Art Issue #7: Mental Health April 15, 2021 Artist’s Statement by David Martinez Cover Image: Bipolarations by David Martinez The Blue by David Martinez Fearful Grinning Man by David Martinez Self-Portrait by David Martinez David Martinez is Please See Me's Creative Nonfiction Mental Health Awareness Writing Contest winner. His bio can be found here, along with his artwork. His Artist's Statement is contained within the reading.
Read MoreArt Issue #7: Mental Health April 15, 2021 Artist’s Statement by Alan Bern A Person Without A Cap his photo was taken in summer 2020 in Pleasant Hill, California, on the Contra Costa Canal Trail, near an old friend’s house. I photographed with an iPhone 8 Plus back dual camera 3.99mm f/1.8 as I tried to keep away from the unmasked walkers on the trail. Without the necessity of believing in ghosts—although I am not opposed ...
Read MoreArt Issue #7: Mental Health April 15, 2021 Artist’s Statement by Jana Hunterova Prague Under the Mask, Prague, 2020 his photo represents the daily lives of inhabitants during a pandemic in a form of a photo diary. Despite fears of infection and in accordance with all anti-coronavirus measures, we experience our daily rituals, personal and civic defiance as well as human solidarity. For me, photography and experimental films are the creative means of self-expression. Through the expressive ...
Read MoreFiction Issue #7: Mental Health April 15, 2021 When We Meet Again by Oreoluwa Oladimeji bigail is no stranger to the things one’s hands can do. She slices through a piece of onion with the precision of one who knows the workings of a knife, wielding it with extra firmness, and approaching her task with unnecessary carefulness, forgetting that she isn’t hovering over someone’s head, their brain to be precise, and angling her scalpel in ...
Read MoreFiction Issue #7: Mental Health April 15, 2021 The Gravity of Adrianne Lane by Rhonda Zimlich drianne needed to feel her body. She used scissors this time, a half pair, separated at its pivot point and missing its twin. Adrianne thought the remaining half looked like the head of a heron with no lower beak, the ring topped with a finger tang like a blue crown of feathers. The edge felt dull on her fingertip as ...
Read MoreFiction Issue #7: Mental Health April 15, 2021 Mrs. Mulvaney by Pat Dotson ong shadows cast from the evening sun spilled through a large picture window. The wall opposite the window was filled with faint images of life beyond the room, beyond the glass window, and beyond the home that harvested those who can no longer function on their own. Gloria mindlessly watched silhouettes of leaves dance to the slow, irregular rhythm of Mrs. Mulvaney’s ...
Read MoreFiction Issue #7: Mental Health April 15, 2021 The Daily News Blues by Phyllisa Deroze hen her eyes opened, she stretched her right arm across her full bosom toward the midnight-blue nightstand in search of her insulin pump, but it was not there. She pulled gently on the tubing until the device appeared from under the pillow. She gave the power button one short press and “117” lit on the display in green. Her fasting ...
Read MoreFiction Issue #7: Mental Health April 15, 2021 An Experiment in Democracy by Danny M. Hoey Jr. Sleep on your side, they said. Warm fluids. Shape your hands like a cup and beat your back, if you can reach—if not, pray…. A heavy paw sits on your chest…. Look down at your toes—they now have eyes with gold flecks that wink at you—when did my toes grow eyes: COVID toes is what they told ...
Read MoreFiction Issue #7: Mental Health April 15, 2021 One Day You'll Be Grateful by Danielle Ramaekers he silence in the waiting area was stifling. Amy peered down the short hallway to her right then back towards the clinic’s front door on her left, where a shadowy figure had appeared behind the frosted glass. The door opened with a soft swish. A tall, thin man in a blue checked shirt and tan pants walked into the ...
Read MoreFiction Issue #7: Mental Health April 15, 2021 Ode to the Odds by Meg Granger wo rows of opposing chairs—we shift, unable to find a width of cushion on wine-colored vinyl. The vinyl itself is all cracked up. Like veins where it is broken. Like thin little white veins. Thoroughly drained, empty. We face forward: mothers, fathers, husbands or ex-husbands, wives, ex-wives, uncles, aunts, grandparents, siblings, sons, daughters, and a baby in a carrier with sweet, black curls. A woman, who ...
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