Inspiration

Beads of sweat dripped down my face as I hurried into the door of the Royal Museum of Fine Arts. People gathered at one painting, “The Virgin and Child Surrounded by Angels,” by Jean Fouquet.

I pushed my way through the crowd until I reached the exquisite masterpiece. The Virgin’s voluptuous breast was exposed for her hungry child that sat naked on her lap, her hand gently around his waist. Dozens of angels surrounded them while her crown glowed, and she sat high in her throne.

I stood awestruck.

That was all the inspiration I needed to begin painting again.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Cellar

Oksana pounded the door of Zoya's wooden house. She screamed.

"Zoya, the Red Army has surrounded the village. Hide, Zoya!"

Zoya, holding her toddler Ekaterina in her arms, opened the door.

"Oh, God, help us. Oksana, where's Father Nikolai?"

"They've started a fire in the church! Hide, Zoya."

"God have mercy. Run Oksana. We'll hide in the cellar." Zoya pressed her daughter tightly to her breast. She ran to the cellar.

Zoya embraced her daughter. She heard a crashing sound. When she realized the smoke was coming from above, she said, "I love you Ekaterina. We'll be together in Heaven."

From Guest Contributor Deborah Shrimplin

Tableau

The protracted screaming was unnerving. I thought a rat had been caught by one of the local dogs allowed loose around the estate. It was Creggan in the nineties, where all sorts of mixed breeds roamed freely.

I pushed aside the lace curtain and gaped.

Pinning a dunnock to the ground with its talons, a sparrowhawk majestically scanned for potential interruption, its ribbed breast an exotic cuirass.

I caught its eye, heart strained in macabre tug-of-war between awe and horror at the continuing shrieks.

The raptor blinked like its distant ancestor, stooped, and ripped the voice from the little hedge-sparrow.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

A Letter After “N” On The Last Day Before Treatment

You are the hair against my belly, left too long in slick cooling foam. You are the pull of my arm as it leans closer to ground than shoulder. You are the gelatin near my breast where I am found waiting, one more time. You are sorted beyond shape, into one scent I'll accept, one I push heavily against, a reminder of reverse birthing, of what inside might mean if wrapped, warped by artifice and vivid yellows. You are this sweetness I take instead of a lesson—a cabbage of greens kept to hide the reds left in your leaving.

From Guest Contributor, Kelli Allen

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge and holds an MFA from the University of Missouri. She is currently a Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Allen gives readings and teaches workshops throughout the US. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, from John Gosslee Books (2012) was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.