Frank Gibson

Untitled

Inspiration piece

*

Helen Whittaker

The first leaf of autumn

Response

i

Phaedra the wood nymph sings and dances, showering the glade with rose petals. She is naked apart from a chain of daisies around her head. As she sways, her long hair swings. Suddenly she stops.

‘Who’s there?’ she calls. ‘Show yourself!’

A young man emerges from a bush. He has sun gold hair and sky blue eyes, and his garments are willow green.

‘I am Summer,’ he says, ‘deity of the season. I wander the earth at this time of year, inspecting my handiwork.’

‘I am not your handiwork,’ says Phaedra. ‘You have no right to inspect me.’

ii

Dear Diary,

You’ll never guess what happened today! I was singing and dancing in the nude like I always do, and this bloke popped up out of a bush and told me he was a god. A god!!!! I was totally gobsmacked — you don’t get to meet gods very often. Actually, I did meet one once, but he was old and ugly and full of himself, so he doesn’t count. And this one was abso-bloody-lutely gorgeous! He tried to kiss me and I didn’t stop him. I think I’m in lurve!

iii

From: bunny@yahoo.com

To: freeze_ur_butt@gmail.com; misty@hotmail.com

Subject: Our wayward brother

Brothers,

It has come to my attention that Summer has declared his love for the wood nymph Phaedra.

It is not fitting for a deity to become romantically involved with a semi-mortal.

We need to take action.

Spring

Vernal Deity

____________

From: freeze_ur_butt@gmail.com

To: bunny@yahoo.com; misty@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: Our wayward brother

I reckon wood nymphs are fair game. I tried to cop off with Phaedra myself once, and she gave me the cold shoulder. If I can’t have her, then I don’t see why anyone else should.

I agree that we’ve got to do something.

Coldly,

Winter

__________

From: misty@hotmail.com

To: freeze_ur_butt@gmail.com; bunny@yahoo.com

Subject: Re: Our wayward brother

Hey guys,

I don’t think there’s anything we can do right now. It’s Summer’s time, you know? But when the first leaf of autumn falls, the mystical power thingy transfers to me, and I’ll do something rad.

Chill.

Your mellow brother,

Autumn (AKA Fall)

_________

iv

Summer is drawing
to a close. It rains all night
and in the morning

the lovers embrace
beneath a maple tree and
share tearful goodbyes.

‘I’ll come back next year,’
says Summer. ‘You better had,’
Phaedra whispers back.

As they pull apart
a leaf spins down towards the
puddle at their feet.

And then it happens.
Phaedra turns to stone right where
she’s standing; eyes wide,

fingers to lips, mouth
open in surprise. She won’t
dance and sing again

until Summer sneaks
back into the woods and the
roses bloom once more.

—

Helen Whittaker

Untitled

Response

*

Donna Gagnon Pugh

Things We Should Know

Inspiration piece

In one old photograph — 1930s black faded into 21^st century white — a little girl smiles and holds a shaggy old mutt with long legs and beady eyes. His name was Toby.

“I loved that dog,” my mother says and turns the ragged page in the old photo album.

We study the Remington typewriter in a picture of my grandfather’s office at the cookie factory. I remember looking forward to visiting my grandparents so I could press those round, yellowed keys to produce short messages where all of the ‘e’s looked like ‘o’s.

“He was a mean old bastard. Never showed any affection.”

I look up from the album. My mother doesn’t share easily. In her world, life has always been simpler lived on the surface of things.

“He never told me. The dog ran away. That’s what I thought. Maybe it’s what my mother said.”

A tear moves noiselessly down my mother’s wrinkled face. I take her glass and pour some wine. Her hand shakes as she drinks.

“It was the car. He hit Toby. My sister Ellen told me the night before I married your Dad. Buried the dog under the willow tree. I used to play there.”

The last photo in that old album was taken at Niagara Falls. There’s a black iron railing and my grandfather. I raise my hand as if to push and my mother laughs.

Public domain image from Wikimedia Commons

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Kelly Newton (MP3)
Inspiration piece

Old Joe
By Helen Whittaker
Response

he fills
the underpass with music
gnarled hands coaxing notes
from a battered guitar

sometimes
he plays to please the crowd
Free Bird or Smoke on the Water
but mostly he just jams

letting his fingers
dance across the frets
letting the music flow
into him and through him

every evening
as he walks back to the bridge
he passes the guitar shop
with the Gibson Firebird in the window

spotlights pick out
liquid swirls in black and red
frozen beneath a layer of lacquer
as thick as a ten pence piece

Joe presses
his palm against the window
and whistles softly

the Firebird sits mute
tethered by a security leash
caged behind a window grille

while Joe’s old strings
are free to sing

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