Henry the VIII beheaded his wives, and here is where he kept them. Their heads were bejeweled with clusters of pearls nestled among their curls. He thought he had quieted them, each in their box, but each nightfall they chattered and shattered his rest. So he sold the box to a museum. The curator placed the box in the left wing. People went by to see it, and the heads told them stories of their deaths. Young and old alike were scared to the core, and a petition was made to do away with Henry the VIII. Each head was placed on a staff, and the crowd marched them at the castle gate. The heads shouted, 'Away with him!,' as he watched from a window. The King reached in his wooden music chest, took out one of his 47 recorders, and began to play a song he wrote for his wives, in order to quiet the crowd. The wives sang along with the song, the staff carriers did dance, and a merry rhythm was made with the clicking of pearls about the wives' heads. And here are some words from his now famous tune: 'Company, good company, I love and shall until I die.' And, twill be soon, the heads did cry. Shaking his fist the King turned to the left, shouting, 'I'm Henry the VIII I am I am!' Then he dropped out of sight quite dead. His death was mysterious to all who beheld his fall. The crowd processed back to the museum. Each head returned in peace to its place. And there they are to this very day.

Authors' Statements

Ginny Hertzenberg

Ginny holds a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Anthropology from the University of Delaware. She is a wife and mother of two children. As part of her church activities she visits shut-ins regularly and has entertained at banquets with singing and playing her autoharp. Art and storytelling have always been important to her. As a child, Ginny's parents nightly read the classic children's stories to her. She would study the artwork in the books and dream of being part of the story herself. As an adult she read to her own children, encouraging them to imagine their own stories. She has visited countless art museums throughout the country and Europe and was delighted to write a story for the Delaware Art Museum.

Judith A. Lesnaw

Judith holds a Ph.D. in Biology from the University of Illinois in Champaign/Urbana. She is Professor of Biology at the University of Kentucky in Lexington KY where she does research on viruses, and teaches virology to freshmen, seniors, and graduate Students. She is a strong advocate of interdisciplinarity, and enriches her virology lectures with art, music and history. She studies alto recorder, and is an enthusiastic supporter of the Center for Old Music in the New World that is based in Lexington KY. She enjoyed co-authoring with her sister, Ginny, a story for the Delaware Art Museum's exciting Art of Storytelling project. "Queen's Closet" inspired an integration of art and mystery with the history and music of Henry VIII.

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Okay, guys, I have good news and bad news.  Which do you want first?  Right.  Before I give you the bad news, I want you to understand that it's not my fault.  There was a mistake at the factory and they promise me that the people responsible have been located and handed their walking papers.  That's not going to change our situation, if you know what I mean, which you probably don't because I haven't explained the problem.  The challenge.  But here it is.    Wonderful show earlier, by the way.  You had the audience eating  out of your hands.  Best performances of your professional  lives.  You don't have to thank me, of course, but at least you could smile.  Smile?  Anyway, where was I?  Oh, yes, the mix-up at the factory.  Somebody made an honest mistake.  Somebody else didn't catch it.  And then, somehow, the checks and balances of quality control  failed.  It happens.  Unfortunately, it happened to us.  Specifically, you two.  This isn't easy.  Believe me, I wish I were here to announce that you were both getting raises, but I'm not.  On the other, job security is always good and you two are  fantastic clowns.  Did I mention your earlier performance?  I guess I did.  To make a long story short, they messed up the formula.  The white foundation you're wearing?  It's permanent.  You might have noticed that it was difficult to remove.  Actually, it's impossible to remove. That's the bad news.  The good news, however, is that you guys look great in white.

Author's Statement

The art that most moves me is the art that seems captured mid-motion. I look and see not only a frozen moment, but understand how the subject differed a second ago, and how the subject will differ a second from now. That sense of movement creates a story arc, or at least allows me to imagine my own. These stories I've contributed are not the first I've written in response to specific works of art. Feel free to visit www.stephendrogers.com if you'd like to learn more about my writing.

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The Crying Giant by Tom Otterness

A giant cried today.  He sat down, put his head in his hands, and cried. He cried for things he wished he'd done, but didn't do, words he said he didn't mean to say.  He cried for fear, and cried for anger.  He cried for all things lost, and sorely missed, for people who hurt, and people who cried themselves.  A giant is a big creature, more than you, more than me.  So his heart is bigger too.  And this giant's colossal heart was filled with sadness, heavy and tired.  And as this giant cried, for good things that went wrong, and wrong things that went right, for things forgotten, but still felt, for dreams that didn't come true, for rain when the sun wanted to shine, and tears when laughter wanted to be heard, for people with something to say, who went unnoticed, and a world that wanted to change, each tear that fell to the grassy ground made his eyes a little clearer, his heart a little lighter.  Yet still he cried.  And as this giant cried, the world around him began to change.  The sun was brighter, the sky was bluer, the grass was greener, the air felt cleaner.  People everywhere were smiling.  Eyes twinkled, laughter sounded clear and loud.  It seemed that as the giant cried, for things others wanted to cry about, but didn't, the world became a little better.  But the giant, with his head in his hands, did not see what was happening around him.  So still he cried.  And how could a creature change the world so?  There is a simple reason.  Nothing's so big as a giant crying.

Author's Statement

Emerson Marine is a 12 year old who attends seventh grade at an Arts' School in Wilmington, Delaware, with Communication Arts as her major, and Vocal as her minor. She has been awarded 1st place in the DuPont Company's Martin Luther King Jr. Convocation art contest, and has participated in the University of Delaware's Festival of Words, winning 1st place in their writing competition. Emerson has also performed with OperaDelaware in The Enormous Egg, The Hobbit, and The Magic Flute. She is a volunteer at Hagley Museum, participating in their Creek Kids program. Emerson's favorite authors are J.K. Rowling, J.R.R. Tolkien, Alice Hoffman and Cornelia Funke. Her favorite movie is Harvey with Jimmy Stewart and she is a huge fan of Alfred Hitchcock, Tim Burton and M. Night Shyamalan films. Her other interests include film, photography, piano, knitting, and swimming.

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When The Bird Jar disappeared from the museum, nobody could find a clue to how or by whom it had been stolen; nor did anyone know the legend that only its creator and former owners had known.  If anyone removed it from its appointed place or dared to use it for ill gotten gains, the culprit who did so would experience irreparable harm.  The thief had hustled it to his brownstone whose high ceilings and heavily draped rooms were decorated with stolen works of art.  He placed the jar on top of the fireplace mantle in front of a huge gilt mirror.  Each night he sat beside a roaring fire, a glass of sherry in his hand, a pipe in his mouth, and admired his latest acquisition.  It glowed in the vermilion light and the thief thought it had never stood in a spot that did as much justice to its eerie beauty.  The next day he noticed that The Bird Jar seemed to have moved a few inches from where he had placed it.  He asked his maid who had been forbidden to touch it if she had moved it.  No Sir, I dare not touch such a frightening object.  Why, Sir, if you don't mind my saying, I believe it is cursed.  A few days later, he developed a sore throat; he could barely speak.  Either he repeated Who who who or raspy squawks.  Then he began to sip air raggedly.  When he looked into the mirror, he noticed his Roman nose seemed to be expanding, flattening and turning a mustard color.  Soon after he noticed the top of the bird jar had been removed from its base and sat leering at him from the corner of the mantle.  I will fire that maid if she touches this jar again, he said to himself.  Oh dear I am not feeling well, he thought, perhaps my mind is playing tricks on me.  I must rest more.  After a night filled with dreams of swooping owls and venomous vultures he arose the next morning, slipped his feet into his leather loafers but they didn't fit.  When he looked down he saw his toes had webs between them and had turned into claws.  He removed his silk pajamas only to discover his arms were covered with hair resembling feathers.  Then he flapped into the parlor to discover The Bird Jar was gone.  He spun about but it was nowhere to be seen.  And suddenly a strong wind swept him off his feet and planted him in the very spot in front of the gilded mirror where it had stood, his claws gripping the mantle, his beady eyes black and sad.  His elegant body had shrunk to the size of The Bird Jar.  To this day, nobody knows by whom or how the The Bird Jar returned to its appointed spot in the museum  where it still stands for all future generations to admire.

Author's Statement

Liz Dolan, a former English teacher and administrator, is most proud of the alternative school she ran in the Bronx and her eight grandchildren who live on the next block in Rehoboth Beach. She has published poems, memoir and short stories in Philadelphia Stories, New Delta Review, Rattle, Natural Bridge, Illuminations, Harpweaver, Mudlark, Bardsong, Windhover and numerous other journals. A 2005 Pushcart Prize nominee in fiction, she has also received an honorable mention for best poem of the year in Gin Bender Literary Review, 2004 and placed third in the Pure Sea Glass poetry contest,2005. She is one of eight DE poets recently chosen for the master's level retreat with Fleda Brown, DE Poet Laureate. A recipient of a fellowship in poetry and grants from the Delaware Division of the Arts, she has also been selected as an associate artist in residence with poet Sharon Olds, 2006. Recently she was recruited for the board of Philadelphia Stories.

Marooned. Lost. Stranded. The words repeated over and over again in Tom Robinn's head as he lay on the sandy beach of the deserted island. He sat up and watched the waves roll up and down the shore. A seagull flew above him. It squawked, almost laughing at him. Tom threw a handful of sand at it. It squawked again and flew away over the ocean. Tom got up and staggered over to a lone palm tree, out of the scorching sun. He sat down leaning against the trunk. He looked up and sighed when he saw a cluster of coconuts hanging from the tree. 'I remember when the captain docked the ship in Jamaica for repair. Joe cracked a dozen coconuts over his head for all of us. He was so funny.' Tom sighed again. Joe, his shipmate, was gone. Captain Taylor was gone. The whole crew was gone. This ship was gone. Disease. Sailor's Cough, as Tom and the other pirates called it, had killed everyone on the Black Diamond. Everyone, except Tom. 'And now I'm stuck here,' Tom thought. 'I'm stuck here with no food, water, or company.' Tom moaned and complained most of the afternoon, as he collected driftwood and vines. When it was nearly dark, Tom sat down by the palm tree and quickly fell asleep. That night he had horrible nightmares about everyone on the Black Diamond dropping over dead and the ship crashing near the island. He saw himself swimming toward the island, starving there, and then dying. Tom woke up the next morning with cold water rolling toward his feet. 'High tide' he thought. Tom sat up and crawled to his small pile of driftwood and tangled vines. He tried to think of how he could use them to get off the island. 'If I could get enough drfitwood, I might be able to put it together to make a small raft' Tom thought. 'But I'm so hungry. Maybe I could make a spear and get a few fish. No, I'd need more driftwood to make a fire and cook the fish. Tom lay down in the sand and sighed. 'Even if I could find enough wood to make a raft, he thought, I still couldn't get anywhere, I don't know where I am. I have no map.' The starving pirate thought for a moment longer. He decided to make a spear. He used a long, thin piece of wood and tied his pocketknife to the end with a small vine. Tom had a feast that night, with crab, clams, and lots of fish. He slept peacefully, knowing that he could last a while longer on the island now that he could find food. No one knows what happened to Tom. Maybe he died from lack of fresh water. Perhaps the Royal Navy rescued him. Perchance, he built a raft and sailed away. Possibly, Tom is still on the island. Stranded. Lost. Marooned.

Author's Statement

My name is Caitlin Waring. I live in Pen Argyl, Pennsylvania and I am twelve years old. I am a seventh grader at Wind Gap Middle School. I have a yellow lab/beagle mix named Tucker and a red-eared turtle named Roger. I have enjoyed writing since I was little. I like writing fictional stories and stories about animals. In addition to writing about Marooned, I have recently written an animal mystery and a historical fiction account of my great great grandfather's journey from Italy to America. In my spare time, I enjoy writing stories, hanging out with my friends, and reading. I am currently reading the Pendragon series by D.J. MacHale.

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INTRODUCTION: Often an artist gets her inspiration from something in her imagination, but sometimes, she simply `finds' an object  on the street and that starts her to thinking and creating.  This sculptor found a movie theater in a big city as it was being demolished and the big metal letters on its sign were lying on the ground.  So she asked if she could have those letters, which bore the name of the theater, the RIALTO.  And from them she formed this sculpture named RIOT. 

THE STORY: 'Neigh,' Riot sniffed gently in the wind and shook his imaginary mane.  'Neigh,' he said again.  His sturdy legs, weathered by the elements, pawed at the ground as he waited.  Someone was coming; he could feel it.  Maybe it was Her.  As he glanced over his shoulder at the large R on his back, he thought again of the rest of his letters.  How he missed them!  Oh sure, the I and the O and the T were there, enmeshed in the curves of his body, but where were the rest?  He felt like there was something missing in his life and could only remember in the fuzziest way what it might be.  He did remember light bulbs, flashing on and off, but that was about it, except that every once in awhile he seemed to hear laughter of people as they walked by.  Sometimes there were people blowing their noses in their handkerchiefs too, as if they had just had a good cry.  He knew he had not always been in this meadow.  And he did remember Her.  He remembered the way Her hands had gently picked up some of his letters and saved them from the trash heap.  He remembered how She had carried them carefully to her truck and driven them to Her gigantic studio.  He remembered how She had formed them into his body.  Oh sure, sometimes it had hurt just a little when She used her tools to forge them into just the right shape.  But now here he was, happy and carefree and safe in his new home, transformed from whatever it was that he used to be into the most beautiful horse in the world (at least that was what she had whispered to him when she hugged him and left him in his meadow).  But he did miss A and L so much!  They used to be such an important part of him.  And now where were they?  There was someone coming! He stretched out his long neck and looked as far into the distance as he could.  But it was only a passing car; it wasn't Her.  It wasn't the Creator.  Perhaps he would never see Her again and never know the mystery of the missing letters.  Oh well, at least he was still alive.  He sighed and whinnied gently.

Author's Statement

I am a storyteller because it is in my genes! Both my mother and my sister were actresses and very early, I knew that I wanted to be on the stage. Even in summer camp, I was in every show that came along. As a student at SUNY Albany (New York), I was an English/Theater major and my first teaching job in Baltimore included an extra curricular job as director of the Senior Play. After moving to Delaware, I raised my family but never lost the theater bug. I got a part at Candlelight Music Dinner Theatre and was hooked once again. For the past 40 years, I have acted and/or directed in over 20 area community theaters. All this was done in my "spare time" because I had several full time positions in state government from the House of Representatives to Delaware Tech. When I retired, I was able to fulfill a long held ambition. While I had training in theater, music and dance - I knew little about the world of art. So I applied to become a docent at the Delaware Art Museum. That was a turning point in my life which has enriched me tenfold. Now I was able to combine my love of art and storytelling - what fun!

I sit quietly in my canoe, wearing my broad straw hat to protect me from the tropical sun, remembering all of the photographs of South America that my grandfather once shared with me.  Here I am surrounded by the thick, green smells of jungle plants that grow one on top of another, making it hard to tell where one ends and another starts.  The air is so dense with humidity that in the upper reaches of the Andes peaks areas known as 'cloud forests' are formed fed by the rising moisture from the Amazon basin far below.  Only this morning, when we made our descent down the mountainside with our local guides and pack animals, I saw ferns that grew as tall as they had during prehistoric times.  A blue-winged warbler flew past us in a flash of colored feathers.  Now, I sit alone in the middle of the river; I am tiny compared to the lush jungle.  I feel hidden within the towering trees as I paddle across the calm water.  Even though I do not see many insects, I can hear them clicking, and buzzing making the jungle seem to have a voice, which speaks in a language older than any civilization's.  If you listen closely, you can hear the jungle telling its story: of orchids that grow on the bark of trees and of giant anacondas that swim silently down the river.  It sings in its bird-songs of the green canopy that grows overhead.  It sings its river-song of the jumping silvery fish and green plants that wave as I gently paddle through them.  It sings in the soft sound of the sword-billed hummingbird as it feeds on the wild fuchsia.  It is a perfectly balanced song of growth; flowers pollinated by insects, rivers swollen from mountain rains flow down to the Amazon and out to sea.  It has sung this song since the beginning of time.  But how much longer can this song survive?  See in the distance bridges are already being built across the rivers.  The towns with their churches are spreading, and the jungle is being burned to make room for the farmers' crops.  Listen to the song of the jungle and heed its warning before it is too late, and we only have photographs in old albums to remind us of what we have lost.  Listen!

Author's Statement

Clare Moore is a life-long resident of Wilmington, Delaware and mother of three grown children. She teaches 5th and 6th grade at St. Mary Magdalen School. Clare also conducts a summer camp program in drama and creative writing techniques for students. She has always been a collector of stories from around the world and uses them extensively in her teaching, especially for ancient cultures. She has always felt that storytelling is a wonderful way for different cultures to learn about each other. Clare has been chosen to participate in this year's Delaware Division of the Arts Writers' Retreat in Lewes, Delaware in October. She has written several fantasy and historical fiction novels, which have been shared with her class and is presently working on a multigenerational story of a troubled family. Clare is inspired by her family, her students and her dream group, with whom she meets weekly. She believes that storytelling and art are a perfect combination for creativity.

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I will always remember when the stars fell down around me and lifted me up above the George Washington Bridge.

I could see our tiny rooftop, with Mommy and Daddy and Mr. and Mrs. Honey, our next door neighbors, still playing cards as if nothing was going on, and Be Be, my baby brother, lying real still on the mattress, just like I told him to, his eyes like huge floodlights tracking me through the sky.

Sleeping on Tar Beach was magical. Lying on the roof in the night, with stars and skyscraper buildings all around me, made me feel rich, like I owned all that I could see.

The bridge was my most prized possession.

Daddy said that the George Washington Bridge is the longest most beautiful bridge in the world and that it opened in 1931, on the very day I was born.

Daddy worked on that bridge, hoisting cables. Since then, I've wanted that bridge to be mine.

Now I have claimed it. All I had to do was fly over it for it to be mine forever. I can wear it like a giant diamond necklace, or just fly above it and marvel at its sparkling beauty. I can fly-yes, fly. Me, Cassie Louise Lightfoot, only eight years old and in the third grade, and I can fly. That means I am free to go wherever I want for the rest of my life.

Daddy took me to see the new union building he is working on. He can walk on steel girders high up in the sky and not fall. They call him the Cat.

But still he can't join the union because Grandpa wasn't a member. Well, Daddy is going to own that building, ‘cause I'm gonna fly over it and give it to him. Then it won't matter that he's not in their old union, or whether he's colored or a half-breed Indian, like they say.

He'll be rich and won't have to stand on 24-story-high girders and look down. He can look at his building going up.

And Mommy won't cry all winter when he goes to look for work and doesn't come home.

And Mommy can laugh and sleep late like Mrs. Honey, and we can have ice cream every night for dessert.

Next, I'm going to fly over the ice cream factory, just to make sure we do.

Tonight we're going up to Tar Beach. Mommy is roasting peanuts and frying chicken, and Daddy will bring home a watermelon. Mr. and Mrs. Honey will bring the beer and their old green card table.

And then the stars will fall around me, and I will fly to the union building.

I'll take Be Be with me. He has threatened to tell Mommy and Daddy if I leave him behind. I have told him it's very easy, anyone can fly. All you need is somewhere to go that you can't get to any other way. The next thing you know, you're flying among the stars.

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Queen's Closet by Richard Cleaver

Artist's Statement

Richard Cleaver's sculptures are encrusted with detail, compact in design and made complete with concealed compartments and secret drawers which serve as hiding places for multiple meanings. Many of his sculptures depict imaginary lives with narratives loosely based on the artist's musings, daydreams, and occasionally on historic fact. These images integrate unique ceramic sculptural elements, wood, fresh water pearls, semiprecious stones, gold leaf, and oil paint.

"My recent work is based on narratives drawn from personal and historical events that are overlapped with subconscious images." - Richard Cleaver

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Artist's Statement

                                           Seed of a Dream

Early on in life, I dreamed of becoming a published author and illustrating the stories in my own books. Although I cannot put my finger on the day or the hour when this vision became part of my future, it could not have been far from the moment when I stood in front of a painting done by Howard Pyle. I recall being swept up, awed to silence as my imagination took flight. A point in time that originates inspiration stands out clearly for many a person in pursuit of the visual arts. Examples set by our predecessors become guiding stars for fledgling talent, and later, through learning and inexhaustible practice, result in a new generation of vision and storytelling to enrich our cultural expression.
Howard Pyle's work, and his teaching that founded the Brandywine tradition of illustration, have offered me that gift of wonder, and more. As a child, I enjoyed his pictures and books. As an adult, his shining example moved my aspirations beyond possibility, and displayed the proof positive that an individual person could pursue two creative dreams and realize their union in the competitive field of publication.
At the time I set out to define my career, I was repeatedly warned that combining my efforts as author and illustrator was possible only in the arena of children's picture books. That the time and skill necessary to write novels, and to paint well enough to place my own artwork on book jackets were two separate goals, each requiring full time dedication. Choose one or the other, my teachers urged, or I risked falling short of my goal.
Many visits to appreciate the original paintings and drawings on display at area museums gave the lie to such well meant advice. Howard Pyle's example in particular kept me on track, working and refining my skills until today; I have sixteen novels and a short story collection published by major firms, and translations worldwide. The books include own art in the interiors and on the jackets, enabled by an illustration career in the arena of fantasy and science fiction.
When the Delaware Art Museum hosted a major exhibition of works by today's living American fantasy artists, I chose to donate my original oil painting, Dragon's Run, to their collection when the show ended. This is my thank you for the example set by Howard Pyle and his legacy as a teacher, which leads the way for others to follow, and my personal statement of gratitude for the tireless efforts of the museum's staff, in keeping that invaluable heritage available to inspire tomorrow's creative talent.

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