I don’t know why the starry sky
I cannot see how the river carves its way all the way to the ocean
I can only dream where songbirds go to die
I don’t know why
or how, left to its own
a salmon spawning upstream
swims hundreds of miles—home.
Todd is an amateur writer and poet. He met the love of his life in a college writing class. Since then, the two have spent their lives together.
One spring morning
A strong wind arose
Waking the old trees
Their young leaves shimmied
Like tiny gymnasts stretching
Practicing handstands and cartwheels
While nearby other giants
Stood somber as if caught
By some old trauma
Some unspeakable shame
That had broken
Their mighty spirit
So many long years ago
Matthew lives and grows in Maine.
We watched it together.
“How would you describe your marriage?” the detective asked his suspect.
You ask me the same question.
“I knew you would ask that.” Giving nothing away.
Just like the guy in the show, I’m keeping my thoughts to myself. I don’t want to spoil the ending.
Besides, David doesn’t know what the ending is yet. He’s just making it up as he goes along.
Night-veiled raven swoops down
settling on a field of stubbled snow
red river birch standing guard along the edge.
The colors of winter envelop the world
stark and soft, like a broken heart
stunning and everyday, like losing love
magical and hard, like brown leaves
skittering across a frozen pond.
Jackie Ascrizzi lives in Montville, Maine, mock orange and peony wafting through the windows.
When the radiation cleared, they were ready.
When they ventured, blinking, out onto the surface, they were overwhelmed, but they were ready.
When they followed the maps, found the seed vault intact, they were ready.
When a fat mouse ran across the littered cement floor – no one was ready.
Sarah Krenicki likes writing short fiction about large things.
This odd can of fungus in water was my mother’s choice, strangely symbolic of my life growing up. She could take any good thing, any proud moment, and tear it into pieces, leaving fragments of a once happy child.
I was 14 before I knew mushrooms could be bought fresh.
Michelle is a contributing author in the most recent Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Spirit of Canada
. Her writing has won several awards, and appeared in The Globe and Mail and a number of local magazines and newspapers in Alliston. Recently her short story “Lightning Strikers” was made into a series in the Focus 50+ Newspaper because fans asked for more! You can find her online at michelledinnick.com
“Cappucino, love. Quick.”
He yanks the cup from my hand, throws change in my direction, and dives off, ticket in mouth. And the next suited man goes. And the next. I watch from under my cap.
The barriers slide open and each one glides off. The counter pens me in.
Matthew Keeley is a teacher and writer from Central Scotland. He is currently seeking representation for his first science fiction novel, ‘Turning the Hourglass’.
Uncle Clifford dealt scrap.
Valentino in overalls, his hair slicked with axle grease. Boot polish moustachioed, ladies swooned.
“Yaargh!” he bellowed, swaggering to the pub.
One night, he disturbed burglars.
At his wake, I slicked soot beneath his innocent nose.
“Yaargh,” I whispered.
Mourners tutted, scandalized.
But only the men.
Margaret McGoverne has recently published her first novella, while being distracted by short stories, flash fiction and her blog about all things writing.
Sometime wet it is
Sometime be cold
Sometime the day be long
Sometime day too short
Sometime you laugh away
Sometime the pain just stays
Sometime be old
Sometime be alive
Sometime be dead you
Sometime God is far away
Sometime in my head
Rob Vass is a concrete guy who got old. Got stuck in the office much like a troll under the bridge growling at office staff and telling war stories of the craft. But he lives on a coffee farm and makes good salsa, growing peppers with his good lady. Who like a good story.
Cuddles. An order.
Cuddles? The robot paused, processing.
A brief demonstration.
A jerky imitation. Processing again.
I do not understand. You want to remain in contact with my exterior form. Why?
The question hung in the air.
Perhaps a chemical analysis of oxytocin was in order.
The thought of a fledgling artificial intelligence trying to learn the ways of humans has always amused Jenora. This is a story about the merging of the undefinable with the empirical. If you’d like to see more of Jenora’s work, pop along to her website at openingdoorsofperception.com