Is it finally over? Whatever this was?
Not dating, not friendship… It’s giving me pause.
I am angry. Hurt. But not that upset.
I wonder, was it love? And will I forget?
Not that long ago, I seem to recall,
Still had that nice flutter feeling,
Do you? At all?
Michelle is an award-winning author and poet. She is a contributor in the most recent Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Spirit of Canada, and a quarter finalist in the 2017 ScreenCraft Short Screenplay contest. Her writing has appeared in The Globe and Mail, (one of Canada’s National newspapers) and a number of local magazines and newspapers including The Briar Crier, Total Sports, Voice of the Farmer, Arts Talk and Focus 50 Plus. Her short story “Lightning Strikers” (also featured on Commuter Lit) was made into a series in the Focus 50 + Newspaper because fans asked for more! This year, Michelle won the Ontario Writers Conference Story Starter Contest in two categories. You can find her online at commuterlit.com, fiftywordstories.com, femininecollective.com, michelledinnick.com and @MichelleDinnick.
Just take a minute, it’s all we ask
We rose as one, fulfilled our task
Remember what we did and why
No need to mourn, feel guilt or cry
No need to seek revenge, or hate
Just take one minute, we can wait
Just one minute,
It’s all we ask
Paul Hock is an author, songwriter, and storyteller from Ontario, Canada. See more at paulhockpublishing.com.
Editor: Posted with my apologies for missing November 11 by a week and a half.
She seduces me each September—
warm summer kisses
tasting of frost and smoke;
her voluptuous dance,
flamboyant raiment discarded
piece by piece,
revealing more and more of bewitching nakedness.
But it always ends the same—icy tears each December.
Still, I know I
Tony Jasnowski teaches English at Bellevue University. Can there be any doubt which season is his favorite?
Fighting for country, fighting for principles. Someone’s child, showing determination to sacrifice and make a difference.
Perhaps, long ago, a gardener who loved the colors of fall. Perhaps a devoted parent, raising kind-hearted children. Perhaps a teacher, leading young minds toward wisdom.
Now, known but to God.
The Unknown Soldier.
Sandra Siegienski enjoys writing science fiction/fantasy and young adult fiction. Her focus ranges from novels to six-word story contests.
Soul-pain and heartache of days that are gone:
festering things fed by dread and dismay
pounding dark avalanche rolls on and on.
I am its echo, recording per se,
an hour’s background static in the green aisle
rumbling I’ve NOTHING TO DECLARE. Make way
For this humble outmoded cassette tape.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.
Recalling the smiles of my youth
I see the greenery, opulence, white pillars, and cars
As fires, fragileness, and feigned freedom
Mistaken for a world of bliss
Now I flip through fertile flames
Molded tablecloths, fancy watches, and fired clay;
The only keepsakes
That outlasted God’s dark test of time
Annie Lyall Slaughter wrote this story.
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
A memory, as if only yesterday.
This young woman is a metaphor for freedom
her strong hands guide the yacht
she flies over the crests of the ocean
braces against fierce, frigid salt blasts
that strike her windburnt face
over and over
flicking her blond locks into a wild dance
Alice Lam moved to Australia from the UK with her partner and they share a house in Melbourne, along with a cheese-seeking, greying Boxer dog. See more at alicelambooks.com.
Is not always
In many situations
It is a vice
You are sweet
Happily you greet
But they are there
To get your meat
It’s your peace
That they wish
Drain your brain
Till you allow
And learn to complain
Preeti Singh is an Indian French interpreter, writer-journalist, cinema artist.
You can learn more about her at: https://about.me/preeti-singh
Cupped in your hand
the choice is clear,
like glass marked
by a sparrow’s impact.
The heart thrums,
wild and free,
through your fingers.
You gently stroke
its neck unbroken,
and then release:
a body rises
through the sky
like dawn unfolding
No birds were harmed during the writing of this poem.