Magenta Dawn

 

As I rounded the corner early one morning, EOS had just risen from the RIVER OCEANUS, opened the gates of heaven, and painted the dawn. It was a prodigious body of work to be sure, even if it had taken the entire day! Maspeth was still a silhouette and just beginning to stir from its slumber. Fluorescent, magenta, pink and violet clouds streamed silently across the sky-blue sky. Occasionally, cloudy fuchsia sailing ships cut silently through a light blue sea. The ensconced sconce of Venus streamed its light through a magenta tuft of cotton candy clouds. The sleeping town would regret missing this gallery opening.

Jim- November 25’

Just Some Thoughts - by Georgia P

 

It’s busy today at the cemetery. November 1. Another November I. Ordinary November 1 Regular visitors and funeral. Clear, Cold day. Fall flowers, mums. Carnations. Yellow, red, and white. Falling leaves make way for winter.  

Another soul lost yet safe in the home of the dead. 

Hyperbole - by Georgia P

 

My cat is so big and fluffy that he could block out the sun. 

 

My cat's meow is so loud and high pitched he could blow out every window in the neighborhood. 

Metaphors - by Georgia P.

 

The baby's coo was sunlight shining through the clouds.

 

Time was the thief that stole moments that I needed for later. 

 

Words are seeds that quietly take root in the mind. 

The Bug - A True Story

 

I woke up at 1 a.m. to the sound of my cat hunting—either a bug or a mouse. We don’t have mice; they won’t come here because of the cat. The mice can smell him.

I went back to sleep and heard nothing more.

When I got up at my usual time, I checked on the cat, who was sound asleep in his box, and went into the bathroom.

There it was—a big, ugly water bug, upside down with its legs up, looking quite dead. Black marks in the tub suggested an epic battle between my cat and the bug. It looked like my cat had won the fight.

Creeped out, I grabbed a dustpan and brush to pick up the dead bug and throw it out the window.

As I tried to collect it, the bug turned quite alive—very alive. Apparently, it had been playing dead.

It began running for its life in the tub, trying desperately to escape—up and down the sides, frantic. I smashed it six or seven times with the brush, yet nothing could stop it. The black bug, with its big wings, only seemed to grow more energetic.

I had chills and could barely breathe, watching its armored shell scuttling everywhere. Every nerve in my body tingled with terror.

In a flash, its antennae and legs disappeared down the drain. I quickly put a shampoo bottle over the drain to keep it there until I could figure out what to do next.

Unbeknownst to me, my cat had been watching the whole ordeal. As I exited the bathroom, Monsieur Brave Kitty—the same hero who had hunted in the dead of night and thought he’d killed his prey—entered the scene. I called for him to get out, but he didn’t listen. I walked away, shaking and trying to calm myself.

A short while later, my cat emerged. When I went back into the bathroom, the shampoo bottle was knocked over. He knew what I’d done. Now I wasn’t sure if the bug had crawled out of the drain or not. I replaced the bottle. I’ll remove it later.

The exterminator was called and arrived promptly. He put bug bait in the bathroom and kitchen and gave me some traps—just in case the buggy culprit or his friends show up again from the tub drain or somewhere else.

The cat and I are safe—for now.

As we carry on with our daily tasks, I can only wonder when the next attack of the bug will be.

Georgia

New Fashion Craze

 

I was a teenage bobby-soxer when I left for the two-month summer vacation in the Catskills. Bobby sox were white anklet. This footwear was the teenage fashion craze, particularly for those of us who swooned when Frankie crooned. This describes my group of friends, Club Flamingo. Not much additional thought was given to our fashion. We sported red satin club jackets and those white anklets. A surprise was waiting for me when the summer ended, and I returned to the East Bronx.

 

I had left the 13-year-old Club Flamingo friends behind still in their underdeveloped adolescent body shape, their prepuberty shape. When I returned, a new fashion had become the rage; barber pole shirts. These were tight fitting, diagonally striped blouses, resembling a barber pole. All my Flamingo friends sported these tight garments. All my Flamingo friends had newly noticeable breasts. All my Flamingo friends had suddenly donned bras and had the real thing to fill the 32, 34, A, B, C items.

 

Although I menstruated very early, my physical development lagged. Much to my dismay, I was as flat as a board; as flat as my big brother.  When momma fitted me with her handmade garments, she called me a  bret mit a lokh  ( Yiddish for a board with a hole). In a few days, momma and I were off to Stern’s Department Store. In that era there was little choice for my needs. So a 32 A with a wad of tissues in each cup had to do when I wore my tight fitting newly purchased barber pole fashion craze.

 

Ethyl Haber

Simile's (from Georgia P.)

 

My hair is like leaves worked over by a windstorm.

 

I couldn't be calm; my nerves were like popcorn in hot oil.

Hope struggles as valiantly as a candle against the darkness. 

 

The big man danced like a tank on roller skates. 

 

The old house creaked like the wind sighing.

The Blessing

 

The weather on Sunday morning was divine at the unfinished Episcopal Cathedral of Saint John the Divine, for the Blessing of the Animals on the feast of Saint Francis of Assisi. Flowers still bloomed in the gardens at 110 St. and Amsterdam Ave. and the massive crowd had gathered a full hour and a half before the ceremony honoring Saint Francis of Assisi and his love of animals was to commence. A lengthy line of attendees, four abreast, wound down Amsterdam Avenue and around the curving corner, a feel of Fall was in the air despite the surprising summer temperatures. Most of the crowd had brought their pet friends. There were parrots and guinea pigs, turtles, geckos and iguanas and cats of every description. Beautiful cats prowled and purred on their family's shoulders or cuddled in their embrace, but the largest population represented was an inundation of dogs. They were huge furry dogs to tiny hairless dogs of every size shape color and description. I witnessed a black Chihuahua riding on the back of a huge brown Bull Mastiff, smaller than his breakfast had been, barking out commands. I named him Napoleon. Most of the animals were well behaved calmly waiting for their blessing. Although the crowd was large there were no fights as all waited patiently for the ceremony to begin on best behavior. One car pulled up in the bus stop parking illegally and the owner a white-haired woman jumped out with her dog tucked under her arm like a football player and plunged into the crowd cutting through the line. It would not be a New York City line without someone who felt that they had the right to jump ahead of their fellow New Yorkers. Shortly after a limousine pulled up and the chauffeur got out and opened the rear door for a glamorously dressed woman sporting a large floppy hat and sunglasses with her manicured poodle who also dissolved into the crowd ahead of her rightful place.

Tourists from the Midwest were fascinated at the excitement over farm animals shown by the city slickers and said so in no uncertain terms. One man in a cowboy hat said “Will you look at all the fuss these city slickers are making over farm animals!” as a horse and a donkey along with two goats a sheep an owl, a raptor and a snake were paraded through the doors of the Cathedral.Next came a large cow and a tortoise who was pushed in on a mail cart. The hare arrived late having overslept. Of course, an usher followed with a rolling wagon holding a shovel and broom in case of any unfortunate mishaps.

The large exotic wild animals did not attend although many had attended the event in past decades, this was no Noah's ark! The elephants claimed to have gotten stuck on the crosstown bus. The hippopotamus had a previous engagement wallowing in Central Park Lake. The giraffe had found a delicious tree and refused to walk away

from it until he had finished every luscious leaf in spite of the fact that he was one-hundred feet away from the Cathedral entrance, while the alligators awoke very grumpy that morning and decided to skip the entire event calling in sick claiming to have overeaten white rats the night before. It was a very pleasant true New York City experience and one that I was glad to have experienced, and I checked it off my New York City Event Bucket List.

Jim-Oct 2025

Smoothie False Alarm

 

 There was always a decorative bowl of fruit on the kitchen counter. Right next to it was this super powered, multi bladed blender. 

 The fruit was sleeping comfortably on this quiet morning just before dawn.  All of a sudden, the lady of the house started bouncing down the stairs saying, “It feels like a smoothie morning.”

 Every piece of fruit popped its eyes wide open.  ”Oh no,” said the banana.  “Another smoothie.  You all know what that means,” and the banana pointed to the blender.  “You should go first banana,” said the apple.  “Your skin peels the fastest and your insides are so soft.”

 Then the apple said, “I’m juicy but I have a tough skin and seeds to remove. I think I’m safe.”  The strawberries knew they were getting thrown into the blender.  “We’re so delicious and soft, there’s no way we will be spared,” they spoke in unison.

 The blender was listening to the fruits talk to each other with panic in their voices.  The blender was very conceited and full of itself.  “My power and blades are the best there are.  We can make a smoothie in sixty seconds or less.” Upon hearing this, the fruit started shaking so much the bowl almost fell off the counter.

 By now, the lady of the house made her way into the kitchen and said out loud, “I don’t feel like washing the blender after making a smoothie.  I think I’ll have a bowl of cereal instead.”

Upon hearing this, every piece of fruit fainted!

Ellen G.

The Reason that I Write

 

The reason that I write is that one day while sculpting a bust in clay, the shape of the face began to show itself, I became fascinated with the interesting face and thought in great detail about the character that was evolving from the clay. I poured myself into writing a detailed description of this character to make it more real to me. As I worked the clay the character clicked in my head and the clay began to feel like living flesh to me. The clay became more malleable in my hands, and I began to have instructive thoughts as if I were being guided in my work.

“Pull out my left ear further please I can't hear very well.”

“Yes, that's it well done!”

“My chin is less pronounced shave that down a little if you don't mind.” “Excellent! Excellent!”

“I could really use a pair of eyes now that my orbital sockets are formed.”

I was not sure whether these thoughts were a result of the late hour of the night or was I losing my mind? I rolled the eyeballs in the palms of my hands like making meatballs and carefully inserted them into the orbital sockets. Next, I added the eye muscles and flesh and then the eyelids without receiving further instructions, but when I carved in the two pupils the bust looked directly at me as if a switch had been turned on and a conscious awareness seemed evident!

On I went sculpting with my hands now, intuitively working out the details of the character as if there was a melding of souls or an exchange of psyches wherein the clay was sculpting me as I sculpted it but I dismissed this as the hour of the night and little by little I lost consciousness.

By morning's light I was awakened by an unfamiliar voice.

“Excuse me, Excuse me, the sun is shining can you please wake up now it is morning and I need you to finish my lower lip so that I may stop lisping!” Thank you very much!”

Jim October 25’

My Cat Can Speak English

 

No one knows this, but my cat can speak English. I’ve never told a soul, because he refuses to talk to anyone but me.

Sometimes, when the house is quiet and the light is low, I’ll hear his voice—soft, deliberate, slightly amused.

“Humans make everything so complicated,” he’ll sigh. “You rush, you worry, you forget to nap.”

We have vivid conversations about the nature of humans, about how birds stir the ancient hunting instinct that still flickers inside him.

“They’re not innocent, you know,” he once said, twitching his tail. “They tease us from the branches. But I admire their freedom.”

He’s seen me cry, rage, and fall silent at injustices that seem petty to him.
When I once told him the world felt cruel, he simply answered,
“Then make your corner of it kind.”

Cats, of course, have their own philosophy: sleep as much as possible, keep an eye out for ghosts, wail for food, wash after meals, play wildly with a favorite coil toy, and at day’s end, curl up beside the one you love.

At night, he cuddles beside me and murmurs, “You did your best today. That’s enough.”

He speaks only when he chooses, and never when I ask. But in his silence, he still answers me.

My cat can speak English—
but we keep that between us.

Georgia

Glass City

 

Take a late ride on the Staten Island ferry.

Don't you hear it call?

The lights from the glass city.

Let the noise of the home bound drown,

As the view leaves you spellbound.

 

A bold claim: A city where dreams are made.

Even the possibility, one would not trade.

What would it be like?

CEO, Stock broker, artist or socialite?

 

Armed with my pen is the path I’d take.

Poems, novels, screenplays I’d curate.

Can’t slack off now there’s worlds to create.

A hopeful message for the masses hoping to liberate. 

 

It’s all around, the Charging Bull greets.

As you journey through stone streets;

Exotic faces, a muse you hope to meet. 

Distinct architecture, museums, art galleries,

Concerts, plays and stand-up comedies.

 

What truly beckons from yonder is beyond the lights,

Be consumed by the art of life.

What the nights bring is yet to unfold,

A quest to birth a story never been told.

Trudie

Autumn

 

It was raining this morning — kind of cool, not unusual for October, not unusual for my birthday time.   

Cooler weather is a refreshing change from the heavy heat of summer. I feel alive again, returning to my comfortable clothes. It’s a grounding time for me — warm soups, pumpkins, hot tea, apples, Halloween, and soft candlelight.

I love the long walks and cozy evenings.

This is my new year — a new beginning, every year.

The trees change colors — gold, orange, red, and brown — hot days giving way to cool nights.

Autumn always brings me home to myself.

Georgia

Top of the World

 

Riding over the top of the Verrazano Bridge on a bicycle is an exhilarating experience especially since you have already completed a forty mile trek through the five boroughs starting on Church Street in lower Manhattan, up Sixth Avenue, through Central Park, up through Harlem, and into the Bronx over the Third Avenue Bridge and out again on the Willis Avenue Bridge , down the FDR Drive, over the Queensborough Bridge to Astoria Park and into Green-point and over the BQE to Bay Ridge ,Brooklyn and into Cannonball Park. From Cannonball Park the steep ramp leading over the upper roadway of the Verrazano Bridge towers above you, and your aching muscles, but the exhilarating experience of feeling that all of NYC lies before you as you ride across the crest of the bridge is euphoric! The ride down the far side of the steep bridge and into Fort Wadsworth for the end of the event with a choice of bicycling swag and refreshments along with a well-deserved rest brings the wonderful forty-two-mile ride to a close. Of course, for those who have not had the forethought to bring a car here in advance for the ride home, the trek to the Staten Island Ferry and the ride home, still lies ahead. Now the planning begins for next year’s Five-Borough Bike Tour!

Jim- September 25’

Chocolate Euphoria

 

Schmidt’s Chocolate Shop has been in business longer than I can remember. It’s a medium sized shop and when you walk in, you will see ribbon and cellophane wrap everywhere. The shop isn’t the neatest but they have the family recipe for making the best chocolate and that’s what I focus on when satisfying my love of chocolate in Schmidt’s.

Every time I’m getting ready to enter Schmidt’s Chocolate Shop, I get euphoric. I know that as soon as I open the door, a strong, over-the-top aroma of chocolate is going to rush into my nose. It’s overwhelming in an exciting kind of way.

Enter the shop, look in the displays and your eyes will spy every kind of chocolate you could ever think of plus more. I get ecstatic when I see my favorites like chocolate butter crunch, nonpareils and white chocolate pretzel crisp. Other popular goodies include chocolate lollipops, chocolate truffles, chocolate covered graham crackers, and, of course, chocolate covered pretzels. The shop is dripping in chocolate!

Just to reiterate, I love chocolate thus I go there several times a year and for all the holidays. I never get tired of that feeling of euphoria that I get from Schmidt’s Chocolate Shop.

Ellen

Receding Summer

 

The tinkly- tinkling faded slowly as the sound of the ice cream truck rolled away, children savored their last luscious treat while waving farewell till next summer as its song became faint and the truck disappeared over the hill to warmer climes where children would still be inclined to verbally torture their parents until the necessary funds had been secured, in a timely manner, before these overpriced treats were driven away! Overextended parents were relieved at this parting since they had already vandalized change jars, and harvested the deepest recesses of their chair and couch cushions to purchase pencils and pencil cases, pens, loose- leaf paper, erasers, protractors, compasses and rulers for the new school year and stretched their budgets beyond all recognition, like an over- chewed piece of bubble gum.

This is one of the four seasonal changes, this case being Summer to Fall wherein lazy Summer wants are replaced with sobering Fall needs and the listless, lackadaisical, lethargy of Summer is wiped away like excess ice cream and the silly smiles of summer are replaced with the seriously intense requirements of learning new lessons while recalling the skills of discipline, study, and homework. This is a crucial time to unconsciously prepare for the skills needed for adulthood and the joy of learning new things, renewing old friendships and meeting new teachers. Eating ice cream, playing stick ball and swimming do not fill up a resume effectively or impressively but learning to work together to collectively attain a goal is an important lesson and Summer’s fun can have a positive impact.

Jim- Sept 25’

MUSE

 

Ugh, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve felt that heavy malaise and unease when facing the work that needs to be done. I numb out, lose inspiration, get confused about where to begin, and slip into a strange amnesia where the whole day passes without my accomplishing anything important.

My muse avoids me when I am frozen. She only appears when I show up—at my desk to write, at the sewing machine, or with my watercolor paints spread before me.

It is my job to prove I am ready for her, and when I do, she never fails me.

Georgia

Writing Prompt - 9/25 (by Georgia)

 

I was standing at the East River in Queens waiting for the ferry to go into Manhattan. The water was rushing beneath me and I could hear horns in the distance. 

 

In a blink I was elsewhere-walking through ancient China near a temple. I heard laughter and saw a tea room. Above me was a bird calling out but, in my mind, it was the temple bell. I am both here and there jumping timelines in my imagination by an invisible thread.

Georgia

Fall's Volcano

 

The fiery hues of the leaves,

A Beautiful array of colors in the trees.

The sight does fleet,

As the fallen provide a satisfying crunch 

Under the feet.

 

Enjoy it before you grab the rake,

An ode to the new season,

The sounds they do make.

But alas, the mizzle does enhance 

The rot, decay and break.

 

On the verge of withering away.

Savor the leaves display,

as they crackle on the ground.

Unfortunate, for disposal they are bound. 

Trudie

Crickets: "Love Me, Love Me Not"

 

This is not your usual story about the love people have for crickets. It’s actually a story about people who really come to abhor those noisy, unattractive, grass dwelling little insects.

I believe it was late August when a bunch of family members decided to take a drive to Woodstock, New York to see how Cousin Doris and her husband were enjoying their new home. The house was a decent size and nicely decorated. Grass surrounding the entire house and mountains encircle the entire landscape.

Having had a late start, everyone didn’t get to Doris’ house until dusk. When we got out of the car to stretch our legs, we couldn’t believe our ears! “What is making that ear shattering noise?” asked Gramps. Doris answered, “It’s crickets. The live in the grass and chirp like crazy all night.” “How do you sleep with that noise?” asked Uncle Bill. “Well, I’m getting used to it but most nights, I have to sleep with the windows closed and use a pair of earplugs,” said Doris.

The family was supposed to sleep over three nights but after chirp, chirp, chirp, all through the first night, they made an excuse to their cousin about not being able to stay the next two nights. Before everyone left, Gramps even went as far as asking Cousin Doris if she ever considered investing in a chocolate-covered cricket business to get rid of all those crickets in her grass. Doris thought that was a great idea as crickets are very high in protein and it would clear out her noise problem.

Ellen

Orion's Visit

 

I was as decided as any living mortal could be to travel to the land of the dead, to converse one last time with my father, and let him know what his metered, patient guidance and example had meant to me growing up. To secure my ride in the ferry I made a new oaken pole as a gift for the famous psychopomp Charon and personalized it by carving his name carefully into the surface in Greek to win his favor.

I thought long and hard about how to bribe Cerberus to let me enter Hades alive. I decided to hunt for a stag in the forest near Charon’s Landing where game flourished in the thick, green, cool forest and bring the gift to parlay for my living admission.

Upon reaching the forest I found and tracked the footprints of a large stealthy stag and after a day he showed himself in a clearing, but my foot accidentally snapped a twig and alerted the animal. Instead of running in fear the monster charged me with his antlers pointed forward to crush an impale me simultaneously. I kept calm, controlled my breathing and aimed carefully, pulling back my bow as far as my strength would allow and releasing the arrow at the last minute, which entered the animal's heart, but he continued to charge forward out of pure fury. The beast came to a rest at my feet.

After cleaning the animal, I selected a large primal cut including the loins and ribs and packed it up for my trip to Charon’s ferry landing, leaving the rest behind for the wolves of the forest.

On arrival at the ferry exhausted by my burden I met the ornery old ferryman at the dock.

“Who are you who dares to visit my landing in a living state?” asked Charon.

“I am Orion the Hunter, and I wish to honor you with a new oaken pole with your name inscribed on it and made by my own hands for your invaluable service to the dead. “I bowed to Charon in a show of respect.

“This is a fine pole indeed, and my old one has given me many years of service. Thank you for this gift and in exchange I will ferry you across the river Styx if it is indeed your wish to travel to Hades?” said the old captain.

“Yes, you are welcome, and I will gladly accept your generous offer!” I exclaimed.

So it was set and I took my seat, with my large gift of venison, amongst the dead souls on their final journey. The ride across the Styx was calm and quiet as my fellow

passengers reflected on their lives. Upon arrival Charon helped everyone out of the vessel thanking me again for my gift.

Before me were the enormous black gates of Hades and sitting peacefully before them was the three-headed monster Cerberus reviewing the new admissions as they entered placidly and peacefully. I was the last one in line and when he saw me with the large piece of meat he was intrigued.

“Who are you and why do you come here prematurely?” demanded Cerberus.

“I wish to speak briefly to my father as we were apart at his death, if you will allow me this wish?” I muttered reverently.

Cerberus then asked “Why do you carry this large cut of meat is this to bribe me? asked the three heads simultaneously.

“No Sir it is merely a gift to thank you for guarding my father from danger. I hunted down the stag and butchered it for you in appreciation,” I said respectfully.

“Well, this is highly irregular, but I will accept your offering and let you in but be aware that this is a dangerous place to travel and it is easier to enter than to leave!” growled Cerberus.

I thanked him, leaving the offering at his feet, and with his instructions as to where I might find my father, I continued on my way…

Jim

The Quiet of Fall

 

When the air conditioner comes out of the window, the whole apartment shifts. The hum that filled every corner of summer disappears, and in its place—silence. It’s almost startling. I open the windows and let the air move through. Some days it’s still warm, but other days there’s a cool edge that brushes my skin, reminding me that change is coming.

That coolness feels like a signal, a promise of the crisp air I wait for every year. Fall always feels like my true new year. Not the one on the calendar, but the one my body remembers—because my birthday lives here, in this season. When the leaves begin to let go, so do I. Something in me starts over.

I notice the little things more now: the way the curtains sway with the breeze, the faint smell of woodsmoke, the earlier darkening of the sky. Time slows down, or maybe it simply feels softer. I breathe differently, deeper, as though my lungs recognize the air as something I’ve been waiting for.

In this quiet, I feel reset. The world exhales, and I do too. Fall doesn’t just arrive outside my window—it arrives inside me.

Georgia

Gizmo and Rocky

 

A very long time ago, when my children were still little, a neighbor bought a Pekingese dog. He was all of fifteen pounds, with long taupe hair tipped in brown. His eyes stayed hidden beneath his silky fur unless tied back, giving him the look of a tiny, secretive lion. He waddled everywhere, his short legs carrying him in a gleeful bounce that made us laugh.

That neighbor soon asked us to babysit the dog while he went away. When he returned, he surprised us by saying he no longer wanted the dog. Then he asked if we would take him as a gift. Gee whiz, I thought—this little fellow was a very expensive dog.

I had never owned a dog before, but my children adored him instantly, and he adored them right back. We named him Gizmo. His personality was calm, steady, and sweet, yet he was fiercely protective of all of us. He was, in every sense, a marvelous family dog. Gizmo lived with us for thirteen years, and I cherished every single one of them.

A few years later, we had the good fortune to welcome another puppy—a rottweiler mix we named Rocky. He was black, big-pawed, and irresistibly adorable. At first, I thought caring for him would be as easy as it had been with Gizmo. I quickly learned I was mistaken.

Rocky came to us at just six weeks old, and in those early days he chewed shoes, gnawed on table legs, and left puddles on the floor until his bladder grew mature. But his mischievousness was softened by his sheer cuteness. We loved him fiercely, and he loved us with his whole being.

As Rocky grew, so did his strength. He became powerful—sometimes more than I could easily handle—but he remained loyal and deeply protective. He did not take kindly to strange men and was wary of children outside our family, but his devotion to me and my kids was unshakable. Anyone who dared threaten us would have faced his wrath. He lived almost nine years before passing, and losing him broke our hearts all over again.

Both Gizmo and Rocky left pawprints on our lives that can never be erased. 

Georgia