Diana K Sharp “I’m Right Here”  water color and mixed media

Response

The Lunchroom

Hildie S Block

Inspiration piece

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Diana K Sharp

Inspiration piece

Stained Glass

Hildie S Block

Response
The painting means something. What, I’m not quite sure. Something, the colors, the lines. It was just on the edge of what I could . . .know? Just past –

“Wait, what?”
She shook her head.
“You never listen to me. I swear mother, I mean it just doesn’t matter to you does it? Mom?”
“No– I mean what did you say– I want to know. . . ”
“Does it really matter? I come here. . . I think you are lonely . . . I feel so bad and then you just look out the window and don’t listen. I should go.”
“Listen, sweetie,” I grabbed for her hand. I turned it over in my hand. This hand which had been the chubby hand of a meowing smiling toddler, was now coarse, polish chipping and cracked. “Honey, when was the last time you got a manicure? Not very professional — the judge — ”
“Okay, so that’s it. I’m out of here.”
“No wait, Sera– have some tea. There are more cookies. . .”
But she was gone.

And I found myself back at the window, staring at the tracks the rain made against the pane as they raced each other down and counted down the minutes until the nurse came to bring me to dinner.

I didn’t realize my eyes were closed. I really thought I was still staring out the window. But now that I think about it, I mean really think — like I try to when they are doing tests to see if . . . Well I’m not sure what — to make sure my brain is still . . . Well, when I’m in that thing and there’s the banging — I think. I try to count as high as I can by threes, it gets boring. I try to do the digits of Fibonacci, but that gets too hard. I try to think.

Like now. I realize I’m lying on the bed, the lights are out, but I can see the hall light from under the door and see some glare outside the window. But I don’t exactly remember all the things that happened to get me here.

When my eyes were shut, even now when I shut my eyes, SEE? The painting? Oh, no, you can’t see can you?

The painting. There’s something about this painting. I wish I could tell you. It’s like a watercolor — it’s like my window when the raindrops chase each other down. At the same time it’s the stained glass from the church –

Oh god no. NO NO NO.
That’s what it is.
I was happier not realizing that.
NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO
I can’t remember that — of all things that — NO NO NO
What? Why are you grabbing me????
NO NO NO NO
Ow. Another needle.
Soft bracelets holding me to the bed.
Just breathe.

They think I can’t hear, like I’m not there — I’m invisible. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m dead. No. I can see my chest rise and fall if I open my eyes a slit and look past my nose. I’m not dead.

“She had another –”
“I know, that’s why I came.”
“We don’t know if she’s getting worse. If there are seizures—Well, you may need to make other arrangements. The social worker –”
“I know. I think it’s my fault.”
“No, dear, of course not –”
“I agitated her. I shouldn’t come.”
“You’ve got something on your skirt — let me –”
“It’s just dog hair. The damn dog.”
“But your mother — I don’t think that’s it at all. Sometimes – “
(There’s a buzz)
“Do you need to get that?”
“Just a minute –”
“I can’t right now — I’m with mom — jury’s coming back — are you sure? — okay — I’m coming–”
“Sorry — I’m in court — their — my father’s case –”
“Do you need to –“
“Yes — well — yes, in a minute–”
“Let me just tell you this — you know we have a lot of patients in this wing, in the memory wing — we see a lot of things — and sometimes –“
“Yes?”
“Sometimes — maybe not your mother – “
“I should probably go–”
“Sometimes memories — well, they come back — but the poor dears — they don’t understand them — or they are scared by them. One time there was a gentleman –”
(The buzz again)
“I really need to go –“

Scared. I’ll show them scared. The painting — it was not a painting. It was a window. There. A WINDOW. Oh god. It was a window, the window, in the church. OH THAT BEAUTIFUL CHURCH –

The funny thing about earthquakes, you know, well there are lots of funny things — but one of them — the animals seem to know. I mean my Maverick, he knew. He was hiding under the bed that Sunday. But did I pay him any mind? No, silly furball of a dog. “Here Maverick, here boy! C’mon out — walkies!” but he wouldn’t so I just shrugged and went on my way to church. Your father was driving. You know, that old blue Honda of his. Loved that thing. Always started. I used to tease him about it. “So boring,” I said, “No surprises.”

I loved that church. So old and beautiful. Even the pews were worn, but they had history. All the people who sat in them. All those souls.

OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD. It’s shaking. The Windows. The Windows. OH GOD they are flying — they are breaking apart — it’s like watching blood splatter. OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD.

Ow. Needles. Bracelets.

Your father was in that painting, you know. It was a watercolor. Painted with tears. That’s how they make them. And your father, he was in the painting. Right there in the middle. Crown of thorns. Beautiful streaks of color. They were like cells. Spidery, like nerve cells. Reliable. Like memory.

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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.

Marilyn Ackerman
Phaedra
Inspiration piece

Phaedra, oil on canvas
By Hildie S. Block
Response

Taking my fiancé and my step.mother.in.law.to.be to the Museum of Modern Art for Mother’s Day is not my idea of a good time.

But as my boyfriend would tell you, it was my idea.

And here we are looking at his dead sister’s painting. Her only painting in this museum, and we’re just standing here, staring at it the way people stare at grave stones when they go with other people to cemeteries. Like not wanting to emote, not wanting to look like they aren’t emoting, but feeling torn up inside and simultaneously wanting to be anywhere but here. E.Mote.Shun.

And I didn’t want to be the first person to speak.

Really.

But the silence in that echo-y white gallery space was killing me.

Instead, I reached over for Logan’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

He squooze (is that a word?) back and then dropped my hand as if to say, not here, not now.

Anywhere.but.here.

The step.mother.in.law.to.be took a step back and started, “I’m not sure it’s her best one, you know, the way she . . .” she waved her hands as if she was schmushing the paint. “Are we sure it’s finished?”

Logan shot daggers at Teresa. I mean he looked like the old Godzilla movies where lasers came out of the monster’s eyes.
“She finished it. She’s the one who offered it to the museum,” his hands were balled into fists, alternately flexing and relaxing his arms. Pulsing. Pulsating with power. I wanted to touch his arms.

Teresa looked at his arms, too. She slid a reptilian hand from his forearm up to his bicep in a ? what? Calming? Sexual? (GOD I HATE THIS WOMAN) way.  “I’m so sorry Logan. I’m sure it’s done, it’s just . . . “ she stopped herself. “Of course, you need to feel like this is how she wanted it.”

Through a clenched jaw, Logan said slowly and with menace, “This.Is.How.She.Wanted.It.”

Teresa’s brow furrowed. She leaned in toward Logan, again it felt like she was TOO CLOSE. (GET AWAY FROM HIM my monkey brain was yelling. MINE! Step back!) “Logan dear, maybe you need to see someone about your grief. Before. You know. Maybe before this wedding you are rushing into.”

I.AM.STANDING.RIGHT.HERE. Did I mention that? I fight the urge to kick her in the shin.
It isn’t until I go to speak that I realize my mouth is hanging open. “Teresa – I think art is in the eye of the beholder. Maybe,” I gulped, fearing the psychoanalysis I was opening myself up for, “Maybe Logan has a better grip on things than you. He accepts it as finished,” I swallowed hard, my undergrad in psych working overtime against Teresa’s PhD in clinical, “while you feel it is unfinished.”

Teresa looked at me as though a random stranger from the gallery had just asked her to move away from the painting and give someone else a turn.

“You know,” Teresa turned back toward the painting, gracefully putting her back to me and deflecting, still holding onto Logan’s arm, “I’m curious what you think the woman in the painting is doing.”

“It seems like a sort of ritual song she singing, like a feminized Kokopelli or one of those blue aliens from Avatar,” Logan started at the painting, looking at it, through it.

I announced to Teresa’s back, “I think the woman is singing out in joy to the sky” – “I think she’s howling like a wolf, announcing herself to the planet, letting herself be heard.”

“Blind.” Teresa’s confidence overshadowed her abilities. As always. “Fools, she’s crying out for help.”

“You think it’s a self-portrait.” Logan shook his head disgust dripping down his face. He put his hand in his pocket and jingled his keys. “Pshrinks think everything is a hidden message from the inner child. My sister. Calling out for help.”

“Of course not,” Teresa scoffed, nearly snorted as she turned abruptly and walked toward the exit, her heels snapping against the marble floor, “I sat for this painting. It’s 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 writing permission fro the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Gabby Holden
Inspiration piece

In That Sleep of Death
Hildie S. Block
Response

“Shhh!”

“Oh, whatever.  She sleeps like the dead.”

“You’re horrible”

“OK, so you totally should have come last night!”

My eyes opened enough to notice that the lights weren’t on yet.   And the curtains were drawn, but daylight was leaking through the cracks where the curtains swayed over the air conditioner.

Sleep threatened to pull me under again.  Not before I noticed at least one warm body sitting on the side of my regulation dormitory bed.

“OMG! I totally should have!  I can’t believe it! “

“It was crazy”

“I mean red lights flashing, sirens blaring!”

“Everyone, EVERYONE STOPPED AND STARED.”

“But she was all right?”

“Yeah.   Look at her.  Sleeps through anything.  I swear.”

“Right.  I remember.”

The door opened with a creek and another one came in.  And sat on my feet.

“So wait, you guys never showed up right?”  On my feet, did I mention that?

“Oh my god, you have to hear what happened.  They went to NV – and actually got in!”

“Wait, you guys never came to the party at Steve’s because you got into NV?”

“No, you have to hear what happened.  Like police and shit, no lie.”

“What?”

“Ok, Ok, so we went out – you know just Maddie, Gwen, Victoria, Iliza, Grace and you know who.”

I knew who “you know who was.”  It was me.

“Right.  But you were supposed to get to Steve’s by 12, I was like, you know, waiting and stuff.”

“I know, but that wasn’t going to start happening until at least 11 or 12 right?  We headed out around 10 – took a cab.”

“You all fit in one cab?”

“OMG!  It was so funny, we were freakin’ clowns getting out of that thing! “

“But the cabbie was sooo nice.”

“Oh but for real.  He was totally nice!”

“I’m not sure we gave him enough money, but he was cool.”

“Anyway – so like we get out and there’s bars all over and she’s like – “   I can feel them pointing at me,

“Let’s try to get into NV.”

“Oh, no way!”

“Way.  It was so cool.”

“So we stood in line for like ever “

“For real, and then this guy came up”

“Not a guy, a GOD”

“and he talked to HER” (me again).

“and he like KNEW HER” (he was my second cousin, Johnny)

“and the next thing we know, we are going in a side door”

“WITH HIM!”

“Like serious VIPs or something.”

“OH. MY. GOD.”

“That’s what I’m saying!  Totally.”

“So was it awesome, like completely?”

“Of course.  You should have seen it!”

“There was a band playing in one room and the other room was like a total disco from like, the 70s or something.”

“And the drinks all glowed!”

“It was just the black light.”

“I don’t care – they glowed!  It was awesome!”

“But the police?  What happened?”

“OMG.”

“You won’t believe it.”

“Seriously.”

“What happened?  Celebrity skirmish? Congressman with a woman-not-his-wife?”

“Better.”

“So there’s like this death band in one room, this disco and all these lights and loud music in the other room, even the back bar had loud music playing, right?”

“OK.”

“and SOMEONE, wanted to leave and go to Steve’s.”

“OK.”

“But we didn’t want to go, not yet.”

“I was dancing with this guy, OMG was so hot.”

“I still had a drink left.”

“We had just like gotten there.  That’s what it felt like, and who knows when we’d get in again.”

Me.  I knew.  My mom’s cousins owned NV.  I can always get in.  Can’t drink in there.  But I can get in.

“So SHE wants to leave but we don’t.”

“Right. “

“So she is sitting in the back bar – Music totally blaring from everywhere, right?”

“My ears are still ringing, I swear.”

“You should have worn ear plugs”

“I know, I know, but still”

“Anyway, so what happens?”

“SHE FALLS ASLEEP”

“SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE HOTTEST CLUB IN THE LIKE WORLD!”

“She’s completely out.”

“I was dancing”

“I was listening to the band, right?”

“and she’s in the back bar – which is packed.”

“But people start noticing she’s like, you know, out.”

“And no one thinks, OH MAYBE SHE JUST FELL ASLEEP, because it’s like 200 degrees”

“And loud”

“And who falls asleep at a club on a SATURDAY NIGHT?”

Me, when I’m bored.  That’s who.

“So they like think she’s OD-ed, so the next thing we know there’s all like sirens and lights and  . . .“

“A Stretcher!”

“So the guy I’m dancing with, he’s like, let’s go see what’s happening  . . . I’m all like, no way, I’m dancing here.”

“But then I figure since the rest of the world is going”

“So we get there, into the back bar”

“I pushed to the front to see what was going on and they are loading her onto a stretcher, and THAT’s when she wakes up.”

I’m not going to deny it because it’s all true.  But here’s what they didn’t get.  I hadn’t slept in who knows how long.

OK.  Me, I know how long it was.

Maybe a  week or so earlier, was the last time I really slept, in bed, at night.

I mean I had afternoon naps, where I just crashed, and I fell asleep once, no twice at the library face down in my stupid Econ text book.  And maybe a couple times in dark lecture halls during class.  But not in bed at night, since that Friday night, maybe what?  Nine days ago.

It’s not what you are thinking.  It wasn’t because something happened IN the room.  It wasn’t my roommate bringing a guy in because she thought I was asleep or some such dorky thing.

It was worse.

So we’d all been at a party at Steve’s – we’d gone together – you know – how freshmen girls travel in packs.

The guy I had been watching in class, Alex, he was funny, maybe even cute, we went for a walk.  We kissed and he told me about his girlfriend back home.  Present tense.  Things got complicated, but I wasn’t feeling good about this situation.  Things went too far.  But not so so too far.  But I just decided to get out of there.  There by then being his dorm room.

Things were complicated.

So I walked back across campus and crawled into bed and fell fast asleep.

The next thing I knew, hours later, there were a bunch of people in the room, all chattering.  I squinted at my phone – 4:11 am.

SO I asked, politely.  As politely as could be expected considering the circumstances.

“GET THE FUCK OUT!”

Which is when they seemed to notice me and all the pieces slid into place.

“Wait, have you been sleeping?”

I seriously need to transfer.

“How long have you been here?”

“Weren’t you outside?”

Were they talking in code?

Which is when I noticed the red flashing lights reflecting on the back wall.

“Didn’t you go outside for the fire alarm?”

“Aren’t the Resident Advisor’s supposed to make sure everyone is out?”

“If she couldn’t hear the blaring alarm, you think she heard a knock?”

“I think I told the R.A. you were still out with Alex – – you left the party with him, right?”

I guess I could say, “at least there wasn’t REALLY a fire.”  But that didn’t really help.

And it certainly didn’t help me fall asleep.

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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 written permission of the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Helen Lewis

Inspiration

Butterfly

Hildie S. Block

Response

“She says she saw them.”

I’ve walked into a heated discussion, and wait to listen.   I stare at my fingernails.  They are a disaster, but I figure I am lucky to still have them and they are mine.  I’m letting the conversation flow over me like water, not trying to think about what it means, could mean.

“It is true,” my young cousin Sarah cousin can only see what is true.
“Oh for what you know,” my Uncle Saul spits out, and then he coughs, a wracking cough, one that spills fluids from his mouth.

“It’s what Leah said,” my cousin Ezekiel – he knows how to talk to her.  He’s the only one in our family who knows how to talk to her now.

“Talk.  Whatever.  Seriously? You call it talking to that . . . that . . . thing.  There is no Leah.”  My uncle closes his eyes and turns away from Ezekiel to wipe his mouth on an old shirt he is using as a hankerchief.

“I don’t know how you can say that, she’s risking it all for us.”  There is love in Ezekiel’s voice.  He knows what his sister has been through. He’s contemplating it for himself.  To him, it’s better than the alternative.

Since the war, since we’ve been driven here.  So many things have changed.  We only have what we brought.  We miss so much living underground.  We all miss . . . what is up there.

But to people like her and maybe now, Ezekiel, too, there is a way out.  Of our underground burrows.

To my uncle it is an abomination.

To me, I’m not so sure.

Ezekiel sighs as he looks at his father.   “Look, I know what I am saying.  She’s not.  . . . she’s not.  Oh, it’s not worth it to talk to you people, either. “

A small voice joins us and we turn to look.  Sarah, again.  The small cousin who I never knew up top.  “I know what you mean.”  She’s so small we forget she’s there.

My uncle shakes his head.  No one else reacts.

So Sarah, this small cousin, she says it louder.  “No, I know what you mean.”
“Leah’s not a person.  Not anymore.  She made a choice,” my uncle glares a hole right through Sarah’s middle.  His forehead is a knot of certainty.  “Not much of a choice. Not to me anyway.”

“You should be grateful!”  I can tell Ezekiel is about to blow – he’s about to turn and walk away like he does when we line up for food and he can tell there won’t be any before we get there.  He doesn’t wait to find out.  He just turns and leaves.

“Grateful!  I will tell you what I am.  I am angry!  Frustrated!  Mad as hell!  Not grateful.  It makes me sick.”

“She.  She makes you sick.” Ezekiel’s voice has gotten quieter and I can tell he’s just about to leave.

Sarah adds in that small voice of hers, “She always did.”

“That’s enough,” my uncle wipes his mouth.

“What?” This is news to me.  And here, underground, all news is welcome.  It can’t get much worse than what we did to ourselves up top to drive us down here, and the bargain the “G’salve”’s  have offered us to return our planet to us.  Live down here, or take their deal.  This is our choice.  Trade our humanity, in some way to get back what we destroyed.  Not a decision anyone wants to make.

“That’s enough.  Leah is not anymore.  She is dead.  That, that is an abomination.”  My uncle turns to leave. I can tell he is finished, about to go to his lair and rest.

“That abomination is trying to save us,” Ezekiel is firm.  “You don’t know her plan.  You don’t speak binary.  You choose not to hear the words!”

“Faw!  THERE IS NO SAVING US!” my uncle is done, he leaves, taking the tension and that makeshift hankerchief with him.

“Zeke – are you sure?  Are you sure you know what she is saying?”
Ezekiel nods his head slowly and so does Sarah.  She is so tiny, Sarah.  I wonder if she will grow.  She should have had a couple more inches at least if nothing had happened.

“I’m sure.  She’s been looking around up top – she can go there now.  It’s one of the benefits of the surgery, you know.  She thinks she found something.  She was going to go back up to make sure, and if she’s right, she’s bringing it back down to us.”

Sarah looks at Ezekiel with big eyes, and then I notice they are brimming.  “She’s not the same you know.”

“I know.”

“After, the things they think, sometimes it’s not the same.”  Her mother had the surgery, but died anway not long after.  Sarah knew things the rest of us didn’t.

I KNOW.” Ezekiel is getting red in the face – he’s emotional about this.  Suddenly I realize what this means to him.  He knows Sarah.  Sarah knew Leah, too, before.  That side of the family was closer than mine.  We were all so busy then.  Running around, going to things.  No time for people.  Now that’s all that’s left. Time with these people.  They are all that’s left.

But what this means to Ezekiel, it’s clear.  There’s something in it like hope.

Whatever he’s hoping for I hope he’s right, and now I’m hoping for it too.  And I don’t even know what it is.

“She says she’s found a place, it sounds like maybe it was an office.  She said there are metal boxes and something like files, papers.  Sounds like maybe a college or a lab from what she describes.  Rooms with glass cases.  And in the cases . . .” his voice cracks, and he can’t go on.

“Zeke, what?  What’s in the cases?”

“She says there are butterflies.”

“NO!”  There can’t be! Nothing can live up there.  Nothing. It’s all dead.  This isn’t possible.  My mind can’t work my way around this.

“I’m telling you what she said. I couldn’t believe it either.  I wanted proof.”

Sarah stares at her shoes and mumbles.

“What,” I say to her, grabbing her shoulder gently—it’s so bony — “what?”

“My mother, as she was going in for the surgery.”

“What?” Ezekiel’s eyes are trained on Sarah now too.  “What? Did Aunt Ruth say?”

“Life,” Sarah whispers in that breath of air like she always does, ”Life will find a way.”

“So like that?  Like that?  The worms just emerged from their cocoons and . . .”  I’m imagining this in my mind’s eye.  It’s not clear.  The image is fuzzy.

“Chysali”

“Whatever!  The worms just slept in those Chr. . . those things and and and now . . . now they are coming out?”

Ezekiel’s eyes were bright.  “You know what this means?”

I shook my head.

Sarah looks up – “It’s like us. We are in our chrysali and we will be able to crawl out.”  Her voice drops again and she looks at her feet.   “and we will be butterflies.”

“Sarah!  Stop writing poems!  All it means is something can live out there, and maybe we can too.  Something LIVES.”

“Assuming you understood her and her ones and ohs.  Assuming you knew where all the word breaks were and you didn’t mess up.”

“I didn’t mess up!  She is my sister!  I know her!”

“She WAS your sister!  You sister died on that operating table.  Try to remember that.  They changed her.  She’s now more ma—“

“Don’t say it!  It’s not true!  She’s still her.  She’s still her.  They just made it so she could live.  She did it for us! “

That’s the deal, you know.  They “fix” us so we are now part machine, computer, so the air up top can’t hurt us.  But no one really knows what they take out.  Uncle Saul would say “soul.”  Something is gone, that’s for sure.  Something is different, besides the fact that you can’t really talk anymore, just in binary. But they are working on that.  And some people, like Ezekiel, can understand it.  I took French.

To people like my uncle, they look rubbery, dead, like a manikin in a department store.  To people like Ezekiel, they are the future.

And without warning we all turn silently at once and see her – in the white gown they all wear, the ones who have been changed, with the dead eyes and the rubbery skin and the words that come out in the ohs and ones.

And her hands are grasped around something, cupping it gently.

The dirt walls hold their breath as we all stare, eyes, growing bigger and bigger.

What she holds in her hands, it means so much.  It is the answer to the question we are all afraid to ask.  It is the future.

Ezekiel speaks to her, it takes a long time to say even a short sentence in binary.  We don’t understand, but she does.  She lifts her head gently, she almost looks proud, but that can’t be.  They took out the emotions we think.  And the memories.  We aren’t sure.

Slowly, slowly, she opens those hands and reveals it.

I hold my breath.  Everything is about to change.

It is white.

It is a butterfly.

An origami butterfly.

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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.

Caroline A. Evey

Inspiration piece

Life Insurance

Hildie S. Block

Response

 
Howard Tao who speaks slowly and with a “cured” stutter’s affectation asks me when I will die.
That’s not exactly what he says, it’s what he wishes to ask, but can’t.
“And your parents?  Did either of them die of a heart attack, stroke or cancer . . . before the age of 65?”
Before?
Of those diseases?
No.
They are dead though.  They never turned 70.  I don’t say this.
He asks the wrong questions.
He wants to hear good things.  It means money for him.  I know this.  A commission.  Continued employment.  A life.  A monthly check from us, against what we hope won’t happen.
It means “life insurance” for me.  I know this.  As much as it can be known.
The trick is only to answer what is asked.
I keep trying.
”Your height and weight?”
Ugh.
“Has a doctor diagnosed you with any of the following in the last 10 years.”
Wrong question again.  Answer is no.  Not in the last 10 years.
Keep trying, Howard.
“How much life insurance do you want?”
Long pause.  Bile rises in throat.  Burns.  Want.  Want.  Not sure I want this at all.
“How much . . . ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“Life insurance.  How big a policy?”
“How do people usually –“
“Well, you take your income.”
“My income.  That’s my value.  My income.  Are you sure?”
“You know – if you don’t have a job, you do things that would need to be done, you know?  So you figure out how much it would cost for someone else to do that and you multiply by –“
“I multiply?”
“Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“Yes, y ou take those things — you know child care and cleaning and things that other people could do and you multiply it –“
“I multiply it.”
My head was reeling.  My heart was shattering into a million trillion gazillion little pieces.  My value.  Multiplied by years I wasn’t there.  My life expectancy, by my weight.  My age.  When my parents died.
The wrong questions.
“Ma’am – your husband has filled a lot of this out for you.”
“He has?”
“Yes.”  My wifely duties, multiplied by sitters so he can go date and replace me?
“Do you want me to go over it?”
“No.  I don’t think so. “
“Okay, then, ma’am, let’s just keep going then, we are almost done.”
“We are?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Okay.”
“So I need to set up and appointment for someone to come out and take your blood.”
“Of course.”
“And you’ll need to sign.”
“Of course.”  Sign, in blood, the contract.
“And that will be it.”
“Right.”
“As soon as we figure out how big a policy.”
“Right.”
“That’s the trick, isn’t it?”
“Ma’am?”
“That’s the trick.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t understand.”
“How to value someone.  I mean, Howard. How much for your mom.”
“Ma’am?”
“How much?”
“What do you mean?  How much would you pay for when she wasn’t there?”
“Ma’am, I’m not sure you get –“
“Really?  Isn’t that what you are asking me?  To prepay for? In case I’m not there?  Someone else?”
“Ma’am, this is just life insurance.”
“Howard, you are very young, aren’t you?”
“Ma’am?”
“Not even 25 yet, right?  Your grandparents still alive?”
“Ma’am? Do you want to talk to my supervisor?”
“No, Howard.   I don’t need your supervisor.”

I took out a paper and pencil  and my calendar – started putting dollar signs next to the cramped and crowded, boxes – adding it up.
My life, my parents, dead in their 60s, the the things my doctors had diagnosed me with more than 10 years ago.
My hot pink calculator worked the numbers, straight to “E.”
My oversharpened pencil tip broke (have to mess with the electric pencil sharpener).  I took the pencil and broke it in half, cleanly in the middle.  Now I have 2 pencils.  That’s power.
The evening continued.  Dinner, homework, kids ready for bed.
“Did you talk to the guy?”
“The guy?”
“From the insurance?”
“Howard? “
“I don’t know his name.”
“Yeah, I talked to him.”
“And?”
“He’s sending stuff.”
“Oh, good.  Check that off.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“What?”
“The policy.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to know the size.”
“Oh, I just got –“
“I don’t want to know.”
“Okay.”
“Can you get the kids off tomorrow?”
“Yeah.  Why?  What’s up?”

In my head, I hear myself say my supervisor has called a meeting.  But I don’t say that.  It isn’t true.
“I have a thing.”
“A thing?”
“Yeah.”
“Early.”
“Okay.”
“You alright?”
“I have no idea.”
“Doctor?”
“No.  Well, yeah, sort of.  Has to be first thing.  They said.”
“Okay.”
It was that easy.  The thought in my head.  The supervisor.  I had to get out of the house – away from this to figure it out.  I could do it.  I just had to leave really really early.
And I didn’t need a pencil, or a calculator.  Of this I was sure.

I didn’t even need to set an alarm.  I sat straight up in bed at 3am, awake.  Grabbed some favorite, ancient clothes, an old gita shirt, clam diggers made of the softest cotton.  I didn’t need a magic bag full of emergency kid supplies, bandaids, tissues, restaurant toys.  I needed very little.
The math.
When my parents were 20, 25 years older than I was at this very minute, they were dead.
15 years ago, doctors had told me all sorts of things were wrong with me, but
for the last 10? I’d been fine – busy, caring for small children who insisted on growing every day.
I jumped into my car, and drove.  Somehow I knew if I could change things, this day, it would matter.
I drove, and I drove east.  To the ocean.  If I could get to the beach.  If I could get to the sand and the endless, rhythmic crashing of the enormous powerful ocean onto the sand, I knew it would all make sense.
I had time.  At this time of day where would be no traffic.  I have a meeting.  I smile.
As I drove, the fear fell off.  I left it by the roadside.
The numbers that chased each other through my head, slowed.
Over the enormous suspension bridge, I turned on music.  Beach music.  Seemed right.  The calypso steel drums.
It was still very dark, but my heart was reassembling, I could feel it.
The flat land of farms sped by me, the music drew me east.
I blinked, and I could barely remember why I was going to the beach, but I blinked and pulled into one of the new metered spaces.
I get out and walk straight for the surf.  The pink light is beginning to come up over the blue grey ocean.
I toss my shoes back toward the sand and away from the sea – two gulls caw.
I stare out into the sea for an answer.  I face the sun as it began to peer  over  the horizon.
In the next minute, the sun explodes over the ocean like a kaleidoscope of fractured color that exactly matched my newly reorganized heart – as if it were a mosaic of Indian mirrored sequins.
Just as suddenly as my heart shined and glowed and the sky sparkled, as if in a spasm, my arms met overhead, my left left leg lifted.
I smile.
A pod of dolphins lept by, joyfully billowing spray.  A celebration.
The ocean pounds, so much bigger and more powerful than me.
I know the answer.
The world is still.  Beautiful. The salt air felts right and restorative.  It is a place I could be in forever. A moment. Held in my heart and shooting out my fingertips.

It had been over 15 years ago – but the thing that had evened out the illnesses, time, meditative space. Breathing.  Maybe some yoga.
Yes.
My supervisor.  Called a meeting. The message?   Greet the day. Salute the sun.
Arms up, overhead, left leg slides up the right leg.  I could hear the instructions clearly in my head.  Forward fold.
Plank.  Grasshopper, cobra.  Cat, cow.
Come up.
Repeat.
Breathe.
This is
my
Life insurance.

_________________

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.

Nick Winkworth

Inspiration Piece

Sky High
Hildie S. Block
Response

It was the moment everything changed for Sasha.

Not the moment she’d been brought to the US to be adopted as a baby from Russia.

Not the moment she’d first seen a plane in the sky, or the Blue Angels at the air show.

Not the moment she’d gotten that first Dawn doll that had worn the trim flight attendant dress.

Not when planes had fallen out of the sky, or people had lept from the World Trade Towers.

She’d been raised like most good New Yorkers , with her head down, moving forward.  But her imagination?  It was caught, held prisoner by the idea of flight, by the sky, by the clouds.  She lived to be up there, from the time she touched down until the next take off.  She dreamed it, a recurring dream, flying, soaring.

Besides, this was Washington, DC.

So no one could see it coming.

Sasha certainly couldn’t see it coming.

The sun glinted wildly off the store front windows in Georgetown.  The buses spewed grey puffs.  The cars beeped and slogged along.

She waved at a cab on the other side of the street – it flashed its lights, and pulled over.

She had only to cross to it.

Drop the box at the FedEx on the corner, jump into the cab and rush to National.

She had a plane to catch.   Running late, as always, pulling her airline issue “pilot’s” bag, readjusting her airline issue attendant uniform.  She felt a nervousness in her belly, like something good and true was about to happen.

Sasha, readjusted her bag on her shoulder.  Inside, an overnight package.  Not for her to ask. Only for her to deliver since she was the one who had made him miss the pick up, to spend 10 more minutes in bed.  It had to go.  Air Mail.

Her heel caught in the brick sidewalk.  A dreadlocked guy in a skinny blue suit pushed by her.  Her knee twisted, and then the shoe was free.

“Hey!” she called, but the dreadlocked guy didn’t stop.  Didn’t even turn.

What did she expect?

“He was an asshole.”  Sasha turned to see where that voice came from.  Another suit stood behind her, grabbed her elbow to steer her.  She wanted to shake it away, but didn’t want to make a scene.  The corner at the light was crowded.

Her stomach twisted as she gazed down into the crosswalk.

“What the hell are you doing?” she hissed.

“Whoa – someone got up the wrong side of the . . . what’s that?” She looked down in her bag and saw the Overnight box half out.

“Nothing.  Something for a friend.”

“That’s a lot of customs seals.”

“I just have to drop it into at FedEx.  He does  international . . .do you smell something?”  Sasha had her elbow free and turned to look for the man in the suit, but he was gone.  She took a deep breath but couldn’t catch another whiff of the gas she’d smelled the moment before.

The cab, paused on the opposite corner, flashed lights and beeped its horn.
She felt for the package but it was still there.  She shook her head, the light changed, the WALK sign came on and she finally stepped off the curb.

The light still glinted off the windows. The cars were barely crawling.  The buses air brakes squealed as Sasha crossed the street.

She was the only one standing on the metal plate as it flew straight up.

Sending her sky high.

______________

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.

Hildie S. Block

Response

“That’s the problem, you never want to change anything.”

Davis leaned back on his bent-wood lounge chair so he could squint up at his new bride standing over him.   He saluted her to block the summer sun.

“Yes, dear.”

“Don’t start with me.”

Randolph hooted “people” softly on his perch and scooted over a few inches on the 10 foot long bar.

“Look at this yard.”

Davis sat up and looked around. It worked perfectly for him.  He had his chair and he loved the perch that he had built for Randolph so he could come outside in the hot Virginia summers and hang with him.  He had a half buried galvanized steel bucket for holding beer or wine and keeping it cold.  He had planted flowers that seemed to flourish – the yard was covered in them – bright colors like a jungle.  So that Randolph would feel at home.

“Okay, I’m looking.”

“It’s mess.”

Davis squinted around the yard.  Randolph followed his gaze, head movements exactly.

“The yard.”

“Yes.”

“You think it’s a mess?”

“Yes.”

Just past dawn, Davis waded through the laborer traffic into Home Depot and bought a second lounge chair, and a small table and a romantic fire pit for the back yard.  He bought some tiki lanterns.  He set it all up before she came down for breakfast.

He had the coffee brewing when she zombie strutted into the kitchen.

“Cup?”

“Good Morning to you, too.”  She was dressed for work.  He revised, shifted and tried again.

“Good Morning, my love.  Cup?”

She sighed and took the cup, peered into it, sighed again and opened the fridge door for milk.

Davis had opened the sliding glass doors off the kitchen into the yard, but she didn’t notice and before he could react, she raced out to her car to dash to work.

Randolph jumped onto Davis’ shoulder at that sound of the car engine revving.  David held out a treat for him.  Randolph eagerly snatched it and then nuzzled Davis’ cheek before flapping back to his perch.

“I know,” Davis said softly.

“People” said Randolph in an understanding caw.

***

It had been whirlwind.  Davis wasn’t really the dating type, he was just happy in his house when he was there, and happy on his boat when he was there, and happy belly up to the bar when he was there.  He was really happy about once a year at an outdoor Jimmy Buffet concert.  He really hadn’t missed the whole family life thing.  He was 50 and content to make money captaining yachts and moving them up and down the Atlantic Coast for people who didn’t have the time to do it themselves.  It afforded him a life that was like a fantasy to him.

But then he met Rita.  Dead of winter, there was a band playing under a thatched roof stage at Fins — mostly Parrothead music, beach songs, steel drums.  She was a vision of beauty, blonde hair, tan in a sleeveless hibiscus covered sundress in the dead of winter, playing with a plastic blue whale that had come with her drink.

He slid next to her and said off handedly, “I think I’ve got cabin fever.  You know, when it’s this dark and cold out, I really need a Margarita.”  She had laughed, made the whale nod in agreement, and when his drink showed up, she stealthily moved a coaster under it.   She introduced herself as Rita, and her wing-man as “Margo” and the deal was sealed.

Easy to be around, Davis ignored the fact that she was 10 years younger, and had been married before.  A couple times.  Everything that night seemed to run parallel.

They spent happy times at the bar, happy times when she took some vacation and came with him on the boat, a single happy day in an unpronounceable island country, barefoot on the beach with a justice of the peace, happy times on their honeymoon in Bermuda in a cottage on a cliff overlooking the grotto.  He thought she’d love his place in the Florida Keys; they sailed there after Bermuda – but her reaction was unexpected.   He carried her in his arms over the threshold, Randolph clinging to his shoulder.

“Oh my god!”

“It’s great isn’t it?”  Davis turned on the lights.

“Davis – you want to call the police?”

“No, it’s okay.”

“It’s happened before?”  Rita called.   Davis had left the room to adjust the air conditioning and open the back door.

“Happened? Wait, what?”  He turned to face her as she arrived in the kitchen.

“The house – it’s been ransacked,” She looked around, “And the stove is missing and the  . . .”

“No, we always grill and it didn’t work great so I gave it away.”

“But the place . . . “

“Oh, I have a couple of friends who use it when they are here.  And looks like my cleaning service hasn’t come by since they left.  No biggie.  You want to grab some dinner?”

“I, I, I can’t.  I need to get stuff and clean this place if I’m going to sleep here.  The trash is overflowing, there’s beer cans, dirty dishes in the sink.” She gestured grandly, “Davis, we need to clean up.”

“Okay, fine – that shouldn’t take too long – then I want to take you to Jimmy’s and introduce you —  you’ll love it – it’s this amazing little seafood shack right on the beach – “

“You can bring stuff back for me.  This is gonna take a while.”

Davis looked crestfallen.  They only had a few days left ‘til she had to be back at work.  If they were going to sail back up the coast, he didn’t want to spend that time cleaning the house when he knew someone else would do it in a couple days.  But this was marriage and they were in it together.

“Go faster with two?”

“Yes.  But you don’t have to.”  She flashed a whitened smile and he knew she didn’t really mean that.

“I know that, honey,” he turned on the stereo and Bob Marley’s Legend started right up.   No Woman No Cry. “Let me start getting cleaning stuff out of the closet where the service stores it.”

Randolph cawed “People,” but the newlyweds took no note, as they began to Clorox the house on the beach.

***
When Rita came home from work, Davis had dinner ready, coconut shrimp curry, the house smelled great – beach music was flowing out of Pandora and the tiki lamps and the fire pit were lit because the sun was already sinking.

It was only two months since their marriage; maybe 6 months since they met.  In that time Davis’ wardrobe had doubled, and that was even including some of the archival Hawaiian shirts that had met their maker.   His hair was cropped close and his beard neatly trimmed.   There were new pans in the kitchen but they worked well enough after some getting used to.  The rice wasn’t quite what Davis had hoped but the curry looked better than usual, so it was a trade off.

When Rita arrived, he handed her a glass of white Sangria and led her outside to eat the curry, Randolph on his outside perch, the Virginia sun setting against the glowing potted hibiscus, climbing clematis, flowering crepe myrtle, and bushy bourganvilla that  made the yard attract hummingbirds, butterflies and, he hoped, tired Ritas.

She barely spoke, but seemed to enjoy her chair and the tiki torches.  She seemed to relax.  Davis exhaled loudly, and said, “I realize it’s all about compromise.”

Rita took a sip of her wine, and said distractedly, “What?  Oh, right.  I called some contractors to take a look.”

Davis squinted through the night at her.  “I’m sorry?”

“I called a couple contractors to look at the yard.  I’m thinking a stone patio.  Maybe replace the siding?  Some landscaping?  That tree should go.” She pointed a manicured finger toward the crepe myrtle.  “It’s really a jungle out here.”

Davis’ shoulders sagged but he didn’t say anything.

Before he knew it the contractors arrived and started working.

The first thing they did was pull out Randolph’s 10 foot long perch, tear up where Davis sat, put in a stone garden surrounding the new stone patio.  They took down the crepe myrtle and removed all manner of bush and vine.  Now the backyard sported an excellent view of the neighbor’s glaring new TV through their side window.

When Rita came home from work, Davis’ clenched jar met her at the door.
“Randolph’s perch.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Randolph’s perch.”

“Davis, I’ve had a long day.  Can you speak in sentences?”  Rita put down her bag, and kicked her heels under a side table.

“The contractors took down Randolph’s perch.  I want to know if they will be putting it back up.”

“Hmm,” Rita busied herself flipping through the mail.  “ Okay.  Perch?” She pulled out an envelope and set it aside.  “For the bird?  I don’t think they do that.”

Davis turned into an Easter Island statue.  “The perch stays.”

There is silence.  Davis took a sip of beer.  He turned to reset Pandora so that steel drums start playing.

“How long do parrots live?”

Davis, his back still to Rita, exhaled a whistle.  Randolph echoed his whistle and hopped onto his shoulder.  “What did you just say?”

Randolph leaned toward Rita so he could hear this one, staring right into her eyes.

“Well, I just figured if he’s not going to be  around that long it wouldn’t be worth it . . . you know to center the whole yard around him. “

Davis’ teeth set in a line that was uncomfortable and unfamiliar to him.  “The parrot will outlive us both.”

“Oh,” Rita’s face was a blank sheet.  “I had no idea.”

“Clearly.”

“No, I mean that . . .”

“Rooting for his death . . . “

“No, just that . . . “

“I think we are done here.”  Davis turned to stride out the back, into his escape, his paradise, but the yard was torn up.  He cursed and came back in, and headed out the front instead.

Before Randolph knew it, the landscapers were done, Rita was gone and things got back to normal, though he did have a new perch out in the newly landscaped yard.  Davis’ hair was still somewhat neat, his beard began to grow in, and it was almost time to be back to moving yachts up and down the East Coast for people who were too busy to enjoy the task themselves.  Davis was out buying some supplies for an upcoming trip.  Randolph settled his beak into his wing, but not before squawking.

“Fucking people.” He swung his head side to side.  “Fucking people.”

___________________________

Note:  All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it.  Copying or republishing anythng you see here without express written permission from the author or the artist is strictly prohibited.

Jim Doran

Inspiration Piece

Stopped In Time

Hildie S. Block

Response Piece

“Just another hoop,” Daria muttered to the sign-in sheet at the nurse’s station as she scratched down “Community Service” in the column marked “purpose.”   Her sleeve dripped rain onto the clipboard.

The nurse inside the glass cage turned away from small TV which was showing a plane crash– the line under it said “25th Anniversary.”

“Is it the 21st?” Daria looked up.  “December 21st, right?”  The nurse nodded.

“Mr. Boulangerie in Room 103, he could use some company today,” the nurse said looking at the surface of Daria disapprovingly.  “His eyesight’s bad, he’s failing.”

Daria shook her head, causing her black hair to spin around sending cold rain careening, and pulled her messenger bag tightly around her and headed down the hall.

Absentmindedly, she chipped black nailpolish off her thumb with her other thumb as she went, leaving a strange Hansel and Gretel like trail to follow back.  Time, she was convinced, has slowed almost to a stop. Another couple months and she’d be out of this town.  Out of that house.  Away from those kids at school.

Certainly, away from the smell of this nursing home and school required “community service.”

Room 103, she checked the door twice. There was only one resident, Mr. Boulangerie – Mr. Bread, The Bread Man?  she thought, and the other name slot was empty.  She steeled herself against what she might see when she entered.  Death, she figured.  Dying.  Boredom.  The end.

She looked down at her wrist and realized she’d never gotten her watch, with its awesome skull face and riveted band back from Manson after lunch.

Damn. She felt her pocket.  Cel phone in the car.  No way to know when this sentence would end.

She pulled open the door and stepped inside.

The first bed was neatly made, smoothed.  Perfect.  Daria subtly untucked a corner as she walked by.

The second bed, the one behind the curtain, contained the frail remainder of a man.  He sat up partially, propped by pillows.  A copy of Kafka’s The Trial sat on the window sill.  His eyes were red rimmed and swollen nearly shut.

Not from tears, Daria thought.  They looked “rheumy.”   That was a word from a book she just finished.

“I’m reading your letter,” his voice rang out clear as a bell.

“I’m sorry?” Daria asked quietly.  She put her messenger bag down on the floor.

“Your letter.  I’m reading your letter.  It’s quite good. I feel like I am there.”

Daria raised her eyebrows — she wasn’t sure how to play this.  She wasn’t sure what difference it would make.

“Oh, my letter,” a decision of sorts. “I’m glad you like it,” she said more clearly, with more energy.  She tried to maybe channel the spirit of a blonde cheerleader who loved high school.  A happy person who wants to be here, in this life, in high school.  Someone other than Daria, Daria who was eager to get out, to see things, to make art. She tried to become that bubbly person who might write a letter to a dying grandfather in an awful smelling room.

“Yes, yes . . .” rheumy eyed Mr. Boulangerie faded.  He started again clearly.  “It’s like I can see it.  It’s like I’m there.”

Daria paused.  Was the man dying, like right now?  Was he seeing . . . . what was he seeing? Immediately, she became curious.  If this was the end for the Bread Man, what was he seeing?

“What can you see?”  her voiced dropped back down an octave, now she was just Daria, the investigator, the recorder.  Daria the trapped.  Daria, the one who wants to know.

“Just like you said, it would be .  . .  the town square. The cobbled marketplace.  The tower.  I can see it so clearly.  I’m sitting right in the patisserie, outside.  And she’s bringing me a coffee.”

Daria’s head spun. The what the who?  Okay, so he’s just delirious. Should she call a nurse?  Maybe he’s feverish. She wondered if it mattered. She saw the 8.5 x 11 printed out sheet that said simply “DNR.”  So, I guess it doesn’t matter.

“Do you want me to read to you?” she waved the book him from the windowsill.

No answer.

Opening her messenger bag, she got her sketch pad and started to draw him lying there wrapped in the white sheet.

The cold rain pelted harder against the window.  The wind had shifted.

Looking out, she could see her car in the lot.  Almost without thinking about it, without thinking about it.  (she thought about this later, many many times and realized she seriously did not think about it) Daria asked to no one in particular in the room – “Do you have the time?”

Out loud, she realized.  Out loud she said it.  To no one, really.

The Bread Man held out his arm.

He’d heard her.  He held out his arm in a spastic way – as if it took all of his energy to reinvest in the room, in the here and now, and thrust his arm at her – she, of course, leapt backwards, against the window, knocking down the Kafka.

Her black rimmed eyes widened – was he dying?  She anxiously spun her thick silver ring on her thumb.  Was this is his last . . . and then she saw it. On his reduced arm, just bones with skin mostly, she saw it – he was holding out to her his watch to read.

She sat back down on the radiator under the window and leaned cautiously toward the watch, eyes on Mr. Boulangerie’s rheumy eyes.

“I can’t read it,” he said in the croaky crinkled voice of a dying man.  He sounded disappointed.

Daria leaned down to read it.  She looked and then looked more carefully – the watch, it was incredible.  It was old, no doubt.  But the face, the face was 10 times her skull watch.  Suddenly, she never wanted to see that skull watch again.  This watch – it was a watch within a watch.  It seemed to be time itself – the leather band was ancient and creased.  The watch was old but probably Swiss.  Not a Timex for sure.  Not some junk.

But the face, the face had this incredible drawing on it – a sketch?  A woodcut?  It was timeless.  And the drawing was of a clock tower and the actual time piece was small, for it was the clock, in the clocktower . . . Stopped, but still . . .

Daria jerked back again.  Mr. Bread had grabbed the watch with his other hand,    looked at her with those eyes again – and wordlessly, arthritically, undid the clasp, and handed her the watch.

Before she reached for it, as she reached for it, Mr. Boulangerie began to gasp.  She heard 3 gasps, saw a tear leak from his right eye before her hand reached out and took the watch.

The sun beat down on her head.  It was cold, but bright.  She sat on a chair now, not the radiator.  Daria shook her head, closed her eyes and reopened them.  She was there.

She sat in a wooden and metal chair, it teetered on the cobblestones of the plaza.  The coffee was in front of her – untouched – the white foam still glorious on top.  Glancing around, she took in the sights.  The signs were not in English. German maybe? But there were other things on the table.

There was flipped open sketch pad and a pencil.  Half-drawn was the plaza.

There was a large envelope from a US address, ripped open with boarding passes peeking out.  There was a letter on airmail paper with a pen lying across it and the same US address on an envelope to go with it.

She looked around the plaza, confused, dumbfounded, wordless, struck.  She looked up at the now familiar tower, the clock was striking.  Time was ticking down.   This place was glorious.  Daria wondered if Manson had put something in her milk at lunch.

“If this is a dream,” she whispered, “I’m all over it.”  Daria took a swig of the coffee.  She could smell the rich flavor, she could taste the burnt sugar on the top, she felt the warmth from the white ceramic cup.  “And the tiny little spoon!” she gasped, giggling at the size of the demi-tase spoon!

She giggled?

This wasn’t right.  Daria looked down at the table.

She read the letter; it started “Dear Dad.”  It talked of travel of a Eurorail Pass.

Of things seen.  It was, after all, finished.  Signed, even.  The envelope.  It was addressed.  With stamps.

Daria picked up the sketch pad, she stared around the plaza.  “Oh why not!” she said to no one.  A red haired man looked up from his paper, gave her a chin nod and went back to reading.  Daria sat there, in the glorious sun, she finished the sketch.

She thought about wandering around.  She thought about staying here.

She felt her pockets – no id, no money.  Figures as she thought of her messenger bag on the floor in Room 103.  She wondered if the coffee was paid for before she arrived.

Knew I should have taken German.  She folded up the sketch, put it with the letter in a bold act that she could never explain.  Mailed it at the red post stand on the side of the plaza.

It wasn’t until after the letter was mailed, that she sat back down and looked at the boarding passes with the blue world logo on them.

And that’s when it all crashed down.

__________________________
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.