Lindsey Kugler

Inspiration Piece

Alaska Is What America Was

America no longer pristine

Barren land

Grey sky

Telephone poles outnumber trees

Black road bigger than grassy turf

Car as white as Alaska’s snow…

Where has Alaska gone?

Lily Stejskal

Response

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Rob Hunter
“Doors”
Inspiration piece

Irene Plax
Response

Two police officers came to the door looking for my wife. They were smug but in our community people respect the cops, and we have enough money to be respected back. I stood behind my wife to her right while the officers spoke.

They found a woman’s body, wrapped in rope, tied with weights, at the bottom of the Sawktachee River upstate.

The weights used to sink the body, the officers explained, were lead blocks that came from a nearby barn. An insignia on the body’s blocks matched those of blocks found inside the barn when detectives were searching the site near where the body was recovered.

The barn belongs to my wife’s family. Of all the remaining relatives, she lives closest to it. She owns a knitting company and goes upstate twice a month to purchase wholesale yarn that is made locally. She takes the highway that passes the barn. It’s important to her to buy locally.

She agrees to help the police further if she can. Absolutely, she tells them, you can call on me.

After the police leave we go into the kitchen. My wife begins to unload the dishwasher and I think about the barn. I can see it clear as a photograph. I always remember it in one type of weather, the way some people are forever in my memory wearing one outfit. It’s a little bit cloudy; a storm might be coming, and there are patches of weeds on the grass. The doors are closed as they always are.

I notice my wife hasn’t said a thing. I notice her hands pulling plates, glasses, a heavy metal butter block from the dishwasher. I notice her hands look strong. In my memory of her hands, they are strong from knitting, but not like this. I try to remember the inside of the barn but the closest I can come is a dark little window. My wife does not look at me.

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Matthew Levine
“Come Here, Go Away”
Response

Ruination
By Robert Haydon Jones
Inspiration piece

Staying awake isn’t easy. You can do your life awake or asleep – the number of days you have here will be exactly the same – but your takeaway will definitely be different. So, how are you going to do the days of your life—awake or asleep?

Victor Pafko says this a lot. He says it to his desperate, broken, PTSD clients; he says it to the Sixth Graders he mentors for an hour on Mondays at a school in a slum 10 miles up I-95; he says it to his grown children. And he means it – he really does.

But all too often, he suddenly wakes up and realizes he’s been sleeping.

Penny Driscoll walked up to Victor at the coffee hour after the 11am service at the Unitarian Church. She told him that she was in a world of trouble and that Elliot, the Senior Minister, had suggested Victor might be able to help her.

Victor had known Penny from a distance as a fellow congregant ever since he started going to the Unitarian twelve years back. Victor hadn’t paid much attention to Penny. She is a sort of beige woman in her early 40’s. In fact, she usually wears beige clothing.

Penny’s face is square, even-featured, thin-lipped. She wears her drab brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She is medium height and build. She’s definitely a standard issue lady. Her only irregularities are a shrill voice that grates on Victor and a proclivity for high-heel shoes for her very big, very wide, feet. Not stilettos, but big pumps. She’s in them always – even at the church picnic – and she seems a tad odd wobbling around in her big, pastel, gunboats like a girl in grandma’s shoes in the attic.

“Oh, Victor,” Penny is saying in her shrill, nasal voice, “You’re my last hope. Elliot says that if there’s anyone in this world who can help me it’s you. He says you’re famous for helping vets with PTSD when no one else can. He says the State Police call you in to counsel victims of horrible crimes – and that you really help them.

I’m seeing a Psychiatrist, Dr. Regen, in Stamford. He says I have PTSD big time. He’s giving me meds and I’m seeing him three times a week – but it isn’t helping – I’m getting worse and worse. I’m the victim of a horrible criminal and I can’t get over it.”

Penny is a Plastic Surgeon. Ten years back, she had married the CEO of the largest HMO in the nation. They are childless – both absorbed with their careers. Penny is in charge of the money. Her problem, she tells Victor, started seven years ago, when pretty much on the spur of the moment, she decided to use a Financial Planner and CPA, name of Larry Sterling, to handle all their finances.

She had met Larry at a convention in Chicago. She liked him a lot right away. Someone told her that Larry Sterling, a big rambling dark-haired man, who looks like Johnny Cash, had been a CPA for the Ford Foundation and that was good enough for her.

She turned over all the books to him and straight away, the results were there. Larry was good. They saved big money on their taxes. What’s more, their investment accounts prospered even through the downturns that chewed everyone else up.

She and Larry never met face to face again. They did everything via, phone, fax, the Internet and FedEx.

Then suddenly she got a notice from the IRS that her returns were being audited. The notice said she hadn’t paid taxes for seven years. She tried to contact Larry but he never responded. Finally, she got through to the IRS. She faxed them her copies of the seven years of returns Larry had filed. They had no record of them.

It turns out that Larry Sterling is a scam artist who has been arrested numerous times and has done a 3-year stretch in Federal Prison. Larry had scammed her from the start. Their investment accounts were all bogus. She and her husband owed nearly two million in back taxes. The IRS had seized their vacation house and had liens on their home and all of their bank accounts.
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“I know I’ll be all right in time,” Penny was saying. “My husband is very upset. But he tells me he wants to forgive me. People have been marvelous. Even the IRS collection people say they are willing to work with me.

But I’m still hurting. I can’t sleep much. I’ve been drinking way too much wine and mixing in Halcyon – and I still can’t sleep. I just get woozy.”

Suddenly, something deeply lodged in Victor stirred and then in milliseconds leaped up in him and he woke up — startled awake and surprised and rueful as always that he had been asleep.

This beige lady was displaying in full color. Green eyes flashing and glinting; cheeks mottled with bright red spots, a blush coursing up her neck to her hairline; thin lips slightly parted; teeth set in a snarl.

My God, thought Victor. She’s never been touched before. She’s been an ice-cold surgeon; a married virgin; a dry-eyed orphan. Now the scam artist has popped her wide open and she’s busting out all over.

Victor told Penny he could well understand her torment. And when he said the word, “Torment” Penny knew that Victor did understand. No one else had used that word – and that is exactly what she was going through. Relentless anguish. Torment!

Victor said that under the circumstances it was best he see her ASAP. He suggested they meet in an hour at the little cottage right on the river in back of his house that he used to see clients.

Penny came straight over in her church clothes. Victor had changed into a black under-armor T-shirt, red shorts, stamped, “USMC RECON”, and flip-flops. He looked a lot smaller than he did in his coat and tie.

The minister had told Penny that when Victor had been discharged from the Marines after a long hospitalization for his wounds, he had gone on to fight as a mercenary in Africa and Central America. The rumor was that in El Salvador he had fought first for the government and then for the rebels. Both sides had a price on his head.

The Marines had awarded him medals for valor — but twice, the Judge Advocate attempted to court-martial him for atrocities committed by the recon team he led. The charges had been dismissed. There had been a lot of killing but evidently it was justified. In any case, it is hard to connect this diminutive, blonde man to slaughter.

After the CIA rescued him from a literal torture chamber in the jungle, Victor had lived in a VA psychiatric halfway house for years. Over time he became a famed, Blue Coat, PTSD therapist. Patients trusted him.

Victor is about three or four inches smaller than Penny. He is in his mid- fifties but still fully blonde. He is sinewy; his arms rippled by muscles. There are big, ugly, puckered scars on each of his biceps. He has a pug nose and dark blue eyes with very long, silky, lashes. A jagged, ¼- inch-wide, scar meanders down his left cheek from under his ear lobe to the corner of his eye to just under his lower lip.

Victor’s cottage is set right on the riverbank. It is spacious and sun-splashed, with a curtained bathroom alcove and an ultra-modern, kitchen. The river side is almost all glass so that the rushing river permeates the room. Victor led Penny in and motioned for her to sit at an antique partner desk facing the river. He sat down opposite her.

“Oh, Victor,” Penny said, “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice on a Sunday. I’m in such distress. I want to pay you double your usual fee.”

“I don’t charge for my sessions Dr. Driscoll,” Victor replied. “I thought you knew. I’m a volunteer. I don’t need the money. Two years ago I was approved for full disability retroactive all the way back to my discharge from the Marines. I was given a huge sum tax-free.

“I work with trauma survivors and children at risk because I know I am one of only a very few that have the real world experience of both the trauma and the recovery process required to do this guidance.

“In any event you are not like most of my clients; you are a special case. You require special treatment. I think you probably already know that. So, before we proceed, we should agree on some important treatment guidelines. I want you to have full control of this treatment at all times.

The approach is simple and effective. We will use two cue words. Say the word, ‘Stop’ and treatment will immediately cease and I will never meet with you again. Say the word, ‘Freaka’ and treatment will continue and we will meet again.

“Do you understand?”

Penny Driscoll said she understood.

“Good,” Victor replied. “Let’s try it out now. Cue word?”

Penny hesitated for a beat and then said, “Freaka” and smiled.

“Perfect,” said Victor.

“Tell me, when you young were you were you attracted to Johnny Cash? Did you ever dream about being with him?”

Penny shook her head.

“No way. Johnny Cash is way too rough around the edges for me. That was true way back when and it’s true now.”

“Okay, Victor said, “I hear you loud and clear. Let’s talk about Larry Sterling and what he did to you and why you can’t sleep. What did Larry Sterling do to you?”

“Well, he’s ruined me – and my husband. I’ve told you what he’s done.”

Victor smiled amiably. “Well you have and you haven’t.” He looked at his watch. “Nearly 2:30. I am going to have to limit this treatment to one hour – the Giants game starts at 4. Do you have an hour? Shall we proceed? Cue word, please.”

“What? I have an hour. Cue word?”

“Yes, cue word. Your choice, remember?”

“Oh, sorry….Freaka.”

“So what did Larry Sterling do to you?”

“Like I said, he ruined us. He stole our money.”

“What’s another way to sum that up?”

“He scammed me?”

“What’s a more earthy way of saying that?”

“He screwed me?”

“That’s it. Larry Sterling screwed you. He screwed you on a regular basis for seven years. He screwed you six ways to Sunday. Now that he’s stopped screwing you – you can’t sleep.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. You are very foolish to lie to me. Tell me, did you ever check Larry Sterling out? Did you call the Ford Foundation? Did you get any references?”

“No – everything was going so well — I mean everything seemed to be going really well. We were making more from our investments and paying less tax. I had the impression Larry had worked for the Ford Foundation. He was very personable.”

“Do you like getting screwed? Do you have an exciting sex life with your husband?”

“We have a normal sex life, I guess. Frankly, we aren’t together that often…my husband travels a lot – and my surgeries start at the crack of dawn. I don’t think sex has anything to do with this.”

“Oh, sex has everything to do with it. That’s the reason I’ve selected the treatment I’m about to give you.”

Victor stood up and walked over to a large mahogany seaman’s chest. He opened the lid and beckoned Penny to join him.

The chest was crammed with scores of vibrators, dildos and sex toys. Another chest stood alongside. Victor raised the lid. It was stuffed with masks, whips, handcuffs, leg irons, straight jackets and other restraints.

Victor slid open the door of a recessed closet revealing fully outfitted mannequins. On the base of each mannequin was an engraved nameplate: Nurse. Nun. French Maid. Dominatrix. Whore. Amazon.

“My God,” Penny said. “This is crazy. Victor, if this is a joke, it’s a sick one. What are you doing with all this stuff?”

Victor laughed heartily. “What I am going to be doing with all this stuff is conducting your treatment Dr. Driscoll. By the time your treatment has been completed you will have used every one of these items and worn all of these outfits.”

Penny shrank back from him. “Victor, you’re insane. I think you should be reported to the state.”

Victor reached into a chest and pulled out a purple, two-stage, dildo. He pushed on it and it began to pulse and the tip began to spin with a high-pitched hum.

In one quick motion, he whipped off his t-shirt and stepped out of his shorts. He had an enormous phallus that jutted out from between his legs. It was truly astonishing to see on such a small man.

“Stay away from me,” Penny screamed. She couldn’t believe this was happening.

Victor kept coming – holding the whirring vibrator in front of him aiming it between her legs.

“Cue word,” Victor said hoarsely.

Penny felt a surge of relief. “Stop,” she yelled. “Stop! Stop! STOP!”

Victor smiled. He lowered the vibrator to his side then suddenly reached up and grabbed Penny on the back of her neck. His fingers dug into her neck and everything turned into jelly for her. She went down backwards on a couch.

It was like she was on Versed. She was aware of everything but she was all jelly. Victor was stripping her clothes off. He was doing things to her with the vibrator.

Victor raised himself up and looked down at her. He smiled. He had a sweet smile. “Cue word,” he said, softly.

Penny knew what she wanted to say. She knew for sure. She tried to answer but
she couldn’t — she just couldn’t.

Victor smiled again. “Freaka,” he whispered.
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Matthew Levine
“View From a Place I Knew”
Inspiration piece

The Blindness of Yearning
By Robert Haydon Jones
Response

Gloria Pagano, a squat, morose, acne-scarred, single mother in her early thirties worked as a paralegal with a white-shoe law firm and lived with her 8-year-old son, Jerome, in an apartment over the garage of her parent’s house in New Haven.

Gloria had matured early and was popular in Middle School. She was a Cheerleader. She had very big breasts and the boys were after her. They talked openly about wanting to lay her. Gloria was Catholic and saving herself for her husband but she liked knowing that boys wanted to get her.

Then when she went to the High School everything changed for the worse. She did make the Cheerleader squad but half way through sophomore year she got horrible acne all over her face  – and she got big. She swelled up. Her breasts got too big. Her butt got too big. She got fat. No neat girl wanted to be her friend – just losers.

Then a horrible rumor started that she had done it with Richard Flanagan – a greaser kid that she had been stupid enough to go to the movies with. She hadn’t even held hands with the creep – but he told everyone they did it in the back seat of his father’s van. So, everyone treated her like a slut.

So, Gloria was alone. Even cheerleading, she stuck out like a sore thumb. (Or like a big boob.) None of the other girls talked to her ever. Then, when she was a Junior, four cheerleaders started talking to her a lot in overly nice voices. Gloria found out she was a project for their Sunday school class. She told them to fuck themselves. She went back into all-alone mode.

Sex saved her. She was a fabulous lover to herself. She had the most wonderful orgasms. She got through her days looking forward to her nights.

The night after graduation she met Phil Maestri at the Catholic Church picnic she attended every year with her parents. Phil was an older fellow just back from eight years away with the Marines. He was going on the Police Force. He asked Gloria out to the movies on Saturday. It was her second date ever. They married three months later.

When they had sex for the first time on their wedding night, Gloria liked it a real lot. It wasn’t as good as she could do herself but it was wonderful being draped by Phil. He seemed to really love her. He said he loved her huge breasts. He said he loved her big butt.

“More bounce to the ounce,” he would say repeatedly and wrap himself around her naked body and give her a long, tender, hug of his nakedness and kiss her long and thoughtfully on the lips. Gloria liked Phil. He was a really nice guy even if he was a loser to be with her. She kissed him back with secret love and longing.

Jerome was born nine months to the day of their marriage. Phil had been dead for four months – shot to death in an accident on the firing range. Gloria and Jerome got only a tiny pension. The Police Chief said that the accident was Phil’s fault.

So Gloria gave birth to Jerome alone. Her mother held her hand but she was alone. And she raised Jerome alone. She and Jerome lived with her parents in an apartment over the garage.  Her parents were terrific. They never horned in. They acted like grandparents and let her do the mothering. But it was mothering alone. She was alone and Jerome had no father.

When Jerome was two, Gloria’s mother signed her up for a Singles Mixer Friday nights at the Lutheran Church annex. She attended pretty much every week for six years. She never had a single date come from it.

Time after time she would sit there and talk with a group of girls like herself who didn’t get much action. She liked talking to the girls. She liked dressing up a little and putting on make up. She liked going out and having her mother take care of Jerome.

She liked the music. Once in a while, a fellow would ask her to dance. She was a real good dancer. Some times the girls would go on the floor and dance with each other.

At the end of the evening people would pair off. And Gloria would walk out to the parking lot with the girls who were left. They called themselves, “The Left Girls.” Most of the time she would be smiling as they walked on out because she would be thinking about making love to herself later on that night.

The Internet changed everything. The Friday night mixer got smaller and smaller. Then it just stopped. Her mother signed Gloria up for Match.com, and eHarmony. She had coffee with quite a few fellows and a couple of follow up movie dates but there was nothing in it. Then she had coffee with Billy Ryan and it was like the movies. They just hit it off. They took long walks. They had long conversations.

Things progressed slow but steady. Finally, they made love. Billy was a trucker who drove long distances. He lived in a rooming house twenty miles away. So they had sex in Gloria’s apartment during the day when Jerome was at school. Billy was shy about it. Some times he had a problem finishing. Gloria was patient. She helped Billy using the same techniques she used on her self. But some times even then nothing happened. It was no big deal for her, she reassured him. Billy was grateful.

Best of all, Billy and Jerome developed a wonderful relationship. They played catch in the back yard. Billy took Jerome to Mets games. They went on hikes. A few times in the summer when Billy had short overnight runs, he took Jerome along.

Billy talked about getting work as a short haul driver so he would be there every night when they got married. He made good money and he had saved enough for a down payment on a house for them. They agreed to wait till he could change jobs.

Gloria was in no hurry. The two years she had been with Billy had been wonderful. Everything was good for her and for Jerome.

Then one Saturday, Billy was going to take Jerome to the Mets game. When Billy didn’t come on time, Gloria called him on his cell phone. A strange voice answered. It was a Detective in New Haven. Billy was in jail. The bail was a million dollars.

Billy was a member of a nationwide ring of pederasts that preyed on boys. They exchanged photos and videos of the boys naked – many of the shots were of actual abuse. The shots were horrifying. Even veteran police and FBI personnel were sickened. Jerome appeared in more than a hundred of the photos and videos.

Gloria talked with Jerome right after she found out that Billy was in jail. Jerome told her that Billy had said this sort of man-boy love was natural and good but that women didn’t understand it and that it would only upset his mother if Jerome talked about it with her.

Frank Pellegrino was the lead local detective on the case. Gloria knew him a little. He had graduated from the Police Academy with Phil and lived a few streets over from her. He was a genuinely nice man. He was also a single parent. He had a 7-year-old daughter. His wife had died of breast cancer two years back. He was very gentle with Gloria about what Billy had done to Jerome. Gloria could see he was very uncomfortable questioning her.

She demanded Pellegrino show her the photos and videos of Jerome. The detective tried to persuade her not to look but she insisted. So he showed her four photos and a 90-second video. Gloria vomited into the waste paper basket by his desk. Afterward, she had the dry heaves.

Pellegrino urged her not to blame herself. There were scores of other mothers like her all around the country, he said. Billy and the others were masters of deception. They won the trust of the parent first.

During the investigation, it came out that the ring of pederasts had developed a written manual they followed to find vulnerable boys. “Look for single mothers of boys – the fatter and uglier the better,” was one of the maxims they followed. “ When you meet her just tell her she’s interesting. Then sit there and listen to her story and tell her you understand. Buy her flowers. After a few sessions, you can move right on to the boy. The mother will be blind.”

Pellegrino told her Jerome wouldn’t have to testify. The photos and videotapes were enough. Billy and the others were making plea deals. Billy had agreed to 25 years. “We have approval to use the State’s Victim Fund to help Jerome. He’s cleared for three sessions a week at the Mental Health Center at Yale for two years. Plus, even though you didn’t know about Billy, you’re cleared for counseling once a week for two years.”

Gloria held up her hand. “I could say that I didn’t know that Billy was doing those awful things to Jerome and that would be true — but the moment they told me that Billy was in jail for molesting boys — I knew that I had known something was very wrong all along. You could say I didn’t know I knew until I knew.“

Pellegrino winced and then he just looked at her. He told her she was being too hard on herself. Gloria replied that she wasn’t being too hard on herself. She told him she was in agony because the pederast’s manual had it right.

A year and a half later Gloria got married to Frank Pellegrino.

Gloria had been doing okay. She was promoted at work and got a raise. She had joined the choir at her church. On weekends in the summer she played golf with three friends. In the winter, she went ice-skating with the same three friends. She went to all her counseling sessions for a year – and the therapist got her extended for another year.

Jerome was healing. He was doing well in school. He was popular. He was a star pitcher in Little League. He said he didn’t really need his therapy sessions any more but he never resisted going.

Frank had started calling the day after he interviewed Gloria at the Police Station. He called every day. At first, he said, he just wanted to see how she was doing. Then he suggested they meet for lunch. It went on from there. Frank Pellegrino was a nice man and he was good looking too. He looked like a manly Tony Curtis.

Gloria didn’t have any feelings for him.  She was pretty much in agony all the time. Her therapist knew this. So did Frank Pellegrino. He told her no one deserved to hurt like she was hurting. He told her that in time the pain would diminish. Gloria didn’t argue – but she knew Frank was talking about the pain he felt when his wife died of cancer – and that was a long way from what was hurting her.

But she was glad to marry him. It was good for Jerome to be in a real family. It was good for her parents to have their house and their lives back. It was a big wedding. A lot of people came – it was a popular marriage.

On their wedding night, they had sex for the first time and it was a lot better than she thought it was going to be. Afterward he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her strong but tender and told her that he really loved her big body, her big boobs and her big butt.

Then he said, “More bounce to the ounce!” and for the first time since she found out about Billy she felt something happy stir in her heart.

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Bonnie Lebesch – Spirit Shell

Inspiration Piece

Joshua Winegarner – Spirit Shell

Response Piece

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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.

Translation
By Amy Moffitt
Response

The wall between us
is thick enough to feel.
When I speak, I see the words
bounce off of it and fly away.

If we had met as children,
would the wall still be there?
Or is it the fears we’ve gained in growing
that instinctively push us apart?

I find myself longing for translation…
the gestures I make that put you off,
your tone of voice that shuts me down
decoded, made clear and laid out.

I want to believe that beneath
our troubling layers
our hearts and desires are the same.
We just need an interpreter
to explain us to each other, and ourselves.

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.

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Ainsley Allmark ~ Love

Response piece

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complete

by dani harris

inspiration piece

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Buzz Kuhns
“Married For Life”
Photograph
Inspiration piece
The Exhibit
By Elizabeth (Betsy) Wexler
Response

When I happened upon them, looking into each other’s eyes, I thought: I bet they’ve been together forever.
As it turns out, I was wrong.  But also….right.
I met them at an art opening. They were looking at a painting, then turned to look at each other.  The gaze wasn’t one of puppy love; there was something deep and abiding about it.  I was standing some distance away, there to look at paintings, but far more captivated by them. I took a few steps, moving slowly toward them. I felt like I did when I was hiking and saw a deer and wanted to see how close I could get before it took off.  I guess I wanted to see how close I could get without interrupting their moment.
What I failed to think about was that I always kept going until the deer took off.
So I must not have been aware of the gawking expression on my face as I shuffled towards them, entranced by the energy of their connection. Luckily for me, this didn’t seem to bother them.
They broke their gaze with each other, and she turned towards me, she with a bright shining smile on her face. It lit up her little part of the room, like the strategically placed lights lit up each piece in the exhibit.  A moment later, he turned towards me as well. His expression was considerably less warm and exuberant.
“Hello,” the woman said. “Aren’t these paintings lovely?”
“Lovely,” I repeated, nodding and smiling, relieved they hadn’t gone running, or that she hadn’t begun hitting me over the head with her purse in the manner of an angry woman in a cartoon.
“Do you know the artist?” the man asked me.
“No,” I replied. “Not personally, at least. He’s a friend of a friend, and this is the first exhibit of his I’ve been to.”
She continued to smile at me, with what appeared to be no effort.  He looked around; at paintings, down at his shoes, at his watch.  We seemed to be at the end of small talk.  But something in me had to know what their story was. It was like I couldn’t help myself.
“How long have you two been together?” I blurted out, tossing all social politeness into the wind. I was immediately mortified.
There was no need to be. As I felt the heat of the flush crawl up my neck, the old woman chuckled and looked at her partner. “When do we count from?” she asked him.
He shrugged. “Either one,” he said. He looked bored, not interested at all in my line of questioning.  His phrasing validated my intrigue; now I wanted to know even more.
“We met in high school,” said she. “I won’t tell you how many years ago that was.” She added a wink to her smile when she said that. “Then we went our separate ways, and our paths crossed for a little while. We both still lived here, until my husband was transferred to the west coast, where I lived for more than fifty years. The last time I saw him before two years ago May was in 1961, if you can believe it.”
I felt tongue-tied, so I just nodded.  Sure, I believed it.
The man seemed to come to life then, as he piped up to add to the story.  “I tried to find her a few times after my wife died,” he offered.  “And by ‘tried to find her’ I mean asked my grandkids to look on the Internet. I don’t know how to use that darn thing. I don’t even know what it is. Or where it is.”  His crotchetiness was actually kind of charming; maybe it was because of the subject matter.  “But that was trying to guess where she might live, and look up her name. Talk about looking for a needle in a haystack!”
Even though I knew the happy ending, I was dying of curiosity. “So how did you find her?”

“Didn’t,” he replied. “She found me. Or rather, she found my son. She, unlike me, can use this Internet thing.”
“Where?” I asked, almost breathless. “How?”
“What’s that thing called again?” he asked her, in what I now assumed to be his baseline cranky tone.
She giggled. “Oh, honey!” she said, with exaggerated exasperation. “It’s Facebook. I’ve told you that dozens of times.”
“Facebook?!” I blurted out, incredulous.  “Really?”
“Yes, really,” she responded, her beautific smile never breaking, nor ever seeming any less genuine.  “You think this old dog can’t learn new Internet tricks, eh? I guess I’m lucky he’s a ‘senior’ and has a son with the same name. Also, he moved away when we were younger as well, but came back pretty quickly, unlike me. So it wasn’t a stretch to find him here.”
She turned her head quickly as someone called out to her from across the gallery. “Darling,” she said to him, taking his hand, “Stella appears ready to go. So delightful to meet you!” she said to me as they walked away, hands intertwined.
I watched them wind their way through the people, her hand inside his, as they found their way to Stella.

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Ainsley Allmark

Blackbird

Inspiration piece

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blackbirds

by dani harris

Response

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sun low on the English horizon
silhouetted in a tree
blackbird calling to his Love

here i am,  my Love
waiting patiently
here i am,  my Love
please,  come to me

i hold my breath
to better hear his song
blackbird calling to his Love

here i am,  my Love
and here i will be
here i am,  my Love
until you come to me

i close my eyes…
hear a soft beating of  wings
blackbird calling to her Love

here i am,  my  Beloved
and here i will stay
by your side,  my Beloved
until my very last day

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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.

Tora Estep

Inspiration piece

Some of the places You took me to

Sharon Deegan

response

I carried You in my mind everywhere I went-

First, You took me to the Summer Carnival

Riding the swinnnggsss- a giant metal whirling skirt

Skimming the edge of the finite sky I am

Tethered safely to the center of the earth.

I gasp, exhilarated, kick my feet, out-stretch my arms, laughing.

I remember, being in love would feel like this.

Later, You beckoned me, home, to the sea where

We will meet, there to weave the train of our

Tribal wedding gown from long lush hours

Carelessly spent. Splashed roughly through with indigo waves of

Intention and desire, hemmed with ephemeral moments of celestial symmetry

Stored in the natural rhythm of our feet walking resolutely to or from the other

Irrevocably tethering us.

Resolutely you left then, you said ‘to challenge the wisdom of gods and Fools’

You stalked the edges of faith and doubt, sent

Letters dark and light, scoffing or importuning

From rebellious blue You to rebellious blue me,

Tethered to the compass of your absence.

Then, my solemn soldier, you returned from self-imposed exile

And I, relieved, exhilarated, meet you with arms outstretched

And feet planted.

Re-tethered on frayed threads to the center of each other,

Careful, circling, remembering.

Oh, and Finally.

Floating- an old woman found you face down at sunset.

Un-raveled.

I am unwoven from every fabric

Un-tethered- but staked

To this new understanding of the visceral tangibility of nothing

Unknown anymore.

Yet, this morning a fallen feather lifts and carries me

Inward through the thinning veil where

I do discern the thrumming of an abandoned skirt skimming

The edge of the finite sky, with threads

Of light weaving through my winter grown coat,

Illuminating the paradox of death.

I gasp in startled recognition of

The silent blue and the striking incandescence

That could only be you.

It is all that I remember-

Shall I suppose that I am not alone in this infinite place?

With gratitude, I do.

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