This was written using women's inspirational cards as a prompt in my writing support group. I am curious what people think of what is produced using this method. Please comment! 

As usual I can't make up my mind. Pick a card I am drawn to: there are three: I discard two and choose yet another. It is the one that of all the cards has anything remotely resembling a male face. The other one chose itself: it was caught under the crow woman card I chose. She looks like my cousin but I think of my grandmother who was part African, part white and part who knows what else? My grandfather was the Indian, but I think of her and pray and talk to her when I am in trouble, thinking that if not the Indian, then the African is looking down  and sending help. She, of all people, knows how much I need it. Heya Grandma. Heya ho.

The other card stood out from all the female figures, and I chose the delicate Asian looking woman to oppose it. The female images do not appeal to me, don't give me strength or ideas. They remind me of what I cannot be. All the glitter and feathers and shimmer tossed at me, pressed upon me, piercing me, driven into my skin, could not make change who I am. Even the cancer, I discovered, could not. The man peeks out, emerging from an ambiguous sihouette. Packing to move, I found a gift from my ex, tarnished and never used. She came to visit while we were packing. She suggested now might be a bad time to move. Take some time to recover, she suggested. She had been on a trip to the civil rights museum. She pressed ia small gift nto my hand. A memoir of the garbage handlers strike, just before Martin Luther King was assassinated. A silhouette of someone carrying a sign, "I am a man."

I look again. the faces emerging are men: they are dreaming like me, becoming like me. Soon I, like them, will know what I want to be when I grow up.

The opposing card is an angel holding in her arms a sleeper. This card for some reason fills me with fear, though in the past week I have needed much comfort. Perhaps I am past it and fear falling backwards. Perhaps I just fear falling. There is no angel to catch me, only people who mean well and hold out things like pitchforks and boards. It's all they have, I think. I don't see any wings down there, just city clothes and flames.

What would the angel say to me if I fell past her, going down in flames in my usual way? Would her peace be enough to quench the fire? Or would she fall with me, feathers burning, gossamer going out in puffs of bright light? I don't know. I warn away the angels. I am used to falling alone. 

In this spot, a painting inspired by the writing group experience.