Hiding; to function,
Where does the illness end
and I begin?
Where do I begin,
and the illness end?
Blocking, medicating a piece.
A piece of the whole.
A match struck
The scent of sulphur
The candle speaks
Only shadows live within this room
Inside the dancing flame
He blows it out
The curtains thrashed open
His dark eyes open
The spell broken
He breathes deep
And dreams again
Patrick is a novice writer, and would like to say a special thanks to Tim and to those that might read his tenth post.
Location: empowering laguna
Where you can see the world.
A beauty resembling
a beach of the past.
Powerful pops pulsate past the timberline.
Banjos sound on a stranger’s radio.
In their tent, light above shakes,
With the slowly
Stilling momentum borne from
Love, that vibrant lightness,
Those lavender fingers.
J. of Newark is a custodian at his local library and writes fiction for fun.
His soul binds to paper
His broken shoulders explained
Twelve bells toll
His verses unfold
Burning in rage
Crimson embers glow
His silence smoulders
His ashes dance
Within the wind
A bugle plays in the distance
For a silent hero
Who served his country proudly
Patrick Yu never served in the military, but he knew a silent hero.
I tripped over something and fell a long way,
didn’t expect this to happen today. Wrapped
in darkness Like a coat. Felt my belly hit
my throat. Looked for the ground
that should have been found,
but I was misinformed and
quickly became bored
as forever falling
Christopher Gannon is a writer of short fiction and theatre. He does not make up the stories; they make up him.
When I am gone, who will take up my space?
When I am gone, who will breathe in my air?
Who will say the words I don’t say and fill the void I’ve left?
I hope I leave my footprints in the sand, to be remembered for a little while.
Jubilant following the publishing of her first story, Jean has wasted no time having another go. Her husband is amazed she can write anything in fifty words when she talks so much!
Before you rise out of sleep I memorize every moment
of the black timeless night when we moved in discovery and ecstasy
and ignited enthrall before lying in perfect harmony
even though only yesterday
we were strangers seated side by side
in 3A and 3B on the flight from Hamburg.
Lynette moves to a new country every two or three years and currently lives in Denmark, but calls the Mornington Peninsula in Australia and San Diego in the U.S. “home”. She has a Master of Arts (Writing and Literature) degree from Deakin University.
As the shroud of black spills across the mocking face of the moon, I dream of a time that once existed but is now just a fading memory.
“Look at me and remember the promise of a life to come; but look again! and observe it has passed already.”
Ludo is a believer in logic, science, and Frank Zappa.
At twelve you expect nothing wonderful to come of a death. You close your door to contemplate him—all of us—going, and sob.
A knock startles you. Your aunt.
She lays a book on your bureau. “She thought a lot about death.” She leaves you alone with Emily Dickinson.
Several of Pamela Hobart Carter
‘s plays have made it to Seattle stages. She also writes short books in easy English for adults.
A working man, words to say
Strong like an Oak on a hot summer day
Protection to his family
A veteran, standing proud of flag that says we’re free
A husband, a father, a brother, and a son
A man of God, soft spoken, yet a leader to everyone
Shelia Burket wrote this story.