RON. LAVALETTE: May Day

Artistic, Submissions, , ,

He’d waited long enough.
Surrounded by new greens
under a fresh blue
he drew three deep breaths,
dove into May’s first morning.

May air fills lungs more fully than
any April rain has ever flooded
any April field. May Day’s sunshine
warms everything more deeply
than any mid-winter furnace fire.

Ron. Lavalette lives on Vermont’s Canadian border. His poetry, flash fiction, and creative nonfiction has been very widely published in both print and pixel forms. His first chapbook, Fallen Away (Finishing Line Press), is now available at all standard outlets. A reasonable sample of his published works can be found at EGGS OVER TOKYO.

EILEEN MARDRES: Eternal Day

Amusing, Artistic, Submissions, , ,

I look at the empty street, spot one lonely dog trotting along the sidewalk, its leash attached to a drone, and tear a page off my calendar without bothering to look. It’s still today: each hour, each event being torn off the toilet paper roll that has become our life.

Eileen is retired from working for others, now a full time Grandma and a part time writer of poetry and flash fiction.

JANINE IWAYA: Song Bird

Artistic, Submissions, , , ,

“We get birds passing through,” my cousin said. “Some do sing.”

Standing in the vast wheat field he’d inherited, our eyes on the treeless plain, I said, “Mom told me grandma heard birds here, singing, ‘See how pretty I am.'”

We left mom’s ashes where those song birds still sing.

Janine writes from Portland, Oregon. This month she is thinking of her mom, and all of the aunts whose ashes have come home, back to the farm.

CONNELL WAYNE REGNER: The Pandemic

Artistic, Submissions, , ,

Awaken despairing eyes
A new day dawns
Tragedy betrays beauty
In unbelievable dimensions
Lines are drawn
And heroes fall
Life goes on
But never as before.
The nights are long
Reality stark
Emotions run high
Love is born
And love dies
But we go on
Waiting for the day
Waiting…

Connell still writes a bit.

ANDREW MOORE: Echoes

Poetry, Submissions, Touching, , ,

I look around
I see the green grass
I see cigarettes
In a dish
I remember
What it was like
To grow up
It was like
One day
I looked up
And there was no one
Left
Everybody
Ran away
And I’m still sitting
Here
Remembering
The echoes
They left

Andrew Moore is a happy man. His only wish is that, if you like his work, you contact him and ask for more so he has a reason to keep writing it.

CRISTINA MARIE PAGAN: At Home by the Forest

Artistic, Submissions, , , , ,

I confront curiosity’s curse daily. Shrubs rustle and I sense faraway beasts. At midnight, I hear the wolves’ distant howls. I wonder what it’s like to be—not live—with the wild. But I resist temptations to go and see. Nature knows I’ve settled here; its citizens acknowledge my space.

Cristina Marie Pagan is a Hispanic writer from North Carolina. Her poetry has appeared in Glimpse and the Mystic Blue Review. She’s also the former cover artist of Seshat Literary Magazine.

ANNA SANDERSON: 2065

Artistic, Submissions, , , , ,

Grandpa’s favourite story’s about the pandemic, when everyone stayed inside to stay safe. People sang for strangers and painted with their kids. Those who were able ran errands, called old friends, learnt neighbours’ names. Terrifying times, but amazing, Grandpa says.

He’s obviously exaggerating. Surely people did these things before that?

Anna Sanderson writes about the world as she sees it (with the odd twist and turn). You can follow her story on Twitter at @annasanderson86.

JULIAN DORES: Aida

Artistic, Submissions, , , ,

You cry in a voice that is not your own, act like dead weight, call me horrible names. But sometimes you look me in the eye and smile. Sometimes you remember. I brush your beautiful hair and think, That’s alright my love, I’m also not who I used to be.

Julian Dores lives in Brussels, Belgium. He enjoys writing fiction and taking candid photographs of everyday life on the street. You can read more of his work on his website.

JO WITHERS: Home

Adventure, Artistic, Poetry, Submissions, Top Stories, , , , ,

Every year,
After the autumnal fogs of Mars
Have made me melancholy,
And the moon’s tranquil seas
Have melted my bitterness,
I sail to Earth
And stroll beside the snapping salty oceans,
To my cryogenic grave,
Drop petals onto empty casket,
And mourn humanity
And days when life was simple.

Jo Withers writes short fiction from her home in South Australia. Recent work has appeared in Retreat West, Milk Candy Review, Ellipsis Zine, and Best Microfictions 2020.