| < Evening Bag | Up | Hall Air Swimmer > |
Photography, Interior
16″ x 20″
Invisible
by Susan Condeff
You see me
But you don’t
You rush by
Too distracted by conventional beauty
You walk by
But you don’t
Stop, focus on me
Too busy by occupied attention
I am frosted over from neglect
Cracked with disappointment
My features worn by life’s bumps and bruises
Weathered from time and loss
I don’t move you
But I could
If you slowed down
Stepped into my life
Gazed at my beauty, slowly
Deliberately
I am the face in the wall
invisible
Look again
See me
Ode to All Prisoners
by Art Tenbrink
How long must I wait
Crying out to passers by
Citizen see me
Ghosts
by Diane Lovitt
If ghosts can go through
The blocked door going nowhere
Then can I enter?
Face in the Wall
by Jordan Bernal
Eyes dart to the left
Can you see what I can see?
A face etched in stone
Rambling to View a Face in the Wall
by Jordan Bernal
I ramble past the 12th century stone tower
Look up ninety-seven feet to the conical top
A light breeze bunches puffy white clouds together
Over the perfect blue of an Irish morning sky.
Wander near and into the roofless stone cathedral
I study the Romanesque figure sculpture arcading
Through field of headstones that march in ragged formation
Toward Ardmore Bay and the Celtic Sea.
Crosses jut straight and true from the uneven ground
Some with engraved inscriptions, crisp and clear
Others worn with the passage of centuries
Many markers lie in drunken disarray.
I stroll past the purple thistle and bramble bushes
To an 8th century stone structure—St. Declan’s Oratory
Believed to be the burial site of Saint Declan
One of the four pre-Patrician saints of Ireland.
Come round the corner of the sandstone block building
Really a cell of about eighteen feet by nine feet
I gaze in through the iron-barred door
And spot an alcove lit by the lone east-facing window.
Staring back at me from the alcove—a face in the wall
Choose to believe that face belongs to the oratory’s namesake
I feel at peace on that summer morning as I ramble
Around the oldest Christian settlement in Ireland.
Ardmore—a beautiful coastal village at the foot of the Celtic Sea
More beautiful with the ruins rising gloriously over the village
For anyone hiking through the gravestones to the final resting place
Saint Declan’s visage etched in the damp spaces of the wall.
My Judge
by Linda Todd
Why have I not seen that face before now? I wrap my T-shirt thin blanket around my shoulders and crouch on the cold damp concrete across from the image in the wall.
It’s been weeks at least, perhaps a month when my captors pushed me down the step. Punishment for my crimes, they said. Only they never specified what crimes. I ask twice a day when they slide my food tray through the cell door. They never speak. No formal arrest, no trial, and definitely no lawyer. I’m sure they’ve left me here to die.
Is that why I see the face now? Is he my judge? Will he hear my confession and set me free?
Still Waiting
by Patricia Boyle
On summer vacation in Ireland, I passed an old woman sweeping her front
walk one afternoon as I strolled through the village. Stooped and swaddled in layers, she dragged the broom back and forth in a slow, but steady rhythm. I asked her about the face I saw across the lane. “Excuse me. Is it my imagination, or do others see a face in the wall as well?”
She stopped sweeping and gazed at the wall, holding onto her broom for
support. Her expression was unreadable. She was silent for a long while; I thought she wouldn’t answer me. Just as I turned to leave, she began to speak.
“Tis a face all right, the face of Peter Breen. He died seventeen years ago. The villagers buried his body, but his spirit waits for his lady. She disappeared a month before he died. The whole village searched for days, but they found no sign of her.”
She looked at me with narrowed eyes. “Lass, have you ever been in love? Do you know the pain of loss?” She nodded at the wall. “When his beloved wife, Colleen, vanished, Peter was half crazed. One time he claimed the wind had whispered her name all night long.”
The old woman studied the wall again. “For weeks, Peter searched the moors from dawn ‘til dusk. I say he died of a broken heart. His grief has trapped him in the stone where he keeps vigil. No one goes to the house anymore.”
I let out a long breath. “That’s sad. Do you think Colleen died, then?”
The woman’s look sent a chill through me. “I don’t know for certain, lass.
Sometimes at night, I think I hear the wind call her name. And when I can’t sleep, I sit up and look out my window. I tell you this true. One night a woman stood in the entryway, all dressed in white. The moonlight gave her a pearly glow. She talked to the wall for a time, and she stroked Peter’s face. Near morning, after she left, I ventured over there. Two lines of water ran down the stone, starting from Peter’s eyes.”
Turning to her broom, the old woman resumed sweeping. Shivering in the warm sunlight, I left, keeping my gaze averted from the wall of Peter Breen.
—The End—
Face in the Wall
by Shelley Lee Riley
“Tell us a story, Grammy.”
“A story?” The woman’s gaze swept over the two children. Both rosy cheeked, they’d just risen from their nap. Kevin knuckled one eye and yawned. While Carly sucked her thumb and tugged at tousled blond curls.
“Carly, don’t suck your thumb,” Carmelita admonished the wide-eyed child. “You’re too old to be sucking your thumb. Do you want to end up with a bucktoothed smile?”
Carly opened her mouth, but didn’t remove the thumb. Carmelita suppressed a smile. I didn’t tell her to take her thumb out of her mouth, now did I?
“How about an apple, you two hungry?” Carmelita drew the two children into her arms. They both shook their heads in the negative.
“Grammy, story.” Carly spoke around her thumb, her words garbled.
“Give us a kiss and I’ll tell you a story.” Carmelita smiled as the young girl removed her thumb and deposited a wet smooch on her grandmother’s cheek. “How about you
Kevin? Do you have a kiss for Grammy?”
Kevin squirmed. Carmelita laughed. “You getting too old to kiss your Grammy?”
The little boy shrugged and leaned in to give her wrinkled cheek a quick peck.
“Alright then, the price of a story has been paid.” Carmelita gazed over the children’s heads and out the window into the garden.
“He waits.” Carmelita whispered.
“Who waits, Grammy?” Kevin said.
She didn’t answer, her gaze was locked on a vision, one that only her words could describe. Carly tugged on Carmelita’s sleeve, the old woman blinked and hugged the children tighter. She felt their little frames stiffen in her arms, as they sensed her unease.
“The Man in the Wall,” Carmelita told them, and a slight tremor shook her frame as she uttered the words.
The children waited. Eyes wide, they stared at their grandmother.
“In my village there is a stone hut, the roof is gone and no one lives there anymore. The floor is stone and the walls had once been plastered in white. The only life that remains is the green mold that rises with the damp to find a foothold in the crevices between the stones. There were once two doorways, but no longer, now there is only one. The other is stone and where the Man waits.”
“Grammy?” Kevin pulled at her sleeve. Carmelita looked into her grandson’s earnest face. “How can that be, does he stand in front of the stone?”
“No, Kevin,” Carmelita said. “The Man waits in the stone.”
“But Grammy, how could he breath inside the stone?”
“He doesn’t breath, Kevin.”
“He’s dead, and walks with God?”
“No, he’s not dead. The Man waits.”
Carly’s thumb had crept back into her mouth. Her lips moved as she sucked harder. Carmelita kissed the top of the little girls head.
“What does he wait for?” Kevin said.
“He waits for us.”
“Why?”
“When we each are ready, the Man will show us the way.”
“Where are we going?” Carmelita could see the impatience in Kevin’s face as he asked her for the answers.
“To a place with many wonders.”
“What kind of wonders, Grammy?”
“You will see when you’re ready.” Carmelita hugged him close.
“Does every family have a Man in a door?”
“No, just ours.”
Carly pulled her thumb from her mouth and locked gazes with her grandmother. “Are you ready to go through the stone, Grammy?”
“Yes darling, I am.”
—The End—
A Face in the Wall
by Annette Langer
DAY 1: Whoa! When they warned me about “solitary,” I didn’t think it’d be just an empty room with only a stone bed in the corner and a hole in the floor for a toilet. I thought they meant more like private. Not even a sink, just a bucket under a spigot. Guess I didn’t think it through. Oh well. How long can they keep me here? I can do this.
DAY 2: Don’t think I slept at all last night. Too damp. The walls smell like wet somethin’—I don’t know what. If I crane my neck, I can kinda make out some sunlight today but it don’t reach over to my side of the window bars. It just stays cold and damp in here. I’m not likin’ this at all.
DAY 3: I tried to make a game with some of them littler rocks today to kill time but they don’t bounce like a ball does. They almost fall apart if ya toss ‘em against the wall too hard, ‘specially if I’m mad when I pitch ‘em. It makes dust that hangs in the air like a cloud. I can see it in the shaft of light that stops just short of these bars. The dust makes me cough. I’m hatin’ this. When are they gonna let me outta here? Enough’s enough!
DAY 4: Nobody comes by. Can’t even hear anybody through these thick walls. Wonder if anyone else is in here. What makes them walls so damn wet? Gotta see if I can figure that out while I’m here. That’d be a good way to kill time. But I got no tools, no way to check it out.
DAY 5: Almost a week now, I think. Not too sure. I tried to scratch out marks on the wall like they do in the movies so I could keep tracka the days, to see how long I been in here. But these stones ain’t no good for that. It kinda crumbles when I try to press one against the wall to write with it. Must be limestone or sandstone or somethin.’ What the hell do I know? C’mon, somebody walk by so I can ask what kinda stone this is. Ya don’t have to talk long. I just wanna know about the stone.
DAY 6: I think that’s moss growin’ on the walls over in the corner. I don’t remember seein’ that before. How long have I been here? Am I below ground? Nah…can’t be ‘cuz if I stretch, I can still see the sunlight. But why are the walls so stinkin’ wet lookin’ then? I wonder if it rains, could it flood in here through the bars. I don’t swim so good.
DAY 7: I’M SO BORED!!! Where is everybody? Maybe I doze off more than I think ‘cuz sometimes when I roll over on that damn cement bed, I find a plate of that…well, “slop’s” too good a word for it. It’s just settin’ there in a tin plate on the floor where they leave it. I hear the flies buzzin’ around. That’s my dinner bell. Not even a damn spoon. Gotta eat it with my fingers.
I took my shirt off last night and tried to fold it up to make a pillow for my head so I could sleep some. But then I got cold, so screw it. I’ll sleep without a pillow. That’s my punishment—well, one of ‘em anyway.
DAY 18: I think I’m losin’ it. Coulda swore I seen a face in the doorway when I woke up, but then it was gone. Scared the crap outta me, too. Made the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up. Light’s gotta be just right to see it or else it’s just the plain wall. Nah, that’s nuts! Nobody ever comes by here. But still, somebody’s watchin’ me, for sure. I know it.
DAY 29: The face is back again, the one in the wall. Shows up pretty regular now. I can feel it more than see it. The light don’t even matter no more. You’re here, day or night. I get it now. You’re my conscience.
Face in the Wall
by Sally L. Kimball
Admiring the architecture and material of the old building, Sherry had the feeling someone was looking at her.
She turned, “Hello, I didn’t know someone was there. I thought this was a deserted building. I hope I haven’t intruded.”
A soft gentle voice responded, “Thank you for acknowledging my presence. I’m glad you are here.”
Focusing her attention on the wall, she saw a face looking at her. It reminded her of the face in one of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies she had watched several times. No, I’m just imaging things. It’s only a building wall for gosh sake. I have to stop watching those darn movies.
Turning to walk away, she heard the voice again. She spun around. The face was looking at her. The eye seemed to be looking through her, to something deep within her. Her voice shook as she said, “Who are you.”
“Close your eyes a moment, visualize my face, the face you just saw.
When my face appears in your inner vision, then open your eyes and look at me.”
Trying to go beyond her rational mind, she focused within, as she’d been
taught in meditation. The face appeared taking on an ethical form.
Opening her eyes, she saw a clearer image of the face. “Who are you and what do you want of me?”
“Nothing of you, other than to acknowledge my presence. I’ve waited a
long time for you”.
“I don’t understand, waiting for me, why me?”
“There are things your rational mind does not see or feel. The world you
experience is through your physical eyes, not your spiritual eye.”
“Those of this world have forgotten their true nature. They see through
their physical eyes, not beyond. You are a sensitive person. You have the
capacity and sensitivity to see beyond your world. I have come to help you see, experience and share with your fellow man, the reality of life.”
As she looks closer, the face only had one eye. She wondered if that was
significant. Before she could stop herself, she asked, “Why do you have only one eye?”
“I have come to show you there is truly only one eye. That eye is the eye of God. God sees all as one. There is no one or no thing greater than the other.
We are all one being and that being is pure love.”
Sherry wondered how the conversation turned so quickly to God and Love.
He continued, “I know what you are thinking. You are wondering about love and God. It is very simple. We are all manifestations of God and have a spiritual consciousness, be it human or non-human. My message is Love All
Serve All, that is your mission and those of your world.”
She didn’t know if she understood, wondered if this world and the meaning of life could be so simple.
The voice seemed to hear her questioning mind. “What is it you want to know?”
The question surprised her for a moment. Then she asked, “Why me and why now?”
As the voice faded to a whisper, she heard, “Why not now and why not you?”
Face in the Wall
by Julaina Kleist-Corwin
I lagged behind my classmates on our tour and stopped to rest on a stone bench. I bent to rub my ankle when I heard a deep voice. No one was around. Who was talking? I glanced in the direction of the wall. It had what looked like a face in it.
“Is it time for us to join you?” The question erupted from the wall.
“Who’s there?’
“I am the gatekeeper for my people.”
“You’re a wall.”
“I’m in the wall from your point of view.”
“What species are you to be able to live in a wall?” I thought I was hallucinating from too much walking, not enough food, or dehydration.
“Can we come out now? We will explain everything if it’s time.”
“How would I know if you could come out now? How many are there of you?”
“Numerous villages, waiting, waiting, and more waiting…for the new paradigm.”
I looked away from the wall to see if the tour guide or someone noticed I wasn’t with them. “What do you mean new paradigm?”
“We stay where we are until humanity has learned to be human.”
“We are human, are you?”
“More human than your people unless the shift is complete.”
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m not sure you’re talking at all. Walls don’t talk.”
“I am not a wall.”
“Whatever.” I looked down the path again for the tour guide or someone to rescue me.
The wall’s voice demanded my attention. “You must tell me. Are there wars? Are there murders? Is there poverty and starvation?”
“Of course. All of it.”
“Then it is not time for us to come.”
“Sophia. Sophia.” I heard our tour guide calling my name. I tried to stand, but the pain in my ankle forced me to sit again. “Over here.”
He walked up to me with a concerned expression. “Are you all right?”
“My ankle hurts. I had to stop.”
He held my foot and checked for swelling. “Strained, not sprained. Lean on me and we’ll join the others.” He lifted me to a standing position and guided me toward the trail.
“One minute. What do you see in that wall?” I pointed.
He glanced in the direction for a second. “Could be a face.” Then he ignored it and focused on helping me walk.
At the risk of being irrational, I called to the wall, “What will you do?”
A breeze blew from the face’s direction and I heard, “
| < Evening Bag | Up | Hall Air Swimmer > |