BEETHOVEN’S TRIFLE
by Elizabeth Reed

Hold my empty lungs. Inhale on the flimsy upbeat, the springboard to the first breathy and flowing phrase of Beethoven’s Bagatelle in g minor, minor as in melancholy, as in the gauzy curtain of flats and sharps that hovers above the black and white keys, not minor as in insignificant, secondary, or even tertiary, not as in little artefact, a waved-off expression of gratitude, not a trifle, which is the actual meaning of Bagatelle.

 

 

Upon Being Asked “Who Do You Like?” in 8th Grade Math Class
by Deanna Baringer 
art contributed by author

Funny you should ask. I just want what everyone wants: to
befriend a crow who will follow me always. I’m like you; we all pry
pretty stones out of the dirt. Don’t you think I’m doing a good job
of making this look like that? When you turn to me and open your
mouth, it’s a swarm of bees. You may not have noticed, but a nest
of squirrels lives in my throat, and I should tell you: they mostly
sleep and are otherwise badly behaved. Chittering mutiny. The
small one would like to come live with you, if you have room in
your closet: an empty shoebox, a spot in your hive. Maybe you
could teach it how to dance.

 

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Elizabeth Reed is a writer, musician, activist and traveler. She is writing a memoir about surviving leech attacks in Sumatra, trekking in West Papua, and other adventures in marriage and parenting.

 

Deanna Baringer lives in Pittsburgh, PA. Her work can be found in Bending Genres, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, FEED, and elsewhere.