriet had returned to the roof.

Given pigeons’ predilection for nesting high, often beyond the reach or sight of humans, the nest had been a surprise. Harriet had never seen eggs nor hatchlings, except on the Internet. It was encouraging that something was healthfully moving toward the future. That is, had been moving toward the future.

As soon as Harriet had opened the door to the roof deck, Cyclops, a one-eyed rescue that lived on the floor below her apartment, came charging through. The canine had no ability to read the displayed signs that stated pets weren’t allowed in urban paradise.

After marking various raised beds, he ran toward the rail housing the nest. In a single, quick gobble, he consumed both fledglings.

Harriet screamed.

Cyclops circled back and then ran into the entrance through which he had emerged.

Following that incident, Harriet’s recovery took weeks. She recuperated at her sister’s home. Whereas her family knew about her relationship plight, she hadn’t told them nor anyone else about the rooftop carnage. All that was known was that Harriet had been found unconscious under the dahlias and had been sunburned, to boot.

A few weeks later, Harriet again returned to her abode. In the interim, Cyclopes had died from a bacterial infection that was likely traceable to the fledglings. As for the birds’ parents, they built no additional nests on that roof.

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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.