• 1838- First women's anti-slavery conference, Philadelphia
• 1925- Birth of Malcolm X.

Attention: Artists with a flare for spontaneous creation.

Theme will be announced on June 7th @ midnight, and contestants have 24-Hours to create, and submit their artwork, electronically, by June 8th @ midnight. Art must be original and created in the 24-hours time limit. Poetry, photography, and digital art are recommended, but other media will be considered, including movie and sound files. Please see www.razee.com for more details. All artwork will appear in the new and improved Electronic Quiver quarterly electronic and printed magazine, to be published on June 21st, 2003.

 So this is the part of the newsletter where I sit down and write some sort of nonsense, hoping to impress you with shiny words and literary magic tricks. Instead, I would like to take a moment to thank all of the people that have contributed to making this newsletter into a reality. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Visual Orphans would not be possible, if it were not for the kindness and support of the Razee Ink members. Please keep reading, and by all means, feel free to contribute to the content of these Visual Orphans. I am looking forward to hearing from you. In this week's issue, we are introduced to a new voice to the Orphans' Choir, Patticakes, who brings us a story about Beauty, and Sister Eye Ride returns with a poetic discussion on semantics. Both writers have immense talent, and I hope that you are as impressed with their contributions, as I am. Here we are, until now is then.

Sisters

Agnes stands at the kitchen window admiring the flower garden she and her daughter planted. They worked hard pulling up the sod, tilling the soil, and arranging the plants. Agnes did her best, but her bad knee kept her from a lot of the work. The flowers were in full bloom and their colors were spectacular: begonias, mums, snaps, tiger lilies, tulips, and best of all, the lilac. Its scent was intoxicating. The warm humid air intensified the wonderful perfume. She glanced at the windowsill at another picture she dug out of the attic. The corners are frayed and a jagged crease cuts through the waists of the two figures standing in front of a Model T. It was taken on the farm in Greenville when she was sixteen. She wears her older brother's wool knickers, dress shirt, tie, and her father's pork-pie hat, cocked at a sharp angle across her ear. Much more scandalous is the cigarette poised next to her puckered lips. Standing next to her, Agnes' arm around her waist, is her older sister, Pick. Her face is turned away from the camera. She looks uncomfortable standing next to her tomboy sister. The dark maple frame goes well with the picture.

Joe, her husband, sat at the table reading Monday morning's paper. "Agnes, is everything okay?"
"Yes, everything's fine. I was just thinking the lawn needs to be mowed."

She busied herself with getting breakfast ready: putting the pan on the stove, getting out the butter, bacon, eggs, and placing bread in the toaster. Rummaging through the silverware drawer, she asked Joe, "where's the spatula? Why can't anyone put things away where they belong?"

"It's right in front of you on the counter. Do you need help with breakfast?"

"Joe, have I ever needed help cooking?" she snapped at him.

He went back to reading the paper. What was wrong with everyone? she thought. You'd think I was an invalid. The gift from her daughter proved it. Just last week, Suzy had given her a fine oak cane with an elephant head carved on top. Agnes nearly lost her temper, wanting so much to throw it out the window. Suzy stormed out of the house before Agnes was finished berating the ugly stick.

She dropped two eggs into the cast iron skillet. They crackled and spat in the hot oil.

"By the way, the tailor called yesterday and said your suit is ready," she said.

"I'll pick it up tomorrow. I wonder if Dick was able to get the bar."

Saturday would be their Sixtieth anniversary. Their son Dick was hosting a party at his bar in Cannonsburg. Agnes wasn't looking forward to it, not that she didn't think their anniversary mattered. She loved Joe and needed him around now more than ever. It was just that, after a while, you stop counting things like anniversaries, birthdays, grand children, great grand children, and how many friends you lost so far this year. Counting only reminded her how old she was and how little time was left. And besides, since all of her friends were either dead or living in Florida, she didn't know who to invite to the party. At least she had something to wear. She'd found a nice powder blue dress at Sears and Coon for real cheap. She especially liked the pleats in the skirt, which the sales clerk said made her look thinner.

"Are you going to see Pick today?" Joe asked, placing the paper down.

"We'll see. I'm kind of tired." She scooped the eggs out of the pan-one over-easy for her, one sunny-side up for him-placed the hot bacon on a paper towel, and buttered the toast.
Agnes' older sister, Pick, suffered a mild stroke the other day and was recovering at St. Mary's hospital. She wasn't sure she wanted to see Pick. Agnes and her older sister never got along, especially when they were growing up. Agnes preferred climbing trees and wearing her brother's pants, where Pick played with dolls and never wore anything except dresses. Pick was beautiful, Agnes handsome. Agnes was the smart one and should have gone to school, but her parents could only afford to send one daughter. Rather than basing their decision on merit, they based it on birth. Agnes was furious, especially when she found out that Pick didn't even like school.

"Did we win the lottery?" she asked Joe.

He ruffled through the paper until he came to the front page. "Nope. Not today."

She'd been playing the same six numbers for the past five years. They were bound to win at some point. She chose the numbers so carefully. Thirty-eight was the year she and Joe were married. When Joe punched the first priest in the face, Agnes didn't think they were going to be able to get married. But when they did find another priest, the moment turned out to be the happiest of her life. Twelve was the year her parents emigrated from Hungary. Tom was eighteen when the government sent him to Vietnam to be killed. Joe didn't believe it could be such a lucky number, but she insisted it was. Forty-seven was when they finally left the city and bought the house on Silver Lake where they'd lived ever since. She chose seven because it was her lucky number and twenty-two was her secret number. She wouldn't even tell Joe what it meant, feeling that having a secret number was the key to winning the jackpot.

"Maybe it's time to find some new numbers," said Joe.

"You know I can't do that. It's bad luck."

They would win someday. Agnes was tired of being poor. Even a little money would make things easier: to pay for the property taxes, utilities, food bill, and enough to eat out a night or two a week would make up for her high blood pressure, bad heart, and hip.
Pick had never had to worry about money, as long as she remained married to it. Her first and second husbands were independently wealthy and subsidized her lavish and massive wardrobe. The secretarial skills she learned from the vocational school were never put to use. Her third husband, who had died in a car accident, left her with enough money to last more than the rest of her life.

She put the food on their plates and brought them to the table. Joe and Agnes ate in silence. Afterward, Joe cleaned the kitchen while Agnes sat in the backyard admiring the flower garden she and her daughter planted. She thought about Pick. Agnes and her sister were the only ones left. All their other siblings had passed on and the farm in Greenville would soon be a Wal-mart. Agnes thought about how maybe she's wear her brand new powder blue dress when she went to see Pick.