We speak in code. Fake smiles
accentuate our encryption
as we avoid truthful confessions.
Lips spread wide
over camouflaged terms
as tongues stutter and tangle
The look in your eyes forces me into
We calculate our positions and
plot our next move.
We speak in code.
Arlene is a novice writer who enjoys writing flash fiction and poetry.
My pillow greets me
My soft slumber
Recalls romantic memories
My soul whispers…
She finds my pillow
Entangles my dreams
We land eyes
walk within a summer’s breeze
Our hearts embrace
A moment held
Melt our reality
Will grace the earth
Fifty words is such a challenge. Patrick hopes to improve.
I don’t know why,
I don’t know when,
I just know that today
I wanna live again.
you are the one that makes me write
what my heart felt when we began.
You wanna know what I’m trying to mean?
I’m in love with your sis.
She was living in darkness; he introduced her to sunshine. But in the light she could see the darker side he was trying to hide.
She didn’t know whether the future would be different or a replica of the past; she was trapped amidst the present, which was fading fast.
Preeti Singh is an Indian French Interpreter and Media Professional who is engaged in writing scripts. In her free time she loves to play sundry characters for television series.
Gentle wind off the Mediterranean
flutters their white tablecloth’s overhang,
softly touching her bare legs.
“It was fun – we had such a great time!”
Jerking her hand free from her lover’s surprised fingers,
she brushes aside her wild windswept hair,
exposing fierce brown eyes,
and cheeks salty with sunlit tears.
Matthew lives in Maine. He wishes everyone freedom and that no one be left behind or imprisoned or tortured or hungry or suffering in any way. May all beings be happy.
A horse or a bike
I’m sure what I’ll ride
No sugar no hay
Only oil for its chain
On the mounts on the hills
Only me and its wheels
Its name just four letters
But it makes me feel better
Ask me what I like
My answer’s… my bike
Virginio is an Italian student of English language. He likes writing stories in English and sometimes playing with rhymes.
His hands nailed to the walls
His feet in cement
His soul behind bars
Two kids entangled
Dreams broken, now nightmares
She drinks tea and smiles
Her next delicious move
Currents cross the room
His silent thoughts whisper
But he still loves her
Patrick Yu aspires to write. He realizes he tends to touch on the darker sides of things. Maybe that will change.
The oak stood tall in all seasons,
In summer, she rested in its shade.
In winter, the oak wished for her,
But never she came.
In spring, the oak was glad,
Until she turned up with another,
And as they sang happily under the oak,
It fell and squashed them.
Joey is obviously no poet. You can visit him at joeytoey.com
They say I know you,
But truly, I don’t.
We have a deep connection?
A long history together?
I can’t believe it. I won’t.
You are hideous. A monster!
There is nothing before me that I wish to embrace.
Be gone, deceitful reflection, and take your disgusting lies with you!
October seems to bring about that icy trickle of fear that maybe we are who we think we are, after all.
Carrie won’t have dairy. Jonah won’t touch meat. The Quarringtons are vegan.
What do they all eat?
No gluten, no fructose, no nuts of any kind, no eggs and no bananas—I think I’ve lost my mind.
Dinner parties are such a drain—I’ll emulate Hannibal and just serve brain.
Mary Steer often wonders why no one ever comes to her house for dinner. More of her work may be found at her peanut-free website