“The work is a mixed media, digital collage of vintage photography juxtaposed with fractals. The art was inspired into creation by heading to my day job way too early and seeing the rays of the Sun illuminate the clouds so vividly, while all the stars were still watching.”
Mirjana M. is a digital artist and writer from Belgrade, Serbia. Their work focuses on exploring the digital juxtaposition of various elements through mixed media of photography, double exposure, textures and light. Instagram: @cyanide_cherries & X: @selena_oloriel http://Olorielmoonshadow.wordpress.com
The Warped Jigsaw Piece Fiction by Marie-Louise McGuinness
At 9, you were a star-sprite called Starina, plucked from your celestial home to sit squashed on a life-drenched sofa in an Irish semi-detached.
You were aware that she was a figment of your imagination, but for weeks, you allowed the idea of her to inhabit your bones, to stretch her icy fog tendrils throughout your body, and you allowed her to use your voice which flowed much smoother through her than you.
Starina was authentic and you were not, she could speak the truth you couldn’t -There was something wrong with you.
In the puzzle of your family, you were the warped jigsaw piece or the dog-chewed stickle brick, never quite fitting, no matter the pressure. As they gathered in the fire-warmed comfort of the living room, you felt pushed out by the cacophony of family life that clawed at your ears and burrowed a buzzing soundtrack deep into your brain. On the sofa, the encroaching bodies of your siblings ate painfully into your personal space, burning invisible bruises within your flesh and the stagnant air, scented with dusky coal and warm breath stifled your ability to breathe.
Although you needed space, you didn’t want to be alone, you hated feeling lonely. On your own, dark shadows bore weight that spurred cold ripples of anxiety to clamber in waves up your spine and into the waxy skin of your scalp. So, you would spin, round and around, blurring the edges of the objects around you to make them softer, less angry. The ticking rhythm was calming, for as you turned, your body felt natural, fluid and for that moment, not feigned.
Outside, you would hover on the edges of friend groups, smiling, nodding and trying not to take offence when the other girls made jokes you didn’t get, or when you'd find there had been a party you hadn’t been invited to. When all the children played ‘Kick the Can’ or ‘What Time is it, Mr Wolf?’ in the dry summer evenings, you would take a spot on a squat wall nearby and read a book, hoping that they’d ask you to play, but also deathly afraid that they would.
You were the satellite, at a distance, but eager to be visible in your glowing dress, so sweet and creamy it tasted like Spelga peach yoghurt.
With time and expectation, Starina drifted back into the ether, and it was just you again, perpetually uncomfortable and with your voice choked dry within your throat.
Throughout your youth, you were an amalgamation of the characters from ‘Breakfast Club’; The Basket Case, The Pushover, The Princess and The Brain.
Until, at 32, you were ‘The Criminal’ solely to blame for the strife of your children. You spilled your love into them but doubted love could flow freely from your imperfect jug, your cracks dark and visible beneath an insubstantial glaze of normal.
You were the ‘Refrigerator Mother’ with iced edges who could not depart enough warmth to soothe the cries of your children, to aid their sleep or use their voice. You focused on the unripe bananas, the uncooked eggs and the epidurals that didn’t work, you blamed yourself for the fact that you had lost too much blood to produce milk and that you chose to give them vaccines to stop them getting sick.
But at 40, with the education available now, you finally know who you are.
You are the understanding Mother to children with alien passports, the guide who has navigated this world before. You listen when your son speaks of his new world, one littered with zeros and ones, and as your daughter spins around, her little hands flapping like wings fit for flight, you spin too, until you both fall giggling to the floor, relaxed. In your living room, the Neurotypical, the Star-sprite, the Alien and the little deaf Bird, fit together in a 4D puzzle that tastes pretty sweet.
Marie-Louise McGuinness comes from a wonderfully neurodiverse household in rural Northern Ireland. She has work published or forthcoming in numerous literary magazines including Flash Frog, Milk Candy Review, Gone Lawn, Bending Genres and Splonk. She enjoys writing from a sensory perspective. X: @mlmcguinness