Marilyn Ackerman
“The Little Girl Who Wasn’t There”
Inspiration Piece

The Bialis
By Anne Nowselski
Response

Julia pumped up the wheels of her old bike. It had been years since she’d ridden. Back when Matthew had been a boy, they’d go on the bike path near their neighborhood, riding just to ride. Sometimes he would get far ahead of her, almost out of view. But she always caught up.

She wondered if she could keep up now. At forty-six she still felt fit. She dreaded the day when there would be aches and pains greeting her in the mornings. Those days were still a long way off, she hoped.
She tested the bike, spinning the front wheel, then checked to make sure the brakes were still tight.

Over twenty years ago, she had picked it out at the dump’s swap shop. The bike itself was an ugly pink with mysterious scapes and dents. Matthew had been embarrassed by it, especially when they came across his friends along the bike way.

Now the seat was a little torn, and she’d smoothed it out with a generous amount of duct tape. Climbing on she felt strange. As she pushed out of the garage with the balls of her feet, she thought it was at once familiar and foreign. Like putting on old shoes.

She snapped the kickstand and then went and closed the door. It sliced down like a guillotine and locked with a clang. Then she adjusted her helmet again. Just like she once did for Matthew. She smiled thinking of that little boy, all those years ago when they had first moved in, a newly single mother and a boy of five.

Slowly, she rolled the bike down the driveway, pleased with herself when she didn’t fall over. Soon air was rushing by her ears with a familiar buzz and she was feeling the strain in her legs as she pumped up the first hill. Then she rounded the last house and she was on the bike way.

It was an early spring day. Snow piles still lined the sides of the pavement, but only as leaky brown lumps. A chill held in the air, which probably was why there were few people out. But for Julia, she had needed to get out. A restlessness had come over her recently, urging her to move. To do something.

Denise, her friend of many years, had called it a combination of empty nest syndrome and pre-midlife crisis. And had listed an extensive reading list on both, and also encouraged Julia to take a bunch of classes that ranged from hot yoga to baking classes. None of which was quite what Julia was interested in. She was taking this time to figure things out, and laying on her stomach for an hour or icing a cake did not seem like a way to go about it.

In truth, Julia had been relieved when Matthew had gone to college, and then relieved when he had landed a good job, even if it was far away. Then finally, two weeks ago, he had settled down. And she did not have that teary eyed feeling of being left behind. She was grateful that he was going to be alright.

For herself, she was less focused than him. She had worked at the office shuffling papers to pay the bills. But now, now as Denise urged her, she had these two months sabbatical to figure out what she wanted to do. And Julia did want to do something for herself. But for so long she had been like a leaf drifting in a stream, she couldn’t find her goal, couldn’t focus.

As she peddled, she noticed she had no destination. It could have been an hour or only a minute, she wasn’t sure. She had passed a few places she remembered, an old post that marked a walking path, a place where she and young Matthew had bought lemonade from a classmate. They were like glimpses into a past.

Up ahead, a yellow backhoe was blocking the bike way. A large gaping hole with several workers standing around were there. She slowed down, a detour sign pointed to a ramp that would take her back up to the road where she could hear the cars whipping by. She decided to swerve back to the walking path. It ran behind some houses and paralleled a tiny stream eventually coming to a park.

She nearly missed the path, but the weathered wooden post was there. Someone had stacked four stones on top of it. The path itself was nearly invisible with broken branches and leaves hiding it. She was soon bumping over rocks and tree roots. The little stream was a muddy snake to her right. Not the most comfortable ride, but if she remembered correctly there was an ancient oak that Matthew had once climbed. She would like to see it again.

The trees were tall, blocking the view of the houses that she could only catch glimpses of, as if they were a wall of a cloister. It was quieter here, secluded in a way that even the long stretches alone on the bike path could not be. She saw only dried leaves and branches. No birds chirped, though she saw a bluejay flit about. She was alone.

She was just beginning to feel the sense of calm come over her, a sense of relief. Her bike dipped quickly underneath her, teetering her to the side and she fell into a patch of damp leaves. The smell of rot filled her nose as she struggled to disentangle herself from the bike. When she was standing again, her heart rate slowing, she saw that she only had some minor scrapes and bruises.

A chuckle bubbled up from her chest. Then she was laughing.

“You there!” Someone shouted.

Julia whipped around and peered through the trees. No one was there. Just the damp leaves and grey trees. The bluejay had landed on a nearby branch. She turned then, to pick up the bike again when the voice called again, “Please! You must help!”

She looked back at the bird, it was staring at her strangely. Not like a bird should, but with its black eyes staring at her earnestly.

“Come help! Follow me! No time to waste!” The voice called again.

“Where are you?” She demanded as she got her phone out.

“I’m right here. Hurry! She won’t last long!”

She shook her head, still trying to see what she could be missing. “I can’t see you. Who needs help? I can call 911.” The phone was poised in her hand.

“Nineoneone? Look up, look up! Yes! Yes, that’s it,” the bird hopped closer, landing on a branch only an arm’s length away. The voice seemed to follow with it. “Come! Come now!” Then it flitted away a few feet and waited.

“The bluejay?” Julia asked aloud. Then it began to dawn on her. It probably wasn’t really a bluejay at all. It was one of those really fancy drones that mimicked birds. They were getting very advanced now, weren’t they? Only last autumn her neighbor had been testing one that looked like a large dragonfly. It had not flown like this dronebird, instead getting stuck in her tree so they had to use a long pole to get it down.

She followed the dronebird for a few steps, then it darted back a few more feet along the path. She went after it. And then it would dart off again. They went on this way for awhile. The small creature always out of reach. Eventually she came to the large oak that she recognized. It was huge, its branches spanning in a wide circle that no other tree or bush grew in.

The dronebird flew off again, dipping down to the muddy bank of the stream. The thing landed on a rock that was next to a thick slimy branch stuck partway in the water. As Julia neared, something beneath the branch squirmed. She crouched down and saw the black eyes of a small creature. It was no bigger then a rabbit. With a furry face that may have been white once. It could be a winter fox, maybe a baby one, it was so small.

“Oh,” Julia whispered, “You poor thing. Just hang on. I’ll get help,” she still had her phone out, and she started searching for an animal control number.

“What are you waiting for? Take up that branch!” The dronebird commanded.

“I can’t do that. It’s a wild animal. It might bit me,” she said absently as she scrolled.

“Help her! Stop dallying on that slate-thing and do SOMETHING!”

The tone startled her, making her almost drop her phone. The feathers of the bird rustled, then it swooped in nearly pecking her hand.

Automatically, she leaned down, and as the creature coward she gripped the slimy branch. She gave it a rough jerk, that only produced a whimpering cry from the animal. “Shh, shh, don’t worry little one. Let me just…” she leveraged the branch again, heaving it up and holding it.

For a moment the critter did nothing, frozen in terror. Then it cautiously stepped out of the mud hole. Julia saw a glop of mud on its back, and reached down automatically to wipe it off. It was then it darted off through the leaves.

Julia let the branch fall back and then wiped her hands in the stream as best she could before sitting down on a rock. The bluejay hopped next to her.

“It’s not a drone,” she said aloud looking at the bird.

“Drone? I’m the least boring Azuel you’ll ever meet!” It chirped.

“I’m talking to a bird,” she replied, “And the bird is talking back… there’s a term for this. Psychotic break or something like that. I’m having one of those. Or maybe when I slipped in the mud, I hit my head against a rock.” She touched her helmet, “Or maybe I’m asleep under that oak over there and dreaming…”

“Human, you are as awake as I—oh look! She comes back!” The bluejay fluttered landing on Julia’s shoulder.

The little creature was caked in mud as it came through the dead leaves. Its little paws like a cat’s, it’s tail whipping back and forth as it neared. But the Julia could not take her eyes off its back. For there were wings, though grimy and dirty, they were unmistakably feather wings like an owl’s.

“What is that?” She asked in wonder. It was something out of a storybook or movie. And Julia felt a deep sense of awe as the tiny mythical creature came closer.

“She’s a bialis, a winged fox,” the bird explained, “Oh, she says thank you very much for coming to her aid. She will never forget your help for the rest of her life.”

Whispering, Julia replied, “I’ve never heard of a bialis.”

It was just within reach, and despite the grime that covered it. Julia was mesmerized and reached out to touch it, just to make sure it was real. It’s narrow nose sniffed her hand, then it snapped its small jaw on her hand.

“Ow!” Julia yelped pulling back.

The bialis dashed off with an awkward run glide until it came to the oak tree. It paused and glanced back at her, the dark eyes wide. Then it disappeared into the tree.

“How lucky you are!” The bird chirped in her ear. “The bialis said she has marked you. And you can go to her world if you like.”

“She bit me,” Julia muttered as she rubbed the bloody teeth marks on her hand. Yet even as she did so, the wound faded until it was like an old scar. “I need a rabies shot now…” she said with a shrug.

“But you can go to the mythical lands!” The bird said.

“I can’t just… I can’t just leave.” It was a ridiculous thought. She had no idea what was in the tree, if there was anything. It could just be a strange joke. Things like this happened to children in storybooks, where they were whisked off on an adventure. Not something for the likes of her.

And yet. She walked to the old oak and stared up at the long branches. The small woods was silent, as if holding its breath. It was a quiet that was waiting for her.

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Brian MacDonald
Inspiration Piece

The Bone Coin
By Anne Nowselski
Response

Mida had found the bone coin in a secret slot of the small desk of the room. She should have left it here, and for a while she had been able to ignore it. But as the days went by, her curiosity over took her and she put it in her pocket, pulling it out often to look at.

It was the size of a large silver coin and fit in the palm of her hand. The edges were smooth from age, and there was a small hole at the top for a string. The surface was snowy with an etching in the bone of a kind of cat. When she held it to the light of the window slit, she could see slender scratches for whiskers on its broad face. It had the pointy feline ears, but no tail and the paws seemed especially large.

Most days she leaned over the desk with the bone coin laid out and she stared at it, as if she were reading tarot stones and the story of it would be revealed to her. The cat eyes were thoughtful, as if they too wondered at the blue eyed girl staring at it. Mida knew it was wrong, but she often imagined the person who had owned the bone coin. Who had lived in this same cell as her and during the long lonely days, she would talk to the coin’s owner.

“My horse is brown with one white foot, as if he had dipped it in milk. I call him Milky sometimes because of that,” she had said once. The sound of her own voice surprised her in the quiet of the prison, like a loud echo.  She had thought someone might have heard her, but no one answered. No one ever answered. Distant cries came from beyond the thick cell doors, particularly at night, or a voice might call out in loneliness, but she never heard any other voices.

The guard, Eloi, who had burly thick arms like tree trunks, brought her meals three times a day, but never talked. His heavy foot falls were familiar rhythms, especially if a crying became too disruptive, then she could hear him come and there was a heavy thud, and then silence.

She had seen a wolf once when her father had taken her to market. It had been in a wooden cage that was barely enough room for the grey body to turn around. The fur was matted and flies buzzed around its tired and runny eyes. She had begun to weep for it, telling her father how cruel it was to cage an animal like that. Her father had brought her close and pointed at the string around its neck and the ivory coin attached. “This is a Mudanci,” he had explained even as she tried to squirm away, “It is not an animal.”

Her cell felt like that creature’s cage, and her mind would drift back to the image of the Mudanci. If she had allowed herself, she could have just sagged into a corner and waited for whatever fate awaited. But she had not wanted to give up, not like that creature had. Every day she walked in the tight circle of her cell, calmly, as if she were strolling through the house gardens. She plucked the straw from her hair after she had slept and stuffed them back into the corner for her pallet. She watched the sky change colors through the narrow window that a squirrel could not have gotten through, counting the days that went by.

And she spoke to the bone coin for company. Imagining the girl who had owned it, for she thought with confidence, the strange cat had a dainty feminine look in its eyes. If she concentrated well enough, Mida could distract herself for hours thinking of this other life. She got comfort from knowing someone else had been here, even if it had been a Mudanci.

The sun was spilling pink rays in her window when she heard Eloi’s heavy foot falls echoing down the hall. It was too early for the evening supper, she thought as she listened sitting on her stool. As she waited, she heard another sound, a light whisper, like the rustling of leaves across cobblestones. Then the noises stopped right by her door, and there was a metallic clank.

Abruptly, Mida stood, smoothing down her aged and stained riding dress. A visitor had never come and her heart fluttered at the hope of who it might be. Her father to take her home perhaps? Or the Sagen to—

The door opened and Eloi’s scarred face squinted into the darkness of her cell. She recoiled, as he always made her nervous. He never spoke, only watched with great wide eyes as if he were expecting something. But then a tall elegant woman pushed her way into the tiny cell, gently shoving Eloi to the side with a dark hand. Her dress was a pale blue, like the sky and with a dark velvet pouch hanging from her belt. Her dark hair was piled neatly on her head. Mida could smell a whiff of fresh lavender when the woman came in.

“Lady Mida,” the woman nodded as she sniffed her nose and squinted her eyes.

Mida was now very conscious of how she must look. Her face must be smudged beyond recognition, and her hair must be a wild mess. The dress was practically new when she was brought, but now the pale green fabric was soiled and stiff. Her hands, she saw with dismay, were caked with grime, so she hid them behind her back.

“I am Sagen Govinda. And you have been here quite awhile now, I think. I also understand that your name was given by the apothecary, what was his name?” She asked as she glanced at Eloi, then back at Mida.

Neither of them spoke, though Mida was thinking of that tiny shop and the sweet musky smell that permeated the air like a cloud of pollen. Even now, so far away and many months later, she could still smell it.

“Well, it hardly matters,” she shrugged, “You’ve been accused of buying a  constancy draught that helps the Mudanci hide from us. But there is a way to clear your name—“

With a gasp, Mida felt the breath she had been holding escape her lips that had begun to tremble.  She could be free. The thought was too much and she felt her eyes watering with tears.

The Sagen flashed a beautiful smile, “It will all be over soon, my dear. Your family has written to us and—“ her dark eyes flickered to the desk and squinted as though reading something unpleasant. “What is that?” She snapped, and then her long dark fingers were reaching out and picked the bone coin on the desk where Mida had left it.

The blood rushed to Mida’s cheeks as she held herself back from lunging and trying to snatch it out of the woman’s hands. Her eyes darted, and she felt Eloi’s stare on her as she tried to think quickly of what to say. “Oh,” she whispered “Oh, my, that was here when I came.” She tried to shrug, but felt awkward and stiff.

Eloi was silent but the Sagen’s smile faded into a serious frown. “These things are very dangerous,” she cautioned, “They are evil medallions for the Mudanci. To aid in their transformation.” She turned the coin over, “A lynx,” she whispered as she passed it over to Eloi.

“I’m not a shape changer,” Mida yelped.

Sagen Govinda nodded solemnly, “We’ll see.” And then she opened the velvet pouch and pulled out a dark rough stone.

A renewed flush of dread silenced Mida, but she forced herself not to wince.

“You have nothing to fear from the Truthstone,” the Sagen assured her, but then added with a grin, “Unless you are a liar or a Mudanci.”

Just hearing the name of the stone made her tremble. A Truthstone was the surest way to find Mudanci, as it forced them to shift into their animal form when they touched it. The stones were rare, though, and Sagen Govinda must have paid dearly to have it brought here.

As the Sagen held out the stone which was about as big as her hand, Mida tried not to shrink away. Months ago, the apothecary had offered her a small vial of dark liquid, thrusting it into her hand, even as she protested. His eyes had been kind and understanding. “It’s free,” he had whispered, “Come back any time.” The Sagen before her now had a face that was nearing a snarl as she pressed the Truthstone forward.

Mida longed to hold the cool black stone in her hand and speak the words, “I am not a Mudanci!” It was a beautiful and bright image like a spark in her mind. But just as these thoughts formed, a darkness would descend, like a candle that was nearing the end of its wick. Deep inside, she knew she could never say those words.

Thrusting the stone, the Sagen touched her skin by her collar bone. Immediately, Mida felt the familiar tingle crawl up her spine like a cold panic seeping into her body.  She stumbled backwards, trying to curl into herself as the room became strange and hazy. The sweaty dress became loose on her thin frame and she watched her horror mirrored by the Sagen who was quickly becoming larger.

She slipped into the darkness of her clothes and she wanted to imagine she was merely dreaming back at home. But she could still feel the soft fur along her small arms and the odd teeth inside her mouth. And then there was a twitching behind her, and she knew the long tail with the black tip was there. She wanted to weep.

“Get rid of it,” Mida heard the Sagen hiss.

Her tiny heart was pounding and she quickly fought her way with tiny claws into the light of the dim cell. She looked up at both people who towered over her now. Eloi reached down as if to pluck her up by the neck, like a disobedient puppy. Without thought, she jumped up with powerful hind legs, clearing over him to the little slit window.

“Stop it from escaping!” the Sagen cried and Eloi lurched upwards.

Mida scraped through the narrow opening. Her golden body emerged into the red dusk and for the first time in weeks she breathed in fresh cool air. She could see a long way off over the grassy plains that were gold red in the setting sun. She might never be able to go home, not now that they knew what she was, but maybe she could be free in the plains where many of the springhares roamed.

Her thoughts went back to the bone coin, and the Mudanci who had most likely died in the prison. As she stared down at the ground, it seemed very far away and she felt dizzy. She regretted not being able to get the bone coin from Eloi. She would have to leave it though she felt as if she were abandoning her. Mida turned back to the setting sun and leapt.

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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 the express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Brian MacDonald
Inspiration Piece

Superpower
By Anne Nowselski
Response

I would not like to turn into a bird.
But I would fly.
It would be so wonderful to step out my window
and take off into to the air.
To ride with clouds and wind.
The world a blur beneath me,
a freedom that happens in dreams.

I would use my power for practical things.
Getting to work would be simple, maybe fun.
Instead of being trapped in a metal box
I could dance over the trees
The drove of engines far off like a memory.

Everywhere becomes closer.
Visiting exotic cities like it’s next door.
No more endless waiting in lines.
Nor fears of mechanical glitches.
a control of my own fate.

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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.

Apache Plums
By Anne Nowselski
Response

That’s not their name, of course.
Plumes, is the word.
Fallugia paradoxa, if you want.
They don’t grow here,
not in the shade of norways
or the drenching rains
that make the earth rich and dark.

Maybe you could get one.
From a nursery or through the mail.
A fuzzy plant to sit in a teacup of sand.
When winter blankets the grass,
it could watch evergreens whipping
and icicles clinking in the wind.

The silky pink plumes would shudder
with laughter, as it sipped slowly.
It will imagine places far away.
The heat burning skins and petals.
The cold nights of endless stars.
The brush of baby quails underneath.
Holding the dry white earth together.

It will miss the arid sky.
It will want to go back.
And when you open the window
for the last fresh breeze of summer
the feather pink clusters will fade
to white and then shake themselves
loose into the wind.

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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.