Nick Winkworth
The Great Affair
Inspiration piece

The Cost: A History
By Kristen Luft
Response

On a road narrowed by tall buildings closely set together, Van Liebling navigated his way through the dense feeling of entrapment growing in his chest. When the buildings gave way to paved lots inset with weedy fault-lines, the tension in his shoulders tightened rather than lessened at the entrance into open space. He parked at an angle to the docks near a gasoline station which served both land and water vehicles. His father would likely arrive at any moment with the fishing tackle and bait, a can of worms indistinguishable from the trusty sidekick can of beer sure to be held snug in his right hand. Van stowed the aerosol can, which was sitting beside him, in the trunk. Any memories of his time at home were to be kept at a minimum, and he should be gone before the day’s end without exchanging more than a few words with his father. He leaned against the galvanized aluminum railing at intervals between his pacing.

The steady tattoo of his Timberlands, the raucous merchants who lined the streets, the unremitting flow of chattering graduates through the square—all the noises of a city coalescing dropped off in a flash. A streak of light cut the sky with a force so great that sound was blotted out in an instant. Near the gasoline pump at the quays, the aerosol can of red spray paint exploded within his car, the shattering of red-spattered glass from the rear window preternatural in its soundlessness. Just outside the arc of the can’s explosion, Van Liebling stopped mid-step and lifted his eyes to gaze with wonder at the light, his awe equivalent to that he would have felt had the sun itself dropped to earth. Frozen, he watched the light disappear behind the silhouette of the mainland’s skyline—just before the skyline was obliterated and Van Liebling was rushed back into a world of sound with a cry as the lash of an unseen force tore across the island.

Sometime later, Van awoke to the darkness of a moonless, brown sky. He climbed out of the rubble, which were the remains of the gas station, and tried to rid himself of the ubiquitous dust. When batting at himself did not work, he went down to the beach and washed himself in the bay, despite the glowing, iridescent bubbles rising in the water. Their alien origins frightened him. As he bathed the coat of dust off himself after splashing his face, he surveyed the leveled city. The unfamiliarity of the place he had called home his whole life brought him to his knees, and right there on the beach sleep found him hours later.

When he awoke, the sky was still the same dark brown, as if time were waiting for something. Van looked at his digital watch, but it was dead. He raised himself up, and remembered his plans to meet with his father at the waterfront. His unwillingness to be in the presence of his drunkard of a father was only less in degree to his unwillingness to admit to anyone, especially to the man himself, how deep his indifference toward his father ran. At times, Van considered with uneasiness that he might actually loathe him, but even in his thoughts he only glanced off the truth of the matter. Van knew only that he now needed to be fortified by the annual arrival of the man into his life, a human presence in a world that had become estranged and hostile to him.

He dashed to his feet in spite of the pain and sense of loss that had remained lodged in the marrow of his being since the destruction. He clambered back onto the torn pavement and forged a path through the remants of the city in search of human contact, leaving behind his car in a ruin of obsolete memories.

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Sukia

The Wave

by Barbara Wesenberg

Response

I was floating in the ocean to clear my head.

What shall I be? What shall I be?

“A mortgage broker,” my mind responded promptly.

“Not anymore. Not for me,” I replied triumphantly.

What shall I do? What shall I do?

“Well first,” my mind said carefully, “there’s the back taxes…and some of those papers are in the basket that you moved off the kitchen table last night because your cousins came over and you put them somewhere. Where did you put those? And you have a whole load of dishes in the sink not to mention how embarrassed you were when your cousin pulled out her chair with a wad of dog hair attached to the bottom leg which she didn’t see but you did and you really, really need to clean that floor.”

“Oh, please,” I groaned. “We’re here in the ocean to relax, remember?”

“All right, all right, all right,” my mind said as if it were searching deep in a closet for something and not paying attention. “Try me again.”

“I am, I am I am,” I said with a deep breath. A short pause. Way off in the distance I heard a little beeping sound, it sounded like someone’s cell phone. Why on earth would someone bring their cell phone into the ocean? “Because,” my mind said delighted with another opportunity to jump in, “you can even get a waterproof cell phone now so you can just check to see who’s calling you…even in the ocean! It doesn’t mean you’re going to answer it necessarily, but that woman probably has one in case her kids need to reach her…and actually, you know, you’ve been here quite awhile yourself. You might want to wade in and find out what time it is because Bill has called you by now and your sunscreen has probably worn off. And, remember you’re supposed to…” “Ok,” I said defeated. My mind had won again. What was I doing padding around in the ocean when I had a million things to do.

I was just about to put my feet down to wade in to shore when the ocean spoke. “Oh, no you don’t!” And with that, she slipped out a wave and rolled me back into her mouth like a fly on the tip of a frog’s tongue. “You’ve totally missed the point of being here,” she sighed. “We obviously need to go over this again.”

“Well,” I said, “I did quit my stressful job, and I am here on a weekday…that’s progress, right? But I really can’t relax until I get my housework done…and those taxes…that’s bad.” The ocean slapped me in the back of the head with a little wave I didn’t see coming. “So,” said the ocean “do the taxes tomorrow or the next day…one more day now isn’t going to make a difference. But, housework?” she admonished. “Uummm, I think it’s ok to do housework first…right?” At that she pulled me under and dragged me around on her floor. The sand burned my hands and knees. And when she pushed me back to the surface I could hardly catch my breath. “There, you did your housework, and now you’re too exhausted to enjoy your life!” I hung my head. “Look,” she said a little more compassionately, “I have nothing against housework, I’ve got a ton of it myself and you want to talk floors? I’ve got some serious problems going on with MY floors, so don’t even get me started.  But today,” she said more cheerfully, “is a glorious day, and even I can set aside some pretty serious problems to enjoy this gift.” With that she dragged me out even further. “Wait here.” Well, I had no choice. I was too tired to swim and the shore was way too far away.

Just bobbing along I went over it again. Let’ see… I had no problem leaving my job. What a relief that’s over with. So, what’s the issue with the housework? I am home after all, but I guess it does keep me busy…maybe I can let the housework go until later…oh, it makes me feel a little sick, like eating your ice cream before your dinner but yes, yes, I don’t think I have to sweep up every dog hair…and I could do it much later in the day…sure, and I could turn off my cell phone altogether…ok maybe for an hour. But then…what do I DO? What will I BEcome? And who AM I anyway? What do I say to people? Now I’m beginning to panic in the middle of the ocean.

Then, a pod of dolphins appeared. “Isn’t it just a beautiful day,” they sang. “The sun is shining, the waves are perfect, and we’re on the road again.”  “Isn’t it fun?” one of the dolphins asked me? “Fun??” I ask. “FUN!” I shout! “No, I am certainly not having fun at this moment!” The dolphins all looked concerned for a moment, then nodded at each other and formed a circle around me. They started to clap and sweetly sing “then you shall drop to the bottom of the sea and tied to housework you’ll always be…La la la la la  La la la.”. I angrily crossed my arms and said “oh, that’s easy for you to say.” But then I started to sink, so one of the dolphins came up under me and said, “We’re just having some fun with you. How about we do a little dance to cheer you up?” And then they began this beautiful dance all around me…leaping and twirling and then they included me by lifting me up when I least expected it. The laughter just tumbled out of me.

I continued to watch the dolphins ride through, leap, and roll with the waves easily and effortlessly. “How do you DO that?” I asked. “The ocean won’t release me until I learn…”As I was searching around for the right word, the dolphins all sang in unison “To play.” “To go with the flow,” one dolphin smacked me with its tail. “To follow your intuition,” another one poked me with is nose. “Ok, Ok,” I said more to myself than anyone. It was true, I had forgotten how to play, how to have fun. I hadn’t had this much fun in a long time. In fact, I had to admit I couldn’t remember the last time I actually laughed so hard out loud. And if there was some still, small voice trying to talk me into some fun, I probably thought it was static and long ago changed the channel.

“Just roll with the wave,” one dolphin said. “I don’t know how to roll,” I said. “Sure you do…even your babies roll over it’s one of the first things they do.” I guess I hadn’t rolled in a very long time. “So, how do you time your roll with the wave?” They all thought that was particularly funny for some reason. They all made this “hehehehehehe” sound. “You don’t time anything, you just roll, and then the wave takes you.” “Just roll, just roll, just roll,” they all chanted. When I tried to ask another question, they’d keep on saying “just roll, just roll, just roll.” So, I took a deep breath and with the next wave I started to roll. It felt pretty awkward at first, and I wound up swallowing a lot of seawater. The dolphins kept swimming back to check on me, and to encourage me. “Don’t give up! Relax! Feel the pull of the water!” I was getting tired. But the dolphins saw a really good wave coming. “This is the one!” I took a deep breath and decided I would lean into it and hope for the best. And the most amazing thing happened. It’s as though the wave folded over me and carried me through this tunnel of light. It was extraordinary, exhilarating, and other-worldly. I wasn’t even rolling. I wasn’t doing anything. It was like being on a magic carpet. When the wave reached the shore it gently rolled me on my back and lay me down on the sand before it retreated. I just lay there for a moment looking at the sky. Some seagulls passed overhead. I was so incredibly happy, and for once, my mind was totally speechless.

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Jim Doran
Inspiration piece

Botticelli Blues
By Clarissa McFairy
Response

Alessandra, Venus here!  I am hanging at a tilt, from tapping you so many messages through the wall.  Do you hear me?  You did say one could send Morse even by blinking ones eyes!

You were wise to move next door.  He is still yelling, telling you where you can put your birthday gift.   How dare he talk of me thus.  O fie, I can see his tonsils when he yells.  His eyes are scrunched so tight, he didn’t even see you flee the apartment.   You left your art box on the table?   And ME on the wall.

If only you had left me in the attic.  Ofcourse I would rather be hanging in the Uffizi, beside the celebrated “Birth of Venus”.   I often wonder why your famous forefather painted two of us.  I became a family secret, an unsung heirloom.  Poets wove dreams around the other Venus, attic spiders spun webs around me.  Am I not a treasure too?  Certainly not a birthday gift for a buffoon.  Could you not have given him cufflinks or a comic book?  He knows NOTHING of art, or of Sandro Botticelli who birthed and breathed life into me.

Botticelli painted me full-grown, as I emerged from the ocean of his imagination.  I can still feel the sea breeze in my hair, taste the salt on my lips.  As for my pearly feet, they are slippered in a shell that whispers to me of the deep.  The waves cloak my shoulders in a fine silver spray.  And the moon is my midnight mantle.

Botticelli’s hand wove these gold tresses that so coyly cover me.  I just wish they could shield my ears from your boyfriend’s wrath.  Now and then, I do raise an eyebrow at his language.  Even Mona Lisa, in The Louvre, would do the same, had she eyebrows to lift.  What good, pray tell, is a mystic smile, without brows.  They are the exclamation marks of the face.  How else would one express joy, surprise, shock, perplexity.

Yes, we do all that!  Paintings acquire an animation over time, become invested with the spirit or essence of their subject matter.  We were sparked by inspiration, a divine spark, as bright as any star that lights the heavens.

Being animate, we are subject to emotions, curiosity being one.   In your own attic is a painting of a woman gazing out upon a moonlit sea.  She once hung in a home, where only her back was visible to the occupants.  Over the years, she began to slowly turn her head, so she could eye them surreptitiously. The wife observed this.  The husband called her “fanciful”.  Men are from Mars, women from Venus.  I can attest to that!

Your boyfriend is definitely from Mars.  He is still ranting.  O fie, what if he sets a match to me, or tosses me out with the garbage.  Even that would be more merciful than death by fire.  He doesn’t have much of a vocab, does he?   I can see that he works out at gym.  All his muscles ripple … with rage.  This emotional bonfire  consumes his entire body.

If only he would turn and behold me.  I am, after all, Venus, goddess of love and beauty, not some pavement special you picked up at a flea market.  I could calm him with my oceanic eyes, tell him one can speak in dulcet tones, just as one paints in soft pastels.  I could tell him of Botticelli and all the great masters.

I could be his Muse, tell him that in a painting, the artist, long departed, returns to visit the viewer; that there are no door knockers, no bells, just a heartstring, silently plucked.  And that the subject of a painting, such as I, Venus, can wander through his senses, however deranged, and light a candle in his heart.

.

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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.

Tami Cohen
response

…..

inspiration, tinted

Joanna Lee
inspiration piece

my muse
dips unshyly into your darkness,
cupping in each hand the hidden hates
and envies harbored under each heavy
breast, unwrinkling the sharp folds
shoved deep below layers of
skin and consciousness to where
every memory has its shadow walking long
and lean on the end of a summer’s day,
waiting to be shaped into sunrise.

…..

…..

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.

Rachel Morton
Creation Story
Response

Coffee with Sugar
By Tori Lane
Inspiration piece

The morning drags its feet in beginning

so I curl into the couch, tuck a blanket around my knees,

hold my mug close up under my chin –

thick, dark comfort –

ritual morning coffee with sugar.

The rich smell dances around the room,

hugging picture frames and books

and the black swirls down,

down my throat, warming the day, clearing sleepy vision,

chasing away nighttimes monsters.

It’s thick and low –

mom humming a lullaby, rocking me to sleep,

great grandma’s quilt wrapped

around four-year-old shoulders.

.

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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 Whitener
Response

Amanda Whitener
Response

Sukia

Response

Barbara Wesenberg

Inspiration piece

Some of the funniest, and admittedly sometimes frustrating, moments are when we hear things differently than what was actually said. I call it creative hearing because a lot of times it just seems easier to make up what you think you heard rather than hunting down what was actually said. Creative hearing happens when you are in one room and your partner is trying to talk to you two rooms away. It happens with children, with people who are hard of hearing, with people who just plain aren’t listening, and most notably with song lyrics. One of the books that made me laugh out loud was a collection of misheard song lyrics. It’s hysterical what people make up when they can’t understand the words.

The other day when a dear friend of mine needed a laugh I reminded her about the misheard lyrics. She said “I can’t believe you brought that up, I just found a page of them”. So she started to read some and when we got to “Village cheese is not my lover” or as most people know the line “Billie Jean is not my lover,” we just were beside ourselves with laughter. And what’s so interesting is that even though you know the words you create don’t make sense, you sing them anyway…sometimes for years.

Another friend of mine, as a child, thought the line from the Lord’s Prayer “and lead us not into temptation” was “and lead us not into Penn Station.” She said she wondered why God didn’t like Penn Station, but repeated it faithfully for quite some time before she finally asked her mom. It became a treasured family story, and now I think of it every time I say the Lord’s Prayer.

My husband’s mother and her good friend who were both hard-of-hearing, were trying to have a conversation. It went something like this: Margie said, “I’d like to get some cherries on our way back.” Edna replied, “Sherry, I don’t know any Sherry.” Margie said, “You know where we passed cherries by the side of the road on our way here.” Edna said, “No, I don’t know any Sherry Siderow down here.’’ Margie said, “We just went by one!” Edna: “Well I didn’t see her.” By this time the rest of us are shouting cherries, and laughing amazed that they even got that far in the conversation. Both Edna and Margie have passed away, but anytime cherries come up…

I’m beginning to love the alternate interpretations and find they can really make myself laugh when I think of some of the things I have misheard. So, the next time your loved one says (from two rooms away) “did you call the electrician today?’ and you say “no, Election Day’s not til November!” have a good laugh and know that your creative hearing is working just fine.