Tuesday, Januay 7th. My son Charlie called. He was breathless. He had barely escaped the Palisades. The sky had been clear, he said when he took the actor John Goodman’s retriever, Miss Daisy, to the vet. But when he returned a couple of hours later, black clouds of smoke and flames blotted out the sun. A hurricane strength wind had ignited the brush in Temescal Canyon north of Sunset Boulevard. The fire now engulfed the Palisades, a neighborhood on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Coast Highway. Sirens wailed, police and fire engines raced up Sunset. … Continue reading Wild Fires by Trudy Hale→
I just bought an eight-pack of bony Jesuses, an Amazon special, to be sure Jesus remembers this little lamb if I run a red light or ease through a stop sign as an 18-wheeler rolls through I also bought eight fuzzy rabbits’ feet on fake gold chains in case I need good luck when stopped by a crotchety cop who had a serious spat with her husband this morning when she discovered condoms in his back pocket I will hang a dangling Jesus on my rearview mirror on even numbered days and the rabbit’s foot … Continue reading Equal Opportunity by Claire Scott→
Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash. I. a. This morning, I saw a creature standing in the road. The size of a small dog with rust-colored fur. But even from a distance, I could see electricity shuddering just beneath its skin. A taut wildness that disappears with domesticity. b. For years now, I’ve lived in the West, in places that once were desert. Where the air is dry, and the bugs are few and no one cares quite so much if you graduated from one of the Ivies. Sometimes, I return East in August and … Continue reading Fragments From Returning to the Suburban Neighborhood of My Youth by Sharon Gelman→
In the empty lot across the street they graze on ground scrape and grind — diesel sculptors of land and sound that rumble words shatter lines I try to write take up residence between my shoulder blades and teeth. Then it’s quitting time and quiet unfurls through air. Into this gap this negativity of sound — an echo, insistent: how the backhoe’s motor idled, revved, and whined how metal screamed when it hit rock how workers’ voices floated like dandelion seeds windblown this stillness opens silence then words asking to be heard. Cindy Buchanan … Continue reading Still Life with Bulldozer and Backhoe by Cindy Buchanan→
The worms are writing a song in my garden, rustling their slick bodies through the leaves in a rising crescendo, inspired by the rain. If one were musically inclined, they could accompany these worms but only softly, because if you’re too loud, you’ll scare them and they’ll stop. They like flutes. They don’t like cellos. The worms hear my footsteps across the yard and grow silent just as I approach pick up their song again with verve and zest in the wake of my passing. If I were musically inclined, I’m sure I could pace … Continue reading The Audience Beneath by Holly Day→
Studio by Katy Nicosia. CC license. When we first enter the Robert Rauschenberg retrospective at the Tate Modern, my parents’ eyes brighten as if they’re greeting old friends. Before they suggested we spend their last day in the UK here, I had no idea who Rauschenberg was, no idea that he was such a major influence on their own work. Dad gravitates to a print of a tyre track that spans an entire wall, Mom to a monoprint of two figures in a field of blue. I split myself between them, not wanting to miss … Continue reading The Rauschenberg Retrospective by Ingrid Jandrewski→
We never know when it will be the last time, do we? If I had known, I would have paid closer attention to the story mom shared about her acquaintance’s daughter’s friend. I usually listened half-heartedly to these stories she often told. I probably wanted to tell her more about my own life. But that time, the last time, I would have listened, maybe asked a question or two. I’d have leaned into my mother, given her a smile, and taken the time to be completely and fully present. We would have been standing side-by-side … Continue reading The Last Time by Cheryl Somers Aubin→
Not thinking about it doesn’t make it go away. Recollection makes sense of it, invents details from the misremembered: as with open carry and its fine print—no one flinches when the guy walks into McDonalds, a large pistol strapped to his waist and orders a Big Mac, hold the pickles, and the young man at the register says it always has pickles. When you’ve got a pistol strapped to your waist you can’t help resting your hand on its polished blue-black handle with faux pearl inlay on the grip, and the young man at the … Continue reading How Pain Matters by Mark Simpson→
The fear of losing you torments me. Krenshaw’s roommate, Annie Alessandra, was dating Tommy Stalwart. Krenshaw had introduced them a few months back and it seemed like things were going well. Krenshaw was happy for them. But she was also sad. Seeing the two of them together reminded her of what she used to have with Memphis Jericho. Krenshaw had fallen for Memphis after dating him for a few months. Then, he broke up with her, saying he wasn’t as physically attracted to Krenshaw as he hoped he’d be. Krenshaw was confused by this. She … Continue reading Krenshaw and the Tale of Memphis by Karys Rhea→
My vocation is writing, but my avocation is painting, mostly portraits. I belong to a Facebook group dedicated to showing the work of artists who are trying to create loose watercolor paintings. Members range from people whose pieces could be displayed at a prestigious museum to beginners who are asking for comments and helpful tips on their first attempts. A self-avowed beginner posted several portraits online. Using vivid colors and bold strokes, her paintings portrayed purple bruises, blood flowing, and anguished expressions. Each portrait revealed the artist’s compassion for the difficult lives of her subjects, … Continue reading Don’t Let Anyone Break Your Creative Heart by Deborah M. Prum→
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