Mother Moon placed her howling baby into the calm water, a bath to sooth the tantrum.
Baby kicked with rage. The water rose up. Toy cities, filled with people, were buffeted about.
Small cars floated as roads became rivers, until the child wore itself out, falling asleep amid the ruins.
Candace Kubinec wrote this story with thoughts for Texas.
Editor: To support recovery from Hurricane Harvey, please consider donating through the Red Cross or another organization.
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.
The forest struck them dumb with awe: its flowery smell, the endless shades of green; the deafening cacophony of sounds: croaking, hissing, humming. A splash of startling red amidst the leaves.
Unimaginable that such an enchanted place once spanned across the Earth.
Humbled, they stepped out of the rainforest simulator.
Rachael is an English teacher in Scotland.
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.
It’s freezing, the air crisp. The moon… she rises slowly, her blue light washing over me, calling me.
I take out my guitar. I begin with arpeggios. Simple, I know… but soon, faint waves of violet, then teal, then orange dance in the sky.
Her hue warms, as does mine.
Joey realizes that the violin or piano may be the traditional choice of instruments in these circumstances but he can’t play those. If he tried, her ears would bleed and she would run away. Of course, she might do that anyway. Either way, you can visit him at joeytoey.com
Heading south through the ruins, I startle three deer. Their barks echo through the concrete canyons as they run.
I see ever more plants breaking through the tarmac; a green infection. I pause to watch the sunrise. The morning light has a golden quality.
Manhattan has never looked so lovely.
Bill lives in Aberdeen Scotland. He is considered a pioneer in the art of slacking off by many, but he can’t be bothered seeking accreditation.
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.
Nobody saw the tree coming.
The great trunk ruptured the sun-blasted concrete, folding the collapsing buildings into itself as it expanded. Roots burrowed through underground railways, branches pierced the brittle glass of windows, and asphalt flowers blossomed in the air.
The city was abandoned overnight.
Tourists returned only cautiously.
William Shaw is a student, blogger, and amateur journalist. He is fearful and respectful of all trees. You can find him on Tumblr
, where he writes haiku poetry about Doctor Who, and on Twitter
After the storm we walked the shoreline, sifting through mounds of brown-green algae, looking for survivors. The wind does such cruel tricks, tossing hatchlings onto their backs, offering them up to sun and birds. We left each right where we found it, after turning them over and setting them straight.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble”. Visit BobThurber.net
Gentle sounds of gulls and rhythmic waves echo in the heavens above, returning hauntingly to my ears, resounding in my heart.
Enchanted, I watch nature’s magnificence paint itself around me, glorious imperfections perfected with every brush-stroke.
Awakening, I see I too am a brush-stroke in life’s portrait.
My soul relaxes.
Lisa Lysen is having fun exploring her passion for words, hoping an adventure in writing may be somewhere in her future.