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.

Susan Bee
“Bliss Dancer”
Photograph of Bliss Dance sculpture
on Treasure Island, San Francisco

Permission
By Barbara Duarte Esgalhado
Response

There is something peculiar
about a dress turned inside out.

With seams agape, unabashed
it just sits there

taking up air
merely existing, making no excuses

for laying open, naked, possible.
So much potential pressing against

a Cerulean sky, hidden again,
if we just flip the thing outside in.

Then we’re right back to normal,
to the ordinary, to that place

where we are suppose to live
in deep appreciation of the smallness of every day.

We tell ourselves: this is what life is
this is what really matters

the maddening gestures of a loved one
a recalcitrant child’s relinquished sigh

as he finally surrenders himself to sleep
a close friend’s casual, careless remarks

that could cut deep
if we let them.

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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.

Susan Bee
“After Rainfall”
Response

Cicatrix
By Barbara Duarte Esgalhado
Inspiration piece

Cicatrix: 1. a scar resulting from formation and contraction of fibrous tissue in a flesh wound.  2. a mark resembling a scar especially when caused by the previous attachment of a part or organ as: a mark left on a stem after the fall of a leaf or bract.
Webster’s Dictionary

Start at the edge
use a fingernail that’s long
enough, to lift the edge
of crusted flesh
cloaking a healing wound.

Keep working at it
pick at it, slowly
so you can minimize the pain
that comes as you flinch
when dead skin is torn away
from flesh that remains alive

Keep tearing at it
a little at a time.

Work your fingernail down the length of it
pry it loose, you’ll wince
and flinch some more
until the skin just hangs there

— just hangs there –
midair — looking for a place to land
and disappear from your memory.

Look for fresh cut wood
remember that aromatic cedar
preserves and keeps away useful creatures
that gnaw away, help disintegrate and
facilitate decay.

Remind yourself that you don’t want to
preserve any of the remains.

Choose pine instead
it’s softer wood
slice the wood into planks
shape it into a coffin of sorts
simple lines are best.

Nail the planks together
lay the memory inside
already mummified
in the murmur of your heart.

Hammer the coffin shut
put it in the ground
surrender it
to the swirl of the earth

this is your goodbye.

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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.

Matthew Levine
“The Kiss”
Response

Audrey
By Robert Haydon Jones
Inspiration piece

The amazing thing about the kiss is that every time you see it – the instant their
lips touch – you feel ignition. Not just for them. The kiss ignites you. Every time.

The start of the story of the greatest 30-second television commercial never aired is when Terry Moran noticed that one of the three couples he was about to audition on location at the Botanical Gardens for the Kissing Campaign for Lavoris were holding hands and standing so their bodies were touching knee to shoulder – and the instant Terry saw them – the woman suddenly leaned in and arched up and the man drew her up and in with his hand on the small of her back and they kissed like they were taking a long drink of each other.

“Wow,” Terry said to Mary Louise Jenkins, his assistant producer. “Did you see what I just saw?”

“Be still my heart,” said Mary Louise. “That was for real. If it wasn’t – then those two are the greatest actors the world has ever seen and you and I are a lot older than we think.”

Terry was 26 but most people thought he was thirty something – he was a big shot at the agency. Mary Louise was 31 but most people thought she was 25 like she said.

Terry liked Mary Louise. She had been a lowly Tech Assistant a year back when he joined the agency as a VP and Creative Group Head fresh off another big run at the Cleo awards. Mary Louise was a button-nosed, slightly heavy, blonde woman from New Jersey. She was taking film courses at night school at Pratt Institute.

She was a genuine techy – Terry kidded her that if she were a man, she would be wearing pocket protectors. But Mary Louise knew film. She was a real virtuoso with a Moviola and she was delighted to be syncing footage for Terry, the hottest young producer on Madison Avenue.

The day after they finished their first project, Terry got Mary Louise promoted to Assistant Producer. It was a big step up. Mary Louise had been paid hourly. Now she was on a yearly salary. The difference was almost $6,000 a year.

Terry said, “Well, we’ve got to run the audition like we didn’t see them.”

And they really tried to conduct a fair audition – in deference to the talent – and because Terry and Mary Louise knew the film crew and the account people from the agency expected a straight up audition.

So they ran the three couples out. They walked each pair arm-in-arm down a narrow access road for the 60-second spot – an all dolly-shot piece, called “The Lane” on the storyboard.

Then they had them do a long kiss, for the 30-second spot called “The Kiss”, which had been story-boarded as nothing but a long kiss – with the Lavoris bottle and a title, “Here’s to Romance!” spinning up to the foreground in the last four seconds.

They tried hard. First they auditioned the three couples paired as they had lined up. Then they mixed and matched them. It was simple action but it took two hours. It was a waste of time. The hot couple, stood out – they had a glow to them. They were in another league and everyone knew it.

Finally, one of the actresses put her hand up in front of the camera and said,
“We’re way past the SAG time limit for auditions and anyway this isn’t fair.
Jim and Carol just got engaged yesterday.”

So, Terry stopped the audition then and there. He told Mary Louise to have Accounting send a check for half a session fee to the four rejected performers.

The Account people did not look happy about such unusual generosity – but they weren’t about to cross Terry. He was the creative star of the agency. Time and again he made wild experimental commercials like this that would go on to snare or save accounts and win Cleos.

They went right ahead and filmed Jim and Carol. All concerned enjoyed the work. It was a sunny day in the middle of May. They were a very, very attractive couple.In their late twenties. Tall, dark, lithe.  They appeared to be long accustomed to being absolutely stunning knockouts. Terry wondered if this was the first time either one of them had been knocked out by someone else.

Terry directed them to walk down the lane and kiss each other every so often and they enthusiastically complied — oblivious to the camera. They seemed to be delighted with their recent discovery of each other and eager for more.

They nailed “The Lane” spot in two takes. Then Terry shot them in a long kiss in front of the Reflection Pool and then sitting on a bench under a rose arbor. This had been storyboarded as a 28-second kiss and the only difficulty was shooting it so that when they edited they could choose whether to have them come out of the kiss at the end or stay with it.  So, they did a couple of versions with Mary Louise yelling, “Stop!” after 27 seconds.

That was it. They called it a wrap way before lunch. The group scattered. Terry and Mary Louise took a taxi back to the agency. The film crew headed for a Dominican restaurant nearby. The account people were going to Clarke’s. The last Terry saw of Ted and Carol, they were riding away together on a pale blue Ducati. They weren’t wearing helmets.

Next morning, when Terry came in off the train from Connecticut, Mary Louise had already run through the rushes. She was very excited. She told Terry this was going to be another famous campaign. Terry would win another Cleo. The agency was going to keep the Lavoris account and get a ton of new business.

She ran the reel for Terry and right away he knew they had hit it big. Watching this couple kissing and loving each other was thrilling — plus it had a “feel-good” dimension to it. This was what love was supposed to be. “Here’s to Romance!” was what this footage was all about. Hell, even he felt like taking a gargle of Lavoris right away!

He wanted to celebrate. So, he took Mary Louise down the elevator. It was 10am, the pub in the lobby had just opened. Mary Louise had a Bloody Mary. Terry ordered up two tawny sherries. Half an hour later, they were back choosing takes and hunting for music to play under the footage.

They had the 60-second spot cut and synched to a Chopin etude in under an hour.

All the takes of the long kiss for the 30-second spot were great, but they decided it was best to start right before their lips met – and end the spot with them still kissing with the optical of the Lavoris bottle and the title: “Here’s to Romance!” irising up for the final six seconds.

They lucked into the perfect track. They had been reviewing modern jazz albums to play underneath spots for a cosmetics account. Mary Louise recalled that a track by Dave Brubeck and Paul Desmond, called, ”Audrey”, had sounded romantic. So they listened to it and the last thirty seconds were a discrete segment that was perfect. There was an opening note for two seconds that segued to a B major chord that struck just as their lips touched.

The spots were absolute dynamite. The word traveled fast. Most all of the creatives and producers came streaming in and had Mary Louise show them the rough cut. Then they would look for Terry so they could tell him he was a friggin genius.

Of course, the account people were too scared to say anything out loud. The client had issued a final warning. Said the work the agency produced for Lavoris was pedestrian. The account people acknowledged it was true no one had ever seen commercials like this. Maybe that was good — but then again, maybe that was bad.

Terry knew the drill. He arranged for the agency to have the kissing commercials researched. Burke, the research outfit that specialized in 24-hour recall, said that no commercials had ever scored as high as these. Never, ever! They were home free.

They presented the campaign at the client’s headquarters high in the Chrysler building. Terry did the introduction. He told the client that no one had ever seen commercials like these and that research by Burke showed they had the highest 24- hour recall scores in history. He said he would play the 60-second and 30-second commercials twice back to back. Then he lowered the lights.

When the lights came back on, no one on the client’s side of the table said anything. Their faces were beet red. Finally, the Advertising Manager said, “If this is a joke, it’s a bad one. This is not advertising – this is obscenity. You have already been given notice. Consider this our final meeting.”

Actually, the agency kept the client. A few weeks later, Terry helped them launch a new cold remedy. Terry even came up with the name. NyQuil was a huge success. Terry’s innovative campaign ran pretty much unchanged for ten years. The agency and the client prospered. Lavoris ended up withering slowly year by year until, finally, it disappeared.

Terry and Mary Louise had a hard time with the rejection of the Kissing campaign. Mary Louise was too low on the totem pole to attend the presentation, so Terry had to explain what had happened to her. He had to go over it more than once.

The film had run smoothly. There had been no glitches. When the lights came up, all six of the client’s people had beet red faces. All of them. Even the two women. No, Terry had not spoken up about the obscenity label. There was nothing to say.

Terry and Mary Louise looked at the spots again and again. They looked hard. Had they missed something?

The answer was no.

The 30-second Kiss was beautiful. That really was the word. Anything BUT obscene. The Kiss pulsed with raw love and desire and longing. It was the most beautiful spot Terry had ever made. It was the most beautiful spot anyone would ever make. And it would never run. Never, ever.

Mary Louise never said it, but Terry had the impression she felt that he had failed to present the spots for all they were worth. Looking back, Terry wondered if he should have done more. He had been so sure that the spots would sell themselves and that their historic performance at 24-hour recall would clinch it.

The rejection of the Kiss campaign changed their relationship. Terry felt uneasy when he was with her. Some how he was feeling guilty. And that pissed him off. He felt just as bad as she did. Hell, it was his campaign.

So he asked her out for drinks after work thinking they both had suffered a loss and that some booze might make it easier for them to grieve together. But it didn’t work.  They talked like they were both on stilts. After one round, she said she had to leave and take care of her mother in Hoboken.

Terry didn’t see much of Mary Louise after that. The agency promoted him to Executive Vice President and he stopped producing commercials. Two months later, Interpublic offered him a ton of money and stock to become CEO of a new division. Mary Louise got on the elevator with some producers as Terry headed down out of the agency for the last time. She didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

Many years later, Terry’s second wife found his Commercial Reel in a drawer and asked Terry if he would play it for her. He was glad to do it. There were a bunch of famous Cleo winners on it.

Afterward, the wife told Terry she liked the 30-second kiss the best. “That’s the most beautiful commercial I’ve ever seen,” she said. “You must be so proud.”

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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.

Matthew Levine
“Whispering Pines”
Inspiration piece

Photo Finish
By Robert Haydon Jones
Response

If there were a guy who would suddenly pop up in front of you with a slate with the name of the production and the director and the date and the take number and then he would slap the sticks together and a voice in back of you would say, “Action!” you might do a whole lot better with the most important days of your life.

Jimmy O’Hara had this rueful, sad, accepting thought recently one evening after he had paused beneath a stand of evergreen trees to light a cigarette – and the instant he struck the match, thousands of bats in the trees above him and around him all immediately took flight – generating a primal, dark, soft, fluttering sound that so startled him he cried out with a sort of squeak, like a mouse.

The squeak immediately linked him to the sudden, unannounced, terror that had coursed through him decades back when the East German refugee doctor in the Bahamas told Jimmy that his seven-year-old son Kevin’s appendix was about to burst.

“I’m willing to take it out myself,” the doctor said affably. “I’ve never done it before. I’m a pediatrician. You probably should get a surgeon. But time is short. I can get the government to get you on a plane. Where would you rather go – Nassau or Miami?”

Jimmy chose Miami.

Just twenty hours earlier, Jimmy had been discharged from Cardiac Intensive Care at Middlesex Hospital in England. He had been ambulanced there from Heathrow where he had been off loaded from his Air Lingus flight from Dublin.

Ten minutes after takeoff, the steward asked Jimmy if he was all right. He was looking at Jimmy’s chest. Jimmy looked down. It looked like a frog was trying to jump out of his shirt. He put his hand to his chest — and something thumped his hand hard. Jimmy drew his hand away and then put it back down. The frog thumped his palm hard again, insistently.

Jimmy realized the frog was his heart. He had never thought he would actually get to meet his heart one day. The steward said, ” Oh my word; oh my word; oh my word.”

The steward’s eyes were light green. He seemed quite upset. Jimmy felt very sleepy. There was a nun in the window seat. She moved away and the steward brought blankets and three pillows and Jimmy curled up and dozed. Every so often, he would open his eyes and look down. Sure enough, Mr. Frog-Heart was still trying to leap out of his chest.

Jimmy definitely felt unwell. But he was so drowsy that he was quite tranquil when three paramedics with a stretcher rushed him off the plane and on to an ambulance. They had landed. Jimmy hadn’t noticed.

He was but a brief time in the small airport hospital ward. A squad of paramedics and a doctor fussed over him — but evidently couldn’t cope with Mr. Frog-Heart. So they trundled Jimmy to another ambulance. They turned on the siren and took him to the big hospital in Middlesex. Two paramedics hovered over him and discussed his status with someone on a radio. The siren had an interesting warble. It was very loud but Jimmy dozed most of the way.

They ran tests on Jimmy in the Cardiac Intensive Care ward. A knot of doctors stood by his bed. One came forward and told Jimmy his heart was in severe arrhythmia. Even though he was only 28, his heart was weakening with every beat. He was in critical condition. He needed a very difficult, dangerous, operation immediately.

Just then a young, red-haired, Irish nurse’s aide, begged the Doctor’s pardon and asked if she might make a suggestion. The doctor who had spoken to Jimmy told Bridget she could speak.

“Sir, I see from the patient’s admitting papers that he was taken ill on an Aer Lingus flight from Dublin. I’m just wondering — have you offered Paddy a drink?”

Well, of course, they hadn’t. So, after a brief discussion, a nurse fetched Jimmy a beaker with two ounces of whiskey. They propped him up and cautioned him to take it in sips – but he tossed it right back as usual and two minutes later, his heart was good as new.

Fortunately, a former lover Jimmy had been planning to meet briefly in London before he went back to the States, agreed to pick him up in Middlesex and drive him back to Heathrow so he could make his plane.

She was shocked when they wheeled Jimmy out to her hired car. “You look so Irish!” she exclaimed. She was so English; it did not upset her that he had been in hospital. Jimmy was the love of her life. She could not bear to think of him being Irish.

Jimmy explained he was wearing Irish clothes because he’d been on a binge the past three weeks with the Dubliners and some other Irish friends. “We coursed the length and breadth of Ireland with good times at our heels,” he declaimed. “I guess I pushed it a little too far.”

Three years back, they had decided she should return home to England for a year so Jimmy could give his marriage a chance. She wrote three times a week for two years. Jimmy never replied.

During the ride to Heathrow, she told him she was to be married in two months. Jimmy congratulated her. She wept. She asked Jimmy why he had never written or called. Why he hadn’t told her he was in Ireland. He had no answer. She was an extraordinarily beautiful actress and a good person. Jimmy loved being with her. But he had a wife and three sons. He was trying to do the right thing by them even if he had a weakness for drink and life in the fast lane.

She had the driver drop him at International Departures. She walked him in all the way to passport control. He kissed her goodbye full on the lips and held her close. He knew he ought to love her. He really wished he could.

He said, “Thanks. Goodbye.” She started to weep again so he turned and headed to the gate. He never saw her again — except in the movies.

So, Jimmy journeyed from Dublin to the Heathrow hospital ward, then to the big hospital in Middlesex, then back to Heathrow, then to New York, then to Miami, then to Abaco in the Bahamas, then by speedboat to his vacation home on Elbow Key, a tiny island.

The moment he arrived, Vicky, his wife, told him Kevin was bad sick so Jimmy took Kevin on the speedboat to Marsh Harbour and the only Doctor nearby, a middle-aged refugee from East Germany, who told Jimmy Kevin’s appendix was about to burst – so Jimmy and Kevin went by police car with the siren blaring and the lights flashing to the airport were they had held a passenger flight to Miami for them.

The moment they sat down, the plane sped down the runway and took off. Kevin was excited – he was getting a special trip. Jimmy was terrified – his son’s appendix was about to burst – and he had jumped on a plane to Miami without the faintest idea of where to take Kevin for his operation.

The flight was an hour. They walked right through Customs without breaking stride. Jimmy found a phone booth with a phone book. He called the University of Miami Medical School. In ten minutes he had connected with the Chief of Surgery. Doctor Parnell was also a part owner of a small private hospital right on the edge of Little Havana. He would meet Jimmy and Kevin there.

Half an hour later, two nurses greeted them at the entrance to the hospital. In just minutes, they wheeled Kevin into the OR. Afterward, Doctor Parnell told Jimmy they had operated in the nick of time. Kevin’s appendix was close to bursting. But all had gone well. The appendix was out and little Kevin had stood the surgery well.

When Kevin woke up he was real woozy. The nurses made a bug fuss over him. The hospital specialized in surgeries for elderly patients. So Kevin, a towhead with double dimples and big bright blue eyes, was getting star treatment.

Dr. Parnell told Jimmy Kevin needed four or five days before he could travel home, so after he tucked Kevin in for the night, Jimmy booked a room in a beautiful old hotel a few blocks over right on the edge of Little Havana. The desk clerk spoke English and the room was clean and comfortable. Jimmy called Vicki and told her Kevin was all right. He called his parents and Vicki’s parents and reassured them. He would bring Kevin back in four or five days. Vicki was flying back with the other two children in three days.

He cashed two American Express checks at the hotel and had chicken soup and a pork sandwich at the restaurant. He went across the street and bought underwear and socks and four shirts, a kit and toiletries and a small suitcase. Then he went to the liquor store and bought four pints of scotch.

He went up to his room and took a long hot shower and lay down on his bed. He was exhausted. His only sleep since Dublin had been dozes in planes and ambulances He looked down and, sure enough, the frog had started to jump again. But this time he knew what to do.

Next morning, he only woke up because he had told the deskman to have a bellboy wake him if he didn’t answer the phone. He felt completely drained. It had been some adventure getting from Dublin to here. But he was okay and so was Kevin.

All he had to do was keep Kevin company for four or five days in Miami and relax.

And that’s how it went. He had a quick breakfast and walked over the six blocks to the hospital. The nurses were scowling. It was 10am. Kevin had been up since 7. He was frightened that Jimmy wasn’t coming. Jimmy thought of explaining that he had come off a marathon from Dublin and needed some sleep but he didn’t bother.

Kevin was very happy to see him. Jimmy explained that he had really needed sleep and Kevin said he understood. Right before lunch, all kinds of flowers and stuffed animals arrived from the grandparents and other relatives and friends.

“See, Kevin,” the nurses said, scowling at Jimmy. “See all the people who love you.”

Jimmy talked with Kevin and they played some checkers. But Kev was still feeling quite a lot of post-op pain. They gave him some meds and he dropped off to sleep.

Jimmy watched him sleep for a while and checked his watch. It was 1:30. He told the nurses he was going out to get some lunch. He was lucky – the minute he came out through the hospital entrance he saw a taxi letting someone out. Thirty-six minutes later, Jimmy was in a seat on the finish line in the Clubhouse section of Gulfstream race track with a win ticket for $200 on a 7-1 shot in the third race.

His horse won going away. Jimmy was elated but not surprised. He had followed the trainer for years. He picked his shots carefully in the remaining six races. He broke even until the final race when he hit a $20 exacta for $180. That put him up $3,100 for the day.

He blew $50 on a limo back to the hospital. It was 5:30. Kevin was sleeping. A nurse told Jimmy that Kevin had already had his dinner. The nurse was pretty. She said Kevin was very cute.

Jimmy sat by the bed. After a while, two nurses woke Kevin up. They needed to get his vitals and give him his meds. The older nurse asked Jimmy if he was the father. Jimmy said yes he was and that he had been with Kevin until after lunch.

Jimmy and Kevin talked about how he was feeling. Kevin said he had missed Jimmy and that it scared him he was gone so long. Jimmy said it was only a couple of hours. Kevin said he meant all the time Jimmy was in Ireland. He said his mom told him Jimmy might not be coming back.

They played checkers. Then Kevin worked on some coloring books the grandparents had sent. Jimmy promised Kevin he would get some playing cards so they could play Fish and Casino. Finally, Kevin dropped off to sleep. When Jimmy left, the pretty nurse told him that Visiting Hours did not apply to him and that he could come see Kevin any time.

Jimmy called the wife and grandparents from the hotel and told them Kevin was doing fine. He ate dinner in a good restaurant and then went on to have a few scoops at a famous pub. He had a good time. He cheerfully turned down propositions for drugs and sex – and kept a safe distance from friendly amateurs.

Jimmy settled into a routine for the next few days. In the mornings, he would get to Kevin right after his breakfast and stay clear through lunch. Then he’d head out to the track. After the races, he would take a limo to the hospital and visit with Kev straight through to lights out.

They made the best of it. Dr. Parnell said Kevin was a quick healer. The pathology had come back on Kevin’s appendix. The pathologist said it was a wonder it hadn’t burst.

They played a lot of cards and checkers. Jimmy helped Kevin get out of bed so he could take little walks. First in the room and then down the hospital corridors.

Jimmy was on fire at the track. After three days, he was up nearly $22,000. On the last day, he was standing at the finish line when the horse he was backing in the feature race drove to the wire in a blanket finish with another horse. Two Wise Guys standing next to Jimmy said it was the 4. Jimmy had the 7.

Jimmy said, “Dead Heat.” One of the Wise Guys, said, “No way.”

Jimmy said, “Whatever.”

The Wise Guy said, “I’ll give you 2 to 1 on a G on it.”

It was a sucker proposition. A dead heat for win was a rare event. The true odds of a photo being a dead heat were well over 100-1.

The Wise Guy, a big-shouldered Italian guy in his late forties with a pencil mustache, was wearing a yellow Tommy Bahama shirt. He was looking at Jimmy like he knew Jimmy was a sucker and anyway probably didn’t have a G.

In milliseconds an icy calm enveloped Jimmy. This was exactly the kind of crazy proposition he had been chasing all his life.

“Make it 5 G’s and you’re on.”

“Show me the money.”

Jimmy did. Even though it was a big insult.

It was a dead heat.

The Wise Guy forked over $10,000. He took out a big roll and counted out a hundred $100 bills. The big roll was now quite small.

What’s more, Jimmy had scored heavy on a big bet on the race.

“Thanks,” Jimmy said.

The Wise Guy looked very, very unhappy. Jimmy was glad he was leaving Miami the next day.

The next morning he picked Kevin up at the hospital in a limo. A crowd of nurses and other staff gathered to wish Kevin goodbye. He was definitely their darling. Jimmy was definitely not their darling.

Insurance covered all the medical expenses. Jimmy counted out the cash when they finally got home to Connecticut. He was up $34,000 for Miami and as far as Jimmy could tell, Kevin was as good as new.
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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.

Abigail Vaughan
Inspiration piece

Feathers
By Bette Hileman
Response

Stiff feathers
not quite real
in pale pastels
decorate hats
from the Forties.

Unbending, thick—
unlike bird feathers—
they circle crowns,
enclosing lives.

The hats, secured by sharp pins,
almost fall in spring wind,
as women file into church,
their waists, hips unyielding
pinched by tight girdles.

The sky holds dancing clouds.
But feathers don’t dance.
They are not wild or free
like deer who joyously chase
each other in breezy forests.

They are fastened to rich bonnets
by an unseen force
and rimmed by an echoing fence
of unyielding filigree.

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Caroline Harrison
Inspiration piece

Waiting For Spring
By Elizabeth Wexler
Response

I walked by the blooms
Inhaling the sweet nectar of spring
It had been a long, cold winter.
Yet
We knew that under that ground
Seeds and bulbs were safely sleeping
Patiently waiting for the right time
More patient than us up here.
But until the white buds opened up into white blooms
We all kind of held our breath…

I walk by a tree that has some of the blooms on hanging vines
I walk by and admire the soft petals
Drink in the fresh smell
And keep walking.
Then I stop. I close my eyes for a minute, trying to recreate what I just saw in my mind.
Then I backed up, and looked over my right shoulder, to the tree again.
Yup.
That’s what I thought.
Jumper cables. (jumper cables?)
It looked as if either someone had thrown them up and over the high branch, and couldn’t get them down.
Or maybe they fell onto the tree.
Jumper cables from heaven?
I could use some of those right now.
There are a few “dead” things I’d like to jump-start.
But
Like the blooms, I will be patient.
I will wait until I know it’s the right time to shoot up through the earth.
Although…..
If some jumper cables were sent to me from above
I would clamp them on and fire up the engine.
Until then, I’ll wait.
Underground. Where I am supposed to be, until I’m supposed to be somewhere else.

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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.

Marcia Cole
“Lilac Sky “
Response

Dark Pinecones
By Becca Biggs
Inspiration piece

When I was young,

I thought I would be famous.

Yet it wasn’t something

I worked at, like scaling a mountain

lifting and slamming one ice pick after another.

Somehow I thought fame

would arrive like an elegant gift

with an enormous ivory satin ribbon,

without even an occasion to mark.

Now I take stock and wish only

to avoid being mediocre.

Unlike the hand holds up the mountain,

this level task has little grandeur or drama,

just the sober work of noting

one’s own humming song.

My ear tips upward

to the lone bird atop the highest branch,

the ivory ribbon,

the odd yellow light in a rain tossed afternoon

hinting of eternity,

the sturdy box,

And my thoughts that fall on the page,

like the dark pinecones

I saw in the thick green moss,

my only gift.

Once as a child

my friend’s much older married sister asked,

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

without hesitation, I said, “a poet.”

That Michigan farmhouse went still.

And, I thought, “this must not be a real answer”

never to utter it aloud again,

not knowing I was taking,

my first tiny steps towards my own mediocrity.

Now, with a vista, I retrace and carve a new arch

mapping the way with the points of my compass,

Lone bird, yellow light, thick moss, dark pinecones.

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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.

Sukia
Response

Following the Ground Ivy
Jules Rolfe
Inspiration piece

She’s taken over our backyard
Like we’ve grown into our souls
running under the foundation of the grass
until She binds so tightly to the thatch
She strangles the green growth above it

She has moments of beauty in the spring
Her purple blooms almost as enchanting
as summer’s clovers and sunflowers
I follow Her
Two three, four, five, six, seven feet
through the grass’s underbelly
thinking about whatever there is to think

She’ll listen as long as I follow
Prying up her double pronged anchors
I just follow and marvel at the pattern
She weaves and tangles through my fingers
The hours lose themselves
in this tag of thought and listen

She almost never shows me her roots
My fingers covered in slugs’ passage
My nails caked in dirt
I don’t stop until the snot flies from my nose,
Until I’ve thought all there is to think

The ground ivy comes back—
Her personal invitation to listen
through the nameless
Until She tells me there is no such thing.

She’s wound Her way to patience
Under the surface of the perfect green grass

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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.

Totem
By Jules Rolfe
Response

Tears have the same salt as seawater
When I ride among the trains and bees and buses
listening to the clack-n-clack
dizzying myself to yellow-black-yellow of watching
the track and the road rush by,
I swim with the whales

When I fly high through the sea of the sky
and shoot past the moon bearing North home–to the stars,
I am the flash of the bluebird in winters’ weeds
Hidden in the stillness of the road side

When I drift through the stream of shoppers
thinking Consume! Consume! Consume!
I am the little fry letting the river carry me
to quiet waters among the tree roots

When I am high in the swirl of pigment and words
living in the brush stroke, carved by shadow
living in the forgiveness of unforgiving code,
I am the mythical dragon curling ’round itself like a lover

I let go. My hair flying behind
battering my face and slapping my sides
the wind branding my cheeks pink and
closing my ears to all other sound
I lift my arms and float, following the path of a feather
and return to the totem

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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.