Cristal Brawley
Inspiration piece

Stability Not Stabile-ity
By Diane Mayr
Response

“The aesthetic value of these objects cannot be arrived at by reasoning. Familiarization is necessary.” — Alexander Calder

It looked to be
something created
as an art project–
an homage to
Alexander Calder.

A stabile chair
if you must have
a name for it–
metallic, colorful,
collectible?

But, there it sat
on the sidewalk,
next to the trash,
awaiting the Friday
morning pick-up.

In need of a chair
that’ll wrap around
me in comfort, I knew
familiarization is
more than aesthetics.

The city garbage
truck pulled up. It’s
efficient crew jumped
off and put an end to
any and all reasoning.

——————————————

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.

Diane Mayr
“If We Go Any Slower, We’ll Be Going Backwards”
Digital collage
Response

Girls Are Flyers
By Lisa L. Leibow
Inspiration piece

It was so cold, Chapman Pond had frozen over. I headed there with shovels and skates to meet other kids from the neighborhood. We four girls, including Meg Flori, who lived across town, laced up our skates while four boys, the Daves (O’Malley, La Marche, and Brunetti) and Freddie Jacobs, cleared snow from the ice.

“Let’s play boys are Bruins versus girls are Maple Leafs.” Freddie stretched his arms east and west like a scarecrow. “Set up goals there.”

I followed hockey on television and stats in the paper with Dad. “No way,” I said. I didn’t want the girls to be Maple Leafs because the Maple Leafs stunk; they hadn’t won a championship since before I was born. Why did the other girls just sit there in silence? Didn’t they realize the insult? “Flyers, maybe. Or Islanders. Not Maple Leafs.”

“Fine. Girls are Flyers,” said one of the Daves. “I call Bobby Orr.”

“Won’t help us much,” said another Dave. “He’s on the injured list.”

“Pretend I’m last year’s Orr, stupid.”

I said, “Fine with me. If he’s Orr, I’m Bobby Clarke.” I looked at Meg and the other girls. “Who do you want to be?”

“Dorothy Hamill,” said Meg.

“Me too,” said Patty.

“If you two are Dorothys, I’ll be Peggy Fleming,” said Kathleen.

I slapped my own forehead with mittened hand. “They’re not hockey players.”

Meg said, “We know. We don’t care. We just want to twirl on the ice.”

Ugh.

We girls chatted as we practiced Hamill camels. Meg said, “Your dad bought a lot of Girl Scout cookies. I mean a lot.”

I filed this information away. Tagalongs, yum.

“My mom says we’re close to enough money for spring campout.”

“Campout?” I wanted to sleep outside.

“Ruthie, are you a Girl Scout?” Meg asked.

“No.” Girl Scouts might be just the thing I needed—instant friends.

“You should join Girl Scouts,” Meg said. My heartbeat accelerated.

“Yeah, then you can go to the mother-daughter campout with us!” Kathleen said.

I turtled my face into my scarf, wondering about the fat chance these kids hadn’t heard that Mom left Dad and me. I leaned into the embarrassment. I asked, “Can I go without my mother?”

“What? Why?” asked Patty.

“Um…she’s gone for a while.”

“On a trip? Our mom went to Italy once to see her cousins in the old country. She sent me a postcard with a picture of the Leaning Tower of Pisa,” said Patty.

“How long is your mom traveling for?” asked Kathy.

“Not really sure.”

“Didn’t she tell you?” asked Meg.

“Have you gotten a postcard?” asked Patty.

I reluctantly admitted, “Don’t think Mom will return by spring. She doesn’t live with us anymore.”

“That’s weird. Why not?”

“I dunno. I guess your mom loves you more than mine loves me.” I laughed but could feel pressure building behind my eyes.

“Come on. You don’t mean that,” said Meg.

I stared at my skate, scraping the ice with the blade’s edge. “From what Dad says, I’m pretty sure she’s gone for good.” I tried to sound casual, but admitting this made my feet itch to run. My toes felt freezing. As I pushed off to skate a lap or two, I wiggled them inside my skates. The blade caught on a divot in the ice. At the instant I floundered out of control, Dave Brunetti rounded the corner. I crashed into him, sending him flying.

He belly-flopped on the ice. “What the heck!” he grunted.

“Sorry.” I offered a hand.

He slapped it away. “Don’t be such a spaz!”

“It was. An accident.” The lump in my throat made my words halt.

“Why are you crying? I’m the one that fell.”

My lip quivered as Dave Brunetti scrambled to his feet. He said, “Gonna cry to your mommy now?”

The others skated in close, forming a circle around us.

Meg said, “Dave,” as if his name were a warning.

“What?” He smirked. “Look at the little baby. She’s gonna cry.” He poked my shoulder. “Go cry to your mom.”

The two other Daves high-fived and one repeated, “Cry to Mommy,” with a laugh. Patty and Kathleen kept their mouths shut and took a few steps back. Meg stepped toward Dave Brunetti. “Shut up, you jerk.”

Anger spun from my gut down my legs, winding up.

“Mind your own beeswax,” Dave Brunetti said to Meg, reaching to grab his hockey stick at the precise moment my tension exploded as a sharp kick, blade gouging his hand. He stared at his hand without saying a word. The flesh erupted like white lava before the blood started. “Jesus! Get out of here, you freak.”

I removed my skates and ran from the pond. Somewhere between the sidewalk and the flagstone path, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around to find Meg. I said, “Please, tell him I’m sorry.”

“Are you kidding? That jerk had it coming.”

“What?”

“Really. He’s always ganging up on someone. Plus, next time you see him, he’ll probably be bragging how his scar makes him look like Jesus.”

“Why on earth would he brag about that?” I covered my eyes, trying to unsee a half-naked Dave Brunetti on a cross. I took a deep breath. “At least I lucked out with you coming to my neighborhood. How come you’re here, anyway?”

As we sat on my front steps, Meg explained, “I only spend weekends with my father. I spend school days at Mom’s house on the other side of town. I’m used to it. My parents have been divorced for ages.”

“Where does your mother live?”

“In a lakefront cottage, right across the shore from Calliope Park. If I look out my bedroom window, I can see Halley’s Comet.”

“I went there last summer, but couldn’t ride Halley’s Comet. Too short,” I said. “What’s your favorite attraction?”

“The Maze of Mirrors in the Fun House. I’ve mastered it.”

A feat that made her fascinating. I asked, “What’s the secret?”

Meg looked stunning. She wore Vaseline on her lips that made them look shiny. Her long, braided hair hung down her back like a plush velvet rope. As she shared the tricks of the maze, she used her hands to emphasize her words. Her smile was wide and infectious; occasionally, she swatted my knee and said, “You know what I mean?”

She explained, “The key to making it through the maze is looking at the floor while keeping your right hand on the wall at all times.”

I said, “It sounds easier than expected. Why aren’t you at your mother’s house today? Today was supposed to be a school day until it snowed.”

“Yup, but it’s Monday.”

“Monday’s a school day.”

“I sleep at Dad’s Friday, Saturday, Sunday,” she said.

“If you’re still there on Monday morning, technically you live with your dad part of the school week, don’t you?”

Meg laughed and said, “Jeesoman,” a sure sign she liked me. Connecting with Meg in the cold air froze the dread of Dave the bully—at least for a while.

THE END

________________________________
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.

Diane Mayr
“Beasts”
Digital collage
Response

I Know Where the Bodies Accrue Freezer Burn
By Anne-Marie Ross
Inspiration piece

One eye sees
one eye remembers.
The mouth tears flesh
flashes
back to when it reached only for grass, then
forgets.

Ticks of the clock between punches
between barks of his manager
have stretched out
too long.
The horse, tired of weight
takes a page from the tiger’s book.

With one hoof, he pulls the lever
factory doors whine shut
screaming neglected hinges
white walls trap the barking inside.
Hooves melt into long fingers, reaching for prey.

A freezer only just cocked open
holds the secret as to why the boss
is on such an extended vacation.

________________________________
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.

Diane Mayr
“Terra in Cognita”
Response

Meg Max
Motherhood in Maps
Inspiration piece

Motherhood In Maps

Enjoy every second of this, here’s your map
a grocery list, forgotten.

They grow up so fast, here’s your map
a parking ticket, unpaid.

Eventually they won’t even like you! Here’s your map
a pile of thank you cards, unsent.

Your map, you look tired, don’t forget to take care of yourself
the mocking chant of your breast pump in the night.

Your map
the spilled milk you cry about.

Your map
cans of formula stacked on the counter.

Your map
a crumpled package of stale cigarettes hidden in your makeup drawer.

Your map
a slip of fortune from last night’s takeout, stuck to the fridge with a small gold magnet.

Your map
reading your baby’s diaper like tea leaves.

Your map
a small burn on the inside of your wrist from the bottle steamer.

Your map
a handwritten recipe taped to saran wrap covering the top of a frozen casserole.

Your map
cans of energy drinks stashed behind the tomato juice.

Your map
texts never responded to.

Your map
being lonely but never alone.

Your map
the internet and everyone on it.

Your map
the expectation that you will bifurcate with ease.

Your map
the scrambled new terrain of your previously hardboiled breasts.

Your map
the exit wound stitches that march along your abdomen.

Your map
the round curve of the north end of their cheek.

Your map
a little dipper of freckles on their left thigh.

Your map
half moon nails, dagger sharp.

Your map
round legs that grow long and walk away.

Your map
love too important to get lost in.

Here’s your map, they tell me
how can you not know where you are going?

——————————————

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.

Paula Lantz
Out of My Window!
Inspiration piece

On the Bay
By Diane Mayr
Response

What was she thinking
inviting me along on
the Sunfish that day?

She, all of fifteen,
was a practiced sailor.
I had never sailed.

Not knowing the jargon,
“coming about!” nearly lost
me my head–but I learned.

I could barely swim, yet
we capsized giggling
instead of glubbing.

Youthful exuberance
and a dollop of trust
were all life required.

I didn’t realize then that
being underwater wouldn’t
always be survivable.

And having the means
to sail on the bay
requires more than trust.

——————————————

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.

Diane Mayr
“The Right Tool for the Job”
Response

Sister, the Fly That’s Never Near Walls, and Other Things We Are
By Shalini Rana
Inspiration piece

She’s a splash of red coat bobbing
on an ivory snow backdrop

Bold baby raspberry
Little scream with a hard touch
(always bending back book pages)

Never a fly on the wall, she smashes
white clouds under her feet
My dainty dose of disaster

There’s something vintage in our opposites—
like we were different together before

Me: a pillow waiting to catch sleep
Her: an accent wanting to be heard

But these days I’m old-hag big sister
and she, a winged preteen pest

I catch her with a flyswatter and cup
See, I know where she flits about

——————————————

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.

Dominic Mazzilli
Response

Diane Mayr
“New England Beach”
Inspiration piece

New England Beach

Icy waters steal one’s breath.
Every surface shimmers.
Pier fries in a paper cone
splashed with cider vinegar.
Sloshing cups of chunky chowder
with only a smidgen of grit.
A heat-induced nap on the sand
or the time to simply sit.

——————————————

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.

Dominic Mazzilli
Inspiration piece

Diane Mayr
“Collateral Damage”
Response

COLLATERAL DAMAGE

Smoke obscures the reality.

The illustration
of human creativity
and factual narrative
is released from its
paper and board covers
only to disperse,
as ash–the end
product of
incomplete combustion.

When the smoke clears…

someone will recollect
the novels,
the narratives,
the poetry,
the music,
and publish them anew
for untried sycophants
to claim as
collateral damage.

Smoke will obscure the reality.

——————————————

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.

Diane Mayr
“A Scheme of Green”
Response

Cabin Time
By Kathleen Finn Jordan
Inspiration piece

Opening the chalet door
The forest looms encircling all
And I
dot like in the scheme of green
Sluice into the waiting chair
Gasping at the view
Loved into a new consciousness
By brushed air in the overwhelming heat
graced, shaded, smiled upon by sycamores
Aware of the silenced once murmuring brook
Life giving spring water slurped up into the heat of the day
Ketamine still- eyes held fast on the trees
I watch and sit as early evening shadows slip into gaps
and dappled sunlight patches disappear
Leaves whisper in the breeze from the west
Chirping day birds yield their places
Woodpeckers cease their rhythmic patterns
Deer run deeper into the brush
And the night birds hovering in the highest levels of the trees
Begin their antiphonal chanting non stop til daybreak
And the beginning once again of the cycle of nature
here and very much now.

——————————————

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.

Janet Buell
Ravens in Snow
watercolor and colored pencils on watercolor paper. 6” x 8”
Inspiration piece

Diane Mayr
Ravens in Snow: three cherita
Response

Ravens in Snow: three cherita

we humans must name,
define, categorize all–

for Corvus corax
we draw upon our own
black-heartedness

an unkindness

in northern regions
native peoples have dozens
of names for snow

a practicality

one needs for
rational discussion

ravens in snow

a subject for sketching
by artist or writer

no paint, no words necessary
–listen to the flakes, feel the kraa
–be there

——————————————

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.