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Collage Art by Sasha Saben Callaghan

Image 1 – “Blood Brothers”

A man in Victorian dress, and with metal prosthetic arms, sits against a background of tropical vegetation and flowers. Beside him is a tiger. They both have similar challenging expressions on their faces. There are phrases which frame the central image – ‘dare to live,’ ‘speak the truth,’ ‘dare to love,’ ‘live without fear.’

 

Image 2 – “Dollface”

The porcelain head of a doll stands out from a black background. The face is covered in tiny cracks and the top of the head is broken, revealing Victorian scrap paper and flowers inside. One of the doll’s eyes is ringed with pearls. It wears drop earrings and a choker decorated with a gold key.

 

Image 3 – “Lungs”

A young woman, naked from the waist up, sits with her back to the viewer. Anatomical markings have been drawn on her skin. Her lungs are depicted by layers of red, pink, and peach flowers. She has a ruby and gold bow in her hair and a flower growing at the base of her spine.

 

Image 4 – “The Anatomy Lesson”

A skeletal torso on a black background. The bones are decorated with pink and lilac flowers, gemstones, shells, and butterflies.

 

Image 5 – “The Lovers”

Two young women, one Albino and one with fair hair, sit together. They both wear Victorian costume and have flowers and jewels in their hair and on their dresses. Between them is a gold hourglass and a golden apple with a blemished centre. Hanging above them is a gold astrolabe. To the left of the frame is a black rat and to the right of the frame is a gold compass in a bright yellow case.

 

Artist’s Statement

As a disabled artist, my aim is to bring vivid and strange imaginings to life.

Recently, I have been using a blend of collage and photomontage to create surreal artwork that encourages the viewer to think about difference and see beauty beyond the mainstream.

Each piece is constructed to challenge assumptions of ‘reality’ and convention.

 

 

Sasha Saben Callaghan is a writer and digital artist, living on the east coast of Scotland. She was a winner of the 2016 ‘A Public Space’ Emerging Writer Fellowship and the 2019 Pen to Paper Awards. She was also longlisted for Penguin/Random House WriteNowLive 2018. Her poetry and short stories have been published in a wide range of magazines and journals including Ambit, La Lanterne Rouge and 404 Ink. Her illustrations have featured in three nation/international art shows during 2019. Sasha’s lived experience of disability and impairment is a major influence on her work. You can follow her on Twitter and Instagram.

“Please Pay at the Reception Desk on Your Way Out” by Constance Bourg

Listen to Constance Bourg read her poem, “Please Pay at the Reception Desk on Your Way Out”

 

No one is saying that your illness is in your mind.
You may well find yourself having all sorts
of physical symptoms. But our tests are the source

that we base our opinion on. They are the best
of what we have to offer. They should put your mind at rest.
The small anomalies are meaningless. I’d like to proffer,

that any serious illness would leave a trace behind. But
we haven’t found anything. You should be reassured
that your test results are so good. Nevertheless,

we would like to recommend a treatment of exercise and therapy;
you must avoid becoming deconditioned and depressed.
This has been proven helpful in some cases. No,

we are not familiar with the studies you are citing. We have our own
evidence that we base our recommendations on. We don’t know about any fudging
of facts, nor of this new research, except that they have found nothing.

I’m afraid we can’t help you any more than we have. Why don’t you just go
for a walk in the sunshine. Let us know if there’s anything else; come back
another time—my assistant will take your payment.

 

 

Constance Bourg lives in the Flemish part of Belgium, where she volunteers at her local library and social food market. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Frogpond, Haibun Today, Plath Poetry Project, and an anthology of poems about illness by Emma Press. She always says that she lives a “part-time life” because of a chronic illness called ME/CFS.

“A Peeling Back” by Cassia Hameline

Listen to Cassia Hameline read “A Peeling Back.”

 

As a kid, I spent my summers at my grandparents’ lake house. I remember how the oak trees outside had overgrown so much that when the wind blew, they’d scratch against the windows like nails. When it was raining or too cold to swim, I would stay inside and watch reruns of the Rugrats. Quiet screeches of twigs against glass interspersed throughout episodes. From the kitchen, my grandmother made lunch; bowls of cartoon-shaped macaroni, fake orange cheese poured from a box. Once, she’d brought out a bowl of white cheddar noodles, flakes of parsley sprinkled on top and, disappointed, I refused to eat. She set the bowl down, walked away without a word. In the windows’ reflection, I watched her dig in her purse, pull out a small box, peel back its plastic. One click of the lighter, a small red flame. Looking back, I watched her inhale, then out; an emptying.

 

Sometimes I pick my fingers until they bleed; a bad habit borrowed from my mother. I used to watch her after she’d gotten home late and worn out from work through sidelong glances. Figure skating or Food Network playing on the television, dinner plates in our laps. I’d see her peeling thin strips of sun-spotted skin from piano fingers, mindless. I remember cringing each time she’d successfully pulled off a string of flesh, the blood seeping from her new wound a deep crimson, stark against pale white skin. Sick to my stomach, I’d mutter from my corner of the couch, as she placed a piece of herself on the red wooden chest before us. My four weak words, then silence but for the sound of skates on ice from the television. She wouldn’t look at me, and I not at her; we both saw what she was doing.

 

My aunt stood, legs crossed at the ankles, beside the fridge. A picture of her late husband framed in glass and white wood on its door. I glanced at my uncle distractedly as she explained her new diet. I nodded, mhmm-ed; small bits of encouragement. Her phone beeped three times from the corner. She opened the fridge, reached inside. Every day at eleven, she’d peel shiny red wrapper from a small wedge of cheese, pop the creamy white circle, whole, into her mouth. Six small snacks a day, she said between bites. Another diet; trying to shed the parts of herself she wasn’t happy with.

 

Measured ticks of a white wall clock fill the bare-bones room, the only other sound my own breathing. I try to keep in beat with the ticking but lose track with a knock on the door, my doctor walking in. He measures my height, dwindling weight, abnormally slow pulse, then hands me a folded paper sheet. I wait for the door to click shut behind him before unfolding it. This, my skin, the walls, his coat, everything white. I peel off my clothes, stand naked and cold beneath the gown; or what’s left of me.

 

 

Cassia Hameline is a current PhD student in creative nonfiction at the University of North Texas. Her work has been published by, or is forthcoming in, The Fix, Cosmonauts, Utterance Journal and elsewhere. She lives in Denton, TX, where you can usually find her in the woods with her dog, Moab. You can follow her on Twitter @CassiaHameline.

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