The Loom
I spell your name as a fault line, a fissure in the earth
I pretend does not exist. The house tilts where your
laughter used to level it, its rafters creaking beneath the
heaviness of silence
: An excerpt from the poem "Blueprint" by David M. Alper.
Beach Bar. Dominique Pecce. Monotype with gouache and color pencil embellishments. [Click for more.]
in my imagination. I slept as she cried
out in pain a year ago, but now I live in a place
where the sun has risen—in theory. We’ve had sun
all week but today is the first turn in the weather:
the first time even the sky believes that the air
has changed into something less generous.
: An excerpt from "I Write From My Mother’s Last Two Hours of Life," a poem by Abbie Langmead.
: An excerpt from "A Friendly Reminder From Administrator #8964C," a piece of fiction by Phillip Gerson. [CLICK FOR MORE.]
She grew up in the center of the universe. Smack dab in the center, surrounded by artists and engineers. She was told she could create anything. She was told others had already created quite a lot. She was told the impact of all the others was evident. She was told her impact was not.
. . .
He grew up in a town of 7500 people. They all called him Stap. They allowed Stap to drink from their many springs and forage from their local convenience stores on the condition that he perpetually did. They wished him to act, all the time. They told him it was good for him; that thought led to death at some point, which led to an absence of thought, which, for those who think, is thought to be a great loss.
. . .
They met in a meadow, one of the ones they used for movies, back when they used real meadows for movies.
: Three excerpts from the short fiction work "Emily and Stap," by Brian Conlon.
Manifestation Blooms. Chelsea Tikotsky. Oil and acrylic on canvas.
As you can see all of the questions are straightforward. You will not be asked to select stars between one and five, or simply check “yes” or “no,” just going through the motions. I am instead asking you to select a black ink pen of your choice and tell me exactly how you feel at this moment, are you satisfied, and what that means to you.
A rare invitation during the self-enveloped times in which we live.
A request that confirms that someone does value your opinion. Your thoughts and insights matter and your expertise is appreciated. Everywhere else in the universe, whether it is with friends, or family, or colleagues, it feels like everyone’s video screen has been turned off.
But for me, and for you, that is not the case. Your feedback is in fact my North Star for the service plan and marketing strategy I shall put forth next fiscal year. And for that reason I humbly request your response.
"Jess," a painting from Illusionism and Narrativity. David P. Quady.
The Sword
Fallowed
Jade Kleiner
the withered branches grope upwards
on this ice-dead morning,
the small things staggering in gusts
in the skeleton branches
so much is frozen still
the creatures forget the warmth
and yet huddled they whisper of
fledgling light filtering down
as if hoping for something better
I walk among the glaciers by the trail,
looking for the sun
I find ghostly peace
in these thawing days
the surging dawn will bring
rising rivers, wilted icicles,
and the end of numbness
In Between
Artist | Kailyn Harris
Photography
The Last Words of Copernicus
Bull Garlington
So, he gets up. He gets up out of his dying chair because everyone who’s assembled to watch him go has launched into The Old Rugged Cross, a maudlin hymn Earl “Whit” Whitfield despises and will not abide. The preacher’s benediction peters out and Whit’s daughter, Opal, stops hollering yes Jesus long enough to watch him stumble into the middle of the living room, through his faltering choir, out the screen door onto the porch, past curious cousins, appalled deacons, and the McWhorter kids from next door to curl his cancerous fingers around the iron pipe railing leading down the steps.
He’d been so proud of it when he was in his forties, eyes glowing with a coralline fire, the fulminate rays of his heart shooting out from between his ribs, consumed by a purposeful heat, a circle of apparent light that followed him everywhere he walked, a bonified halo.
Unlocking New Possibilities || Antonio Muñiz || Mixed Media Fumage
Heart
Selim Sevim
REBECCA: So, what's the plan?
KATE: There is no plan. We'll go inside, open his door, and shout 'Surprise!' That's it.
REBECCA: Hmm.
KATE: (Imitates her) Hmm... (To Chris) Have you already noticed she can't do
anything without a plan, Chris? Or are you still in the phase of 'This girl is so pretty, I don't even care what she says'.
CHRIS: (Grinning) Second one.
A Violent Boy in Leipzig | Owen Brown | Acrylic on Canvas
Vividness of Visual Imagery Test
Rocco de Giacoma
Think of the front of a shop which you often go to. Consider
the picture that comes before your mind’s eye, the appearance
of the shop from across the road, the apartment above it, the tired
brick. Consider the window display including the colours and shape
of individual items for sale. Try not to think of the low roar
of traffic, the harbour smell in the wind when it comes off the lake.
Let’s try to keep this visual. You approach the entrance. Consider
the colour and shape of the door. Don’t think of the jingle of the bell,
