it’s been three days since your funeral
a white-crown sparrow pecks incessantly at the patio door,
wings fluttering madly to remain airborne, feet flailing the air
i blow a kiss, smile through fresh currents of briny dew and wave just as madly until,
satisfied, you fly away
one last time
Craig W. Steele lives in the lake-effect snow belt of northwestern Pennsylvania where, by day, he’s a university biology professor. He enjoys writing both short fiction and poetry and dreams of becoming a widely-read unknown writer.
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.
been going on and on about itself.
Ahab wants out.
Cracking the door,
he is blasted. Crouching,
ears flattened, he retreats.
Sitting Buddha-like now, licking his wounded pride,
he pauses to bring his puffy tail about, and lay it by his side.
Like a monk adjusting his robe.
Matthew lives in Maine.
A beautiful flower, blooming for a season; radiant colour, my soul lifted. All things are fleeting, the fragile more so. Your short season over, you left us, transformed back into the loam, nourishing the earth as your love once nurtured me. Goodbye my daughter. Your time short; your existence profound.
Bill lives in Aberdeen Scotland. He tried to be good once. It didn’t take.
We speak in code. Fake smiles
accentuate our encryption
as we avoid truthful confessions.
Lips spread wide
over camouflaged terms
as tongues stutter and tangle
The look in your eyes forces me into
We calculate our positions and
plot our next move.
We speak in code.
Arlene is a novice writer who enjoys writing flash fiction and poetry.
She was living in darkness; he introduced her to sunshine. But in the light she could see the darker side he was trying to hide.
She didn’t know whether the future would be different or a replica of the past; she was trapped amidst the present, which was fading fast.
Preeti Singh is an Indian French Interpreter and Media Professional who is engaged in writing scripts. In her free time she loves to play sundry characters for television series.
A horse or a bike
I’m sure what I’ll ride
No sugar no hay
Only oil for its chain
On the mounts on the hills
Only me and its wheels
Its name just four letters
But it makes me feel better
Ask me what I like
My answer’s… my bike
Virginio is an Italian student of English language. He likes writing stories in English and sometimes playing with rhymes.
They say I know you,
But truly, I don’t.
We have a deep connection?
A long history together?
I can’t believe it. I won’t.
You are hideous. A monster!
There is nothing before me that I wish to embrace.
Be gone, deceitful reflection, and take your disgusting lies with you!
October seems to bring about that icy trickle of fear that maybe we are who we think we are, after all.
Carrie won’t have dairy. Jonah won’t touch meat. The Quarringtons are vegan.
What do they all eat?
No gluten, no fructose, no nuts of any kind, no eggs and no bananas—I think I’ve lost my mind.
Dinner parties are such a drain—I’ll emulate Hannibal and just serve brain.
Mary Steer often wonders why no one ever comes to her house for dinner. More of her work may be found at her peanut-free website
I tripped over something and fell a long way,
didn’t expect this to happen today. Wrapped
in darkness Like a coat. Felt my belly hit
my throat. Looked for the ground
that should have been found,
but I was misinformed and
quickly became bored
as forever falling
Christopher Gannon is a writer of short fiction and theatre. He does not make up the stories; they make up him.