Portrait, Crayon
13″ x 15″

Authoress

by Patricia Boyle

Open window
Smiling witness
Indelible ink

Authoress

by Julaina Kleist-Corwin

Observant smile
Invisible empathy
She writes our stories.

My Muse

by Jordan Bernal

Awaiting my muse
Vibrant colors bring a smile
Words not far behind

My Job

by Lani Longshore

My job is words
Beauty
Truth
Prophecy
They show on my face
They shine on the page
They change the world
I love my job

Dreams Of Writing

by Neva Hodges

I dreamed of writing before
I wrote.
I dreamed of published books,
sold by the millions.
Wealthy, I would be, in a home
with a library, a place to write.
I would entertain authors, agents and
publishers, whose accolades about
my books filled me with delight.

But reality hit when at critique group
the edits bore deep. My psyche hurt, the
dreams cut down,
would I recover?

I returned to critique group,
new chapter in hand. Again,
I doubted, dismay filled
my heart. Could I learn to
write, or should I throw
in a dump what I wrote and revised?

The women encouraged me.
Work hard, they said. That’s
what it takes. Someday, you will
have a book ready to sell.

I did what they said,
revised and revised.
My book emerged,
Ready to sell.
Happy at last, I had a dream,
almost fulfilled.

A publisher took my book,
and a contract ensued. But
millions of dollars eluded
me still.

My dreams continued,
but somehow I knew,
if I wrote and wrote,
revised and revised,
someday, my name would
be known by millions of
readers. And content I
would be to say at last,
the dreams I dreamed
came true for me.

Red Lips

by Diane Lovitt

Red lips are smiling.
Arms are loosely crossing.
Fingers are curling.

It’s The Top

by Pat Coyle

The woman in Shelly Riley’s crayon portrait, Authoress, looks across the scene with one arm against her chest, up almost to her throat and shoulder, her other hand touches the side of her face, fingers near her pale blue headband

She wears a multicolored top, like something out of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat: vivid with red, orange, yellow, blue, indigo, violet, and gold.

Her hair is pulled up from the nape of her neck – a necklace of colored beads just visible above the top. Behind her, a plate sits on a ledge – pale blue background and amoeba-like shapes with hints of green, yellow red and white. The window frame in the pale blue wall is creamy white, with outlines of darker blue. The glass in the window is patterned in shapes of blue, white, grey, and gold.

Her hazel eyes are wide open, her face in profile, the near nostril flared in a heart-shaped shadow. Red lips full, smiling, eyes pensive.

Does this authoress wait for someone, some idea, is her story stalled? Is she taking a break, seeking new energy to push over her writer’s block into the tale?

What is there about this woman, why would one write about her? I think it’s the top: all those colors, a bold adventurous top – something could happen with this woman, a story, something could happen.

The Tip

by Linda Todd

Yesterday she sat staring out the cafe window, her red lips raised in a sly smile, her face smooth and relaxed. I imagined her brown eyes fixating on a daydream. Every other day she sat at the same table, her shoulders hunched over her keyboard as she clicked the keys in rhythm to her bobbing scarved head, her eyebrows scrunched in concentration.

She wore color today. Bright red, blue, yellow, and orange, not the drab brown, gray, and black of her usual uniform.

“May I refill your tea pot with water?” I asked.

“Yes, dear. That would be lovely,” she said.

I returned and placed the filled pot on the table.

“You seem very happy today.”

She looked at me, really looked at me for the first time since I had worked in the cafe.

“I’ve finally given birth.”

“Excuse me?”

My eyes must have bugged out of their sockets because she laughed, something I’d never seen her do before. “My book. I’ve given birth to my book, dear. Good or bad, it’s out there for all the world to see and my first advance arrived in today’s mail.”

“Oh, that’s splendid news. So that’s what you’ve been working on these past months. I dream of writing a book someday, but bill paying comes first.”

“Don’t talk about it, dear. You have to set your mind to it and get after it. Don’t wait until you’re old like me.”

Additional customers came in so I left to get them seated, hand out menus, and serve up drinks. When I glanced toward her table by the window, she was gone. I wished I could have talked with her more.

After punching in the new customer’s orders on the screen behind the bar, I returned to her table to clear the dishes away. Under the saltshaker she had left a stack of bills and a napkin. The money she had left was enough to pay my rent for three months. On the napkin she had etched the words, “May all your dreams come true. Love, J.”

Today I sit in her seat at the table by the window, hunched over my keyboard, clicking the keys in rhythm to my swaying ponytail, my lips pursed in concentration.

—The End—

Authoress

by Shelley Riley

Lost in thought, the woman sat alone in the small Parisian café.

I’d stumbled upon Mariage Frères at the end of the rue du Bourg─Tibourg. The victim of a wrong turn, I’d been wandering the back streets of Paris and was overcome by fatigue and thirst.

Now with my swollen toes resting on the heels of my shoes, I had both a steaming cup of Marco Polo tea and a flakey almond croissant waiting for my attention on the small wrought iron table in front of me.

Intent only on getting the weight off my feet, I hadn’t noticed the woman when I’d entered. Left of the entrance, she was tucked in a corner where two windows met. Caressed by the filtered rays of the sun through the old water hued-glass—she was arresting. I found I couldn’t tear my gaze away.

Food forgotten, I stared. Her hair was slicked back from her face, the severity lessened by a long, light blue silk scarf. Wrapped several times around her head, she’d tied the silk in a fanciful bow at the crown. Vivid jewel tones of every primary color covered her smock-like dress in a riotous pattern that matched the simple beaded necklace and hoop earrings she wore. This unconventional get-up attracted my attention, but what sustained my interest was the look on her face.

Clearly the woman didn’t see the people on the street in front of her. Perhaps she was reliving a moment lost in the past. No? Maybe what she saw was a future, one she anticipated. I couldn’t tell.

Her facial features were a combination of clean cut and bold: big brown eyes were etched in coal, and a long straight nose with well-defined nostrils gave her an air of authority and intellect. The well-shaped lips were brought to prominence with a heavy application of red lipstick. The only indication of her mood was the melancholy smile that tugged at the edges of her mouth. Or was it a look of satisfaction?

My tea cooled as I ventured into my own imaginations. Very bohemian in appearance, she could be a writer or a poet or perhaps an artist. No, not an artist, too neat, no paint-stained fingernails or dabs of titanium white smeared across her smock. No, she was definitely an intellectual, confident and creative. My mind raced with the image of abstract conversations that would take place over cigarettes and bottles of deep red Bordeaux in her glass-enclosed loft.

Was she visiting the scene of her next literary work? Finding her way through a jungle of words that didn’t want to be organized into coherent thoughts, or plot lines? A journey started with the first sentence written. Was the story taking hold and giving her little choice but to follow it to a logical conclusion, which she didn’t want to be logical? Or had she, like me, written herself into a dead end?

With a sigh the woman pushed back her chair with the scraping of iron on tile. I watched as she emptied her cup and put a coin on the table. She passed me, and our eyes met. Reflected in her eyes, I saw the same smile I’d stared at earlier, only it was on my face.

The look was one of bemusement, not melancholy. She smiled with real warmth and I grinned, in return. I was thrilled. Without a word spoken she’d inspired me. I’d been bemused and my imagination re-lit. What writer’s block? I thought as I tore a hunk off my croissant and stuffed it in my mouth. I was now in a hurry to finish my snack so I could start writing again.

My thoughts carried me to a scene that wanted to play out in my mind. I didn’t see the man who walked into the café, nor did I notice when he sat down and began to stare.

—The End—

The Smile

by B. Lynn Goodwin

Abby Gray liked herself even more than she liked her work. She was proud ofher the mind that created the Jenny Horn series for YA readers and the Amanda Bartleby series for women who wanted more.

One day she blew up in the middle of Safeway because they were out of the
tofu cheese she craved. The next day she honked her horn all the way down Main Street. People stared, and she rolled down her window and screamed, “Why?” A young executive in a Calvin Klein suit called the cops.

She was trembling when they arrived. The police pulled out of her parked car and 5150ed her. While she was under observation, the doctor discovered a tumor pressing against her brain.

It was operable. She was too disoriented to sign the papers, so her husband did it. He sat in the waiting room while they cut into her scalp. They removed the offending tumor and to get it all, they had to take the healthy parts of her brain it had grown into. Chemo followed. Along with nausea and fatigue. Not that it mattered. She’d already lost her hair. Most of her memory went with it.

Her husband’s glad to have her back, but she speaks in simple sentences now, when she can access the words she’s reaching for. Her skills and insights are gone, but she doesn’t miss them. She barely remembers them.

Once she scrutinized the world and shared her insights. She had imagination and she loved turning heads with her style, verve and insights.

Now she smiles broadly. Her husband loves her smile. Her husband loves her.

Last week she picked up a book in a retail bookstore, Restaurants and Elevators by Abby Gray. She wanted to read what the woman with her name had written. She wanted to know how the other Abby Gray’s mind worked.

She hoped someday she’d meet the woman with the pale skin and bright red lipstick, staring out from the back cover. She looked vaguely familiar, but Abby couldn’t place her. Whoever she was, she belonged to a world that had disappeared at the same time as her tumor.

The Authoress

by Mona Dawson

I admired my reflection in the mirror. I’m pretty; I smiled to myself, really pretty. I especially liked the way my lips are so perfectly shaped—always in an upward slope that gives me that never-ending smile. My eyes, set wide apart, were bright and clear and with thick, black eyelashes. I have a younger, happier appearance than most people my age.

The light make-up enhances my dark skin with golden undertones. The red wig I chose to wear later tonight would be the perfect complement to my gold lame` dress and heels. Everything blends together so well! I’ve always been talented with my use of color and design. I know this because others in my circle are always coming to me for guidance.

This colorful dressing gown that drapes around my broad shoulders once belonged to my mother, a would-be TV star of the late ‘60s. I always feel so close to her when wearing it and can still smell the aroma of her Chanel #19, which she had over-worn and wore out.

My mom was my biggest supporter and always encouraged me to go after my dreams, to be myself, and to be comfortable in my own skin. Dad, on the other hand, hated who I’d become, just a joke to him now. But with mom gone, we seldom speak and equally feel it’s no loss.

We never did see eye to eye, not even when I was a small child. I always tried to please him. But dad always wanted more and never failed to point that out as nothing I did was ever good enough for him. I cleaned my room, but did I vacuum it? I finished my homework, but did I get an “A”? I raked the leaves, but did I shovel the pile into a garbage bag? Once I put too much sugar in a cake I baked so he wouldn’t have any of it. I was only 7 years old, for goodness sake, but everything with dad had to be a chore.

“Do it right the first time or don’t tell me about it,” dad would say.

Mom would say if the room was tidy, she’d run the vacuum. If homework was done, I could go play with friends. If the leaves were in a pile, we would both bag them up and laugh together all the while tossing them back and forth over each other. Then she’d ask if I wanted to help her with dinner, not a chore at all, as I dearly loved being by her side. Being an only child had been rough on us. We each had our own dreams for my success, but that too had faded over the years.

School was difficult; I was a slow learner, and the older I got, the more difficult life in general had become. Friends were few and far between, and none of the friendships were lasting ones.

My career as a writer/poet has begun to take off. I have more speaking engagements and more articles published, but I crave an even more powerful spotlight on myself.

Dad sorely needs my help in his construction business. His age is getting the best of him these days and he mentions this on our rare visits. He dreamed I’d grow into the man he needed. Instead, I now appear weekly in a local drag bar reading my sad poetry and dressed as the woman I was meant to be — The Author

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