Online Journal
How to Draw by Mya Smith
Start with a blank sheet of paper.
Make sure to grab a few from your grandfather’s printer.
The ones that have streaks of ash and smell like
The nicotine in the cigarettes he leaves between his yellow-stained fingers.
Look for a pencil and its wife, the sharpener, in the junk drawer full of note cards,
Dried out markers, and the cat-like staple remover you like to play with.
And don’t forget, the most important step when taking time to draw,
Find a quiet place.
A quiet place to empty the ever-consuming thoughts about
how your mother and father can’t communicate without using
you as the rope in their game of tug of war or
about how your grandmother can love and hurt you at the same time.
How about the cat you had when you were 12? You miss him, right?
The feel of his fur, draw that. Remember the features of his face,
How his black, brown and gray coat looked when you cradled him in your arms.
How you watched the ghost in his empty bed next to the cold fireplace.
You like drawing cats. What about lizards? Draw Tibbles.
A spiked, chubby bearded dragon that produces joy with a touch.
Draw his large, triangular head with scales that feel refined and silky like petals
And his shortened, stubbed tail from that surgery he had 2 years ago.
What about the second one? Remember Nugget?
Draw her frail yellow body dragging itself forward, trembling with each step.
A body with hard, rough, spiky scales from years of neglect and abuse.
Don’t forget her eye that went blind or the knot on her knee from MBD.
Imagine the silence of dying alone –
trapped behind glass, lungs slowly collapsing. Draw that.
Draw the tears that are streaming down your face in your dad’s car.
Draw the gaping hole you have for a mouth as you scream her name
Into nothing but the hum of the engine and the dashcam tuning in.
Stop drawing before you ruin it.
Or keep going until you do.
Stop waiting for it to be perfect.
Now do it again. About the Author
Piggly Wiggly by Itsa Testthing
It was one of those easy, perfect days. The water had changed with the angle of the sun from steel to turquoise, as if the ocean wanted to relax like everyone scattered along the beach. Umbrellas and towels were seeded across the sands, sprouting bundles and books that may or may not be read. Ongoing naps were serious, and a pelican skimmed the surface of the water. In the distance a volleyball game was in progress. Everything was imbued with the overhanging feeling that nothing needed to happen. And relaxed meant lax; meant purses, wallets, jewelry, even the occasional iPod or laptop rested carelessly on beach towels.
It was their home beach and they planned to work it the next day. “Look at that;” Brolin said, “look at the way everybody’s dressed. And that glorious vista. Supernatural is a redundant word, don’t you think? Nature is already super.”
“People dress for fashion not sense,” Rachel said. Her voice was taller than her. “They dressed all bright. They need that on dark days, so cars don’t hit them. They don’t need bright clothes today.” Her words meant nothing; she was eight when her mother brought her from Vietnam, and she liked bright red. It was always easier for her to point out disagreements.
Looking at her, Brolin drew a slow breath that slowly morphed into a smile. “The beauty of the world moves me profoundly somedays,” he winked, “especially when opportunity knocks.
“Be here by lunch, and don’t be late.”