Amanda C. Brainerd
Response

Origin Story
By Michelle Greco
Inspiration piece

I’m from a neighborhood
where kids put you in a schoolyard headlock
in third grade.
I’m from stained glass. Jesus
looks down on everyone—melancholy.
I’m from sneakers strung
on telephone pole wires.
I’m from a place with no trolley cars
but plenty of subwoofer bumps.
I’m from Rasta and black
and spiked Kool-Aid, though I’m none of
those things.

I’m from cilantro y arroz amarillo,
platanos.
I’m from mangoes eaten whole
in a garden growing a pine tree.
I’m from a snowball thrown
by my aunt’s teenage boyfriend
to the top of our brick apartment building—
the mark lasted all winter.

Then I asked her what love felt like
because she knew everything then.
I’m from a rusty-red Honda with a
kickback/stickshift tapedeck.
I’m from Metallica and Guns N Roses
and the Doors.

I’m from thick black hair and
bangs that stuck to my face
when my four-year-old self sweat.
I’m from frontyard kickball
with all the neighborhood kids
until dusk, the youngest asking
me about owls because
I knew everything then.

I’m from greased-back ponytails
and hoop earrings with my name in them—
though I’m none of those things.
I’m from urban but strut high-class
and speak city slick.

I’m from Battlestar, Doctor Who,
space ships that pew pew.
I’m from pixie cuts, red dresses,
lipsticked velociraptors.
I’m from rum then whiskey—
the burn that runs warm.

I’ve known love, I’ve known lust
and I know nothing now but this—
I contain multitudes.

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Amanda C. Brainerd
Response

Broken Things
By Kamika Cooper
Inspiration piece

Broken things keep haunting me
Telling me they won’t be thrown out with the trash on Tuesday morning
Saying they won’t be tossed aside to assuage my deepest longing
Broken pieces among my belongings won’t bring me peace
So my hands keep getting cut on the edges while these

Broken wings keep grounding me
Forcing me to shave my hair and tear away at these fraying seams
Refusing a return flight so I can wake up from these broken dreams
I used to fly so high pretending to never break the rules
Always trying to be the strongest glue as these

Broken things keep haunting me
Telling me they won’t be tossed out of open windows to shatter on city concrete
Saying I can’t drop-kick them to the other side of the street
Shouting they won’t be thrown out in Tuesday morning’s trash can
Getting swept up on that emotional dustpan
My hands keep getting cut on the edges

_________________________

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.

Inspiration piece
What Song Will You Sing?: Moving Through Hopelessness by Jennifer Cooreman

My sister and I didn’t fight, but if we did, I don’t remember. Lisa was eight years older, and although I was often doing something little sister-ish and annoying (like spilling nail polish on her desk or eating all her Easter candy), she never stayed angry for long. She’d let me scramble right back onto her lap for a bedtime story, or patiently brush the knots from my hair before school.

I worry, though, because my memories of her are growing hazy. Why I recall the print of her flannel nightgown, but not the last time we embraced is a mystery I hope to unravel. Probably not in this lifetime, though.

She was asleep when I left one morning for school, before the sun and my mother rose for the day. But she was dead by the time I came home. That, I can never forget.

Death does not owe the living an explanation, and rarely gives one that satisfies our pain. But my sister’s death left a gaping wound because it made no sense at all. She took her own beautiful life. Without warning, justification or explanation. Though I know there was nothing I would have accepted, I sometimes wonder if she might have at least tried.

My sister is gone. She believed death was the only doorway open to her, the only viable way to escape her pain. It wasn’t. But because she bore the burden of her shame alone, the only song she could hear was one she sang to herself.

Alone, in the darkness of her shame and self hatred, she sang, “You have failed, you are alone, and the world will not mourn your loss.”

Had she taken one step, towards one of us that loved and cared for her, we could have discerned the whispers of her tortured song. Because she was so very wrong. Her past, present and future were not dirty, ugly or worthless.

It was the song she sang in the silence of her guilt that was ugly and led to hopelessness and bitter despair. My sister was a powerful, intelligent and valuable soul, the way God creates us all to be. She was never beyond hope, although her thoughts fooled her just long enough for her to make a horrible mistake.

None of us are beyond hope. Hope is ingrained in who we are. We are born into hope, and live lifted by dreams and passions until our journey in this world is complete. But the feeling of hopelessness is not a cue to end our journeys.

Our stories are complete when we have done all we can to help others. It does nothing to better the world when we leave it with a life half written, ended on a note of despair.

When we feel hopeless, we’ve allowed the song of our sadness to drown out the grace and beauty of our futures. Hopelessness is a temporary condition that feels agonizingly real. Death, however, is a permanent solution to that agony.

If my sister were alive today, she would be long past her pain, living dreams she imagined for herself, along with ones she never knew were possible.

If she were here, she would be singing others past their pain and fear because she would have conquered hers. Survivors make the best leaders and guides. They show others how to move past pain and fear because they never discount its cost, or downplay how terrifying it is to choose life over death when we are afraid our very existence does not matter.

The pain of my sister’s death made me a survivor. When she died, I thought about taking my own life many times. Suicide was like a disease, a cancer of the mind. In the 25 years she’s been gone, I have been overcome by grief and fear more times than I’d like to admit. But whenever my fear and hopelessness begin to take root, I have learned to recognize the feelings, and hear the twisted song for what it really is; a poisonous lie, an impostor presenting itself as a viable answer to pain.

Grief and fear may insist, “Life is too difficult. There is no way out of the mess you’ve made. You will never be whole or happy again.” But I have learned, over time and with help and guidance of loving mentors, friends and counselors, that fear and depression is a song that will disable me only if I allow it.

Sometimes it takes another person singing with you to guide you through your darkness. Other times, though, you’ll find yourself truly alone in the wilderness of your fears. For a matter of minutes or hours, it doesn’t matter; when you feel hopeless, time has no meaning. If you find yourself alone in a valley, have your song ready. It’s one you will sing to yourself many times throughout your life, and you’ll always recognize it as the truth.

“On the other side of this dark hill is my future. When I arrive, I’ll be stronger and more capable because I did not give in to this momentary darkness. I have dreams to nurture and people to help. My conquering soul will brighten the future. Hope is the answer to darkness and courage the answer to fear.”

Surviving and living through pain, mistakes and trials has shaped some of the world’s most influential and valuable leaders, teachers and souls. I’d rather be scarred by pain and live to tell a tale that will help others in their journey than give in to the wilds of my own doubts.

Our role in life is not to give up. It is to feel our pain, accept it, then send it on its way. We move to the top of our hills, find moments of peace, grace and enlightenment, and are propelled forward with renewed strength and power.

Thoughts of death and suicide don’t scare me. Acting on them does. I’ve had them, lived them and been shaped by the pain and desolation they leave behind when they are chosen over life.

When relationships end, children die, addictions resurface, families splinter, money dwindles and hope flies away, thoughts of death flicker to the surface like poison. But I know suicide and suicide knows me. I’ve thought of it, stared at it, questioned it and raged in its face.

Suicide is never a valid answer to the temporary condition of hopelessness. There is no hill we can not climb or valley we can’t walk through. Others who’ve lived through fires so hot their lives should never have risen from the ashes will be our guides. Their strength in rising will show us the way.

You are important. You were created to feel and love. Living can be unbearably painful. But as we conquer our pain and choose to live, we grow. That is what we are created to do; we gather strength from those around us, then return with more strength to offer those who are walking through their time of fire.

No matter what hopelessness breeds inside your silence, there is always love. People who love you are surrounding you, waiting for you to take a step towards them. Waiting to sing a new song.

What song will you sing to find hope?

What will you sing when you’ve climbed beyond your fears?

Remember the words, and teach them to others.

Reclaimed
By Michelle Wallace
Inspiration piece
Scrape deep, chip away
Remove the years of grime
Expose the raw material
Intended for a different purpose
Splinters tear the flesh
That lovingly strokes,
Pouring lover’s blood
Into the restoration
Ragged and rough as sandpaper-
Yet the lightest touch is fire,
Salt in the open wound
Painful purification
Smooth over reclaimed surfaces
Kissed with sweetest silk
And gently unveil
The undiscovered me

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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.

Response piece
Amanda C. Brainerd

Inspiration piece
A Love Letter Home, Wherever that May Be
By Meghan E. Hunt

She wonders, briefly and in solitary moments, if you can miss a place in the world you once despised. Is that allowed, she asks the universe. The universe does not answer, much to her dismay.

The mountains were right outside my bedroom window. Every day I said good morning to them, every night I wished them sweet dreams. I do not sleep well now that I am gone and my mountains are so very far away.

You were not happy there, they say, as though reminding her will keep her feet still. I am not happy here, either, she tells them. There is no balance between past and present; she hopes to find it somewhere else in the future.

I do not make this decision lightly, despite what the others may have told you. I’ve considered a great number of venues, of choices, and I always come back to this one – to you.
She believes herself unnecessary. The others are settled in their happiness, too busy for past pursuits. She knows they will miss her, but feels the hole left behind her will fill in quickly, like sand being pulled away at high tide.

I am trying to get there, seeking ways in which my homecoming is possible beyond the fiction I write with my own hand. It may take a while longer than I want, but know I’ll be back soon. I’ll be home.

She’s gone already, though she’s still there. And they miss her even now, even as she sits beside them. She was right there next to them for so long; they do not sleep well when she is far away.

I’ll see you soon, love.

Inspiration Piece
Commute
by Marla Deschenes

Naked fingers of the trees
Reaching for the sky
Aflame with the
Sunrise
Their cars rush by me
As I sit in the death seat
Wondering how
We all seem so unhappy
When we are
Surrounded
Every
Day
By unmistakable beauty.
Pink and purple soft light
Hugging clouds
Spreading evenly across
Wings
Upwards
The sun makes even the
factories
Seem touched by the twinkle
Of lost forgotten stars
White steam
Pours upward from tarnished smoke stacks

I wish I could pour out the inside
Or myself
And somehow show
How not to be so broken
Beaten down by life

I am broken, too.

Too sensitive for this world
Can’t grasp that idea of rules
Conformity never was my strong point
Yet I find the joy in that sunrise
Hovering over these trees
As they stretch naked fingers
Upward
Wanting nothing more
Than to greet the day.

Like the Chicken She Is
By Claire Guyton
Inspiration piece

You, there, the lady in the pale green…. Yes, you! Come on down!

Instead I sat down again, or really fell, into my chair. At which point El Spirito clapped his gloved hands, chanting, Come Come Come Come and the audience joined him until all that volume, all that attention worked like a lever, tipping me out of my seat, pushing me along the carpeted aisle to the stage. Applause, applause.

Why did I have to wear pistachio? There’s something about it that says mellow at the same time that it shouts Spring! and for that reason, I can’t resist wearing it when April arrives. But it washes me out. And here I am, under the bright lights, wishing I’d worn red. Obsessing over what I’m wearing and my skin tone because I’d rather not think about how I’m about to be hypnotized in front of a sold-out crowd at the Old Drew downtown. Warm up those pistons, baby, because it’s time to strut like a chicken.

You probably think I’m going to make you cock-a-doodle-doo up and down this stage, am I right? El Spirito isn’t looking at me but at his fans in the rows and rows of seats. Up close I can see he’s wearing eye liner—and plenty of it—and maybe blush. I can see the dark circles under his eyes, too, like bruises under his makeup. Life on the road.

But no, of course I will not do that. I will do, indeed, whatever the lady wishes.

The lady wishes to return to her seat.

Aha but no, the lady must entertain! Stay Stay Stay Stay. Applause, applause.

I thought you were going to hypnotize me?

El Spirito spreads his arms wide. The jacket is not so well fitted as it should be, the arms pull up too high. Well, it’s hard for everybody right now. His delicate black-gloved hands look fake, like soft monkey hands screwed onto his thick, white, blue-veined forearms. I can do that, but of course, he says, I can hypnotize you. Or anything else that employs the magic.

I think about it.

The mortgage still overdue from when I was out of work, my claustrophobic cubicle at the call center under the fluorescent lights, the foot of wet April snow clogging my driveway, those bright orange crackers I keep getting from the vending machine at work, the vet bill, all those unpacked boxes of Mom’s stuff they sent from that awful place where she died without me, that layer of frost on my frozen hamburger meat, the blister on my big toe, the bald tires on my car, and that mole on my back. I really need to get that mole checked. I think about all of that, plus my big, fat, pistachio butt, and I ask El Spirito if maybe—I’m just wondering—could you make me disappear??

El Spirito can do this, yes, but why would you want to be invisible? He shakes his head as the audience laughs. Americans. They always want to be invisible.

No, no, I say, not invisible. Gone.

You want me to make you gone?

Well, it’s just a thought. Could you do it?

There is no point to the modesty when you are El Spirito. If this is what you wish, yes, it can be done.

As simple as Alice and her bottle. DRINK ME.

The crop of mildew on my shower curtain, the broken heel on my favorite pair of pumps—those pumps got me through my college graduation, my first job interview (and the second and the third), I signed my divorce papers in those pumps. The leak under the bathroom sink and that noise I keep hearing in the basement, the long, long winters of Maine, the gas bill, the note somebody left on my car at the Walmart (Bitches can’t never park). I thought about child soldiers in Africa, about child soldiers here.

Not like a candle, snuffed, but like that wisp of gray that spirals up into the heavens after the flame goes out. Disappearing into the cradling dark, the easy easy nothing. I smile.

El Spirito closes his eyes and takes long, deep breaths. He holds his arms out, palms up, then clenches his fists.

Mmmmm, a slow, clean meltaway. Feeling lighter already. Ashes to ashes, bones to stones, bitches to ditches. DRINK ME, please.

You. I think of you.

I think of you.

Wait! Head, chest, arms, legs, feet. If anything’s gone, it’s just a couple of hairs from my head or eyebrows, a sliver of toenail, rough skin from my heel.

I grab the velvet glove nearest me and El Spirito’s eyes pop open. Gently he untangles his fingers.

The lady has changed her mind?

The lady thinks we may as well go traditional.

And so the lady folds her arms into wings, sinks into her knees, kicks a leg out to the side to scrape a high-heeled foot on the stage. She pushes her beaky head back and forth, flaps her arms, sticks her pistachio butt out as far as it will go. Under the bright, hot lights, the lady does her best to walk like a chicken, up and down that stage, buck-buck-bucking all the way.

Applause, Applause.

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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.

Amanda C. Brainerd
Response piece

Inspiration Piece
All Sorts of Gambles
By Annmarie Lockhart

Weather, winning, and writing are the basic components
of a particular kind of trifecta won in all sorts of gambles.

Vegas is one thing. That ring of snow-globe mountains,
frosted and jagged, so close you can steal a lick of vanilla
with your fingers (red glitter dipped in glamor, of course).
Roller coasters running on cocktails, lions, tigers,
and bears–oh my! The King is king and tribute bands
play eulogies. New lives begin with drive-thru weddings
or drive-thru divorces, both bought with t-shirts, mood
rings, and tequila. Delicacies, spectacles, and riffraff.
Feel the pulse, the grasping heartbeat of the collective
striver, the true tide in the sea of American history.
Listen to the first lines of 1000 stories still to be written,
hope against hope that the last lines will not mostly be sad.

Stand-alone casinos, gaming resorts in promo speak,
they are a different animal altogether. Less glitter, less swag,
no opulence at all. Just veneer on a slot machine, a clanging
migraine of last dollars. Alcohol flows, but not for free and not
top shelf. This place will never slake the thirst of the desperate
with their polyester need, their peroxide greed, the worn-out
threads of half-dead hope. There are still 1000 stories here,
but 999 of them are the same faint flapping of fattened wings
against the ungilded cages of middled dreams.

There are all sorts of gambles, but the house never loses in the
cold light of a roulette night on a break-it-all reservation, a face-
lifted seashore, or the sand-whipped desert of cactus and carcass.
$10 tables and $10 hookers can be had in every shadowed
corner and every rocking wave of the wide betting world.

Inspiration Piece
‘Test results’ by Lisa Kilhefner

I was heavy from too much sleep. The Tylenol spread
out against last night’s flickering and my red
blood cells, aching. You were visiting your sister in
Nebraska, sort of wishing you lived there too; a thin
coat of want which rubbed off every time you stepped
foot again in New York. Had I called you before I slept,
the message, too, would have been tired. You cannot blame
me for waiting. Your watch read seven, mine eight. The same
feelings were apparent then that were hanging around
when my guinea pig died in third grade, but I found
the breath to interrupt your breakfast to tell
you the results came back positive. I waited. You smelled
sterile coming off the plane. You smelled like my future nights
fighting the medicine in the hospital room, cold gray lights
on my hairless skin. I want you to reek of hyacinth again.

Blues
By Charisse R. Cecil
Inspiration piece

My music, my mood.
Billie and Miles.
Melancholy and mellow.
The berries
in my morning muffin.
His bow-legged, boot-cut,
denim-clad swagger.
The funky-sweet blend
of sweat, liquor, tears and sex
in every foot tap on the juke joint floor.
The bruises that hide
behind Bronze Base #5.
Branford’s band and Spike’s “Mo’ Better.”
B.B. and Lucille.
The Franconia-Springfield metro line.
The steely eyes of young Minister Malcolm’s
devils.
Langston’s weary and big sea.
The Saturday night cabaret voice
Singing in the Sunday morning choir.
Sea -deep sorrow.
A saxophone’s moan.
My hopes,
caked on and cracking
like Aunt Minnesota’s
electric
sky
eye shadow.