More than a tourist in the land of the Parkie where the governor
mumbles and shakes. I’m like a warrior trying to escape; PD has
a grip on my soul. A voting citizen, I fell off the floor and opened
the door to a new life that yells: watch out!
Michael Mogel is an out of work Fire Alarm Inspector due to Parkinson’s and has been writing poetry since college where he founded a literary
I open my eyes.
It’s still here. Thank you.
It was here yesterday, and the day before that. Uncertain how long it will be here for me, though. Nobody can tell me, because once I nearly saw the last of it. I nearly died.
I hope it’s here again tomorrow.
Michael has not been published by a major publishing house as yet, although he has written a handful of articles for local lifestyle magazines and one or two rural media reviews. He was a photographer (retired) by trade. Michael has been writing for many yearss. He is now living with hearing failure, but that doesn’t stop him from writing on a daily basis.
When you pick up a seashell from the beach, you are receiving an opportunity from the ancient pandemonium of the water.
The water doesn’t owe you anything. But it puts out anyway.
“Here is something; don’t waste it,” it murmurs. What you don’t take, it will recycle.
Don’t waste it.
Arcadia Conrad teaches and writes in the South Bay Area, California. She really dislikes playing Two Truths and a Lie.
While smoking my second-to-last cigarette under a street lamp in the desert, I decided that life operated on bad metaphors and absurdist poetry.
As I was crushing the last embers, two jack rabbits ran pitter patter away to have their children and die among the sand dunes and salt flats.
Peter Vickland is a college student living and working in Sacramento, California. His hobbies, aside from writing, include reading and collecting books and not cutting his hair as often as he needs to, as he is frequently reminded by his loving girlfriend.
Before dying, she softly whispered, “I’ve never really loved you, and now I can’t make it up to you.”
He already knew, and consoled, “Don’t worry about that now. I’ve loved you enough for both of us.”
That’s when he saw in her eyes the love he’d always waited for.
Connell is always upbeat about putting something in his bio section and personally writes them all by himself as others couldn’t be bothered doing it for him.
In his first spring in a new land, Pietro took a cutting from a peach tree and inserted it into a slit on the branch of a living plum tree. A graft, like himself: an Italian transplanted into the Canadian landscape.
Bound together, two fruits would flourish on one tree.
Teresa Del Mastro sends Tim 50-word stories from Toronto. She creates them in Kerry Hodgson’s basement at her writing group.
The dog barked, too late. She stumbled to the kitchen, dropped her towel over the puddle. He nosed his bowl into its folds.
She returned to the couch.
The interview was in an hour, but she was naked, too raw.
He followed, whimpering.
“Shhh,” she said.
They were both hungry.
Kiran Kaur Saini’s work has appeared in Glimmer Train, Pleiades, and elsewhere. See more at kirankaursaini.com
Bob was dreaming that he couldn’t sleep but didn’t know he was dreaming, and so, on waking, he imagined he was exhausted yet he wasn’t really awake.
When the beast came, he didn’t know if he’d sunk into its dream or it into his.
When he woke, the beast followed.
Patrick Mc Loughlin is an English Language Teacher in Ireland and dabbles in writing. He also dabbles in painting and music and some day hopes to do more than dabble. He lives in the west of Ireland, where it’s hard to concentrate.
He held my hand as we wove our way through the ancient city. Our footsteps fell where Caesar once walked and echoed near where Paul wore his chain. Gladiators’ ghosts whispered tales, and the church bells sang out a memory.
But my heart was faint because he held my hand.
Amanda is a wanderer. She wishes she could travel the world over, but is content as a wife and mother to four explorers who keep her on her toes and show her the world anew through their eyes. In her spare time, she writes.
A life of tangled legs in bed, like sleeping wrapped in spider webs.
First curled small against my mother,
Then later trapped beneath a lover.
Years of children’s legs cocooned, of cuddles, laughter, me and you.
Now as I lie in empty web, I dream of beds with spider legs.
Jo Withers wakes up in a tangle of kids and pets every morning and wouldn’t have it any other way. Once she’s freed herself she writes poetry, short stories and children’s sci-fi adventures. You can follow Jo on Twitter.