Under the stars, Iowa poets dance
from stanza to stanza, barnyard to barnyard
all across the state
Have you not noticed them?
Let’s celebrate with the poets of Iowa
and sip herbal tea together in cornfields
as we share our secrets in verse
by the light of the harvest moon
Roberta Beach Jacobson admits to being one of these poets.
Her palate was broader than her father’s. On her thirteenth birthday she ate the entire cake. But she’d still not spoken. Too much sky up here?
I led her to the nearest cave and she clattered inside with a thunderous, visceral bellow. I feared it was the sound of hope.
Tamsin and Mark Farley decided to write sequels to each other’s most recent 50-word stories. This is a sequel to Fostering the Minotaur’s Daughter.
It’s the woods and the painted barnstar that hangs upon my neighbor’s house; the nightly vigils that loiter in the windows and the blue Dodge Dart eaten by rust that Mr. Thomas refuses to get rid of.
Placing newly built concrete gods in the rearview, I wonder… where’s home now?
E.O.’s pretty sure that Starbucks is evil. Stores keep spontaneously appearing where trees, herbs, and game used to be, even though their coffee isn’t very good. What type of obscure witchery is this…?
He swallowed me whole each evening, coughing me up the next day in time for school. He consumed my childhood and my parents’ relationship. Comfort came from the belly rumble of the boiler, the hot breath of the stove. Eventually he spat me out – a hairball tumbling in the wind.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.
He hears the wood thrush now
just at the edges of hearing, watches the trickling stream
from his front porch, and recalls
running from the bottom of this hollow
to its very crown—
—with his son on his hip.
And there, looking out
there was nothing—
Matthew now lives and writes in Maine. He always relaxes, just a little, when driving north on I-95 and crosses the Piscataqua River Bridge. There he is greeted by a large sign, white lettering on a blue background: WELCOME TO MAINE – The Way Life Should Be.
I should leave.
The shouting, screaming, hitting…
I hate it! He plasters on a fake smile to fool everyone into believing in this facade, but he’s a monster.
What’s that? Is that the door?
“Honey I’m home!”
Oh, he’s calm. Arms slip around my waist. Strong arms, kind arms. “I missed you.” A kind voice.
I should stay.
Hope Chow is an aspiring author who was born and raised in America. She writes to paint a more lucid picture of life through the eyes of many others.
By a riverbank.
I built me a house.
Scarcely visibly to the eyes of the clouds,
I built me a little life,
Just across the way from humanity,
close to tranquility.
I mistake the canopy for heaven,
my skin for earth.
A place to cherish,
Omer Zamir is 23, a poet, and very happy to share his works.
“We leave in five minutes,” he said.
Grey hairs muzzled out of his nostrils like worn felt. He smelled like ammonia. A holstered Leatherman dangled from his belt.
He was my last chance.
I glanced past him, at the smoke rising from the snowy yard.
“I can’t go,” I said.
Sean Higgins lives in an old farmhouse in Ypsilanti, Michigan with his wife and three insane cats. He works as an editor for a Research Firm. His work has been published in Bartleby Snopes.