She pushed me to the door. I said, “Before you say your piece, heed this; hearken to the sages: words said are words written on the fabric of your soul. They cannot be unsaid. A soul cannot turn back.”
She said, “Get the hell out of my house.”
Why there’s the very fellow. See Peter: in Dublin does he lurk, all beard and books. Perhaps today he is an extra on a film set, perhaps tomorrow he plays freelance with a camera, the day after that a writer. Wherever he is, whatever he is, he is most likely having coffee or thinking of his next one.
I sat at a picnic table in the woods, with my pen. I had hoped to honor you.
I would be masterful with my language, weave an imaginary tapestry. All would know of your glory,
had I succeeded. Instead,
I wrote this. My,
what a waste of such precious time.
James P. Spitznogle is an aspiring something from a mountainous somewhere.
I don’t know why,
I don’t know when,
I just know that today
I wanna live again.
you are the one that makes me write
what my heart felt when we began.
You wanna know what I’m trying to mean?
I’m in love with your sis.
Hiding; to function,
Where does the illness end
and I begin?
Where do I begin,
and the illness end?
Blocking, medicating a piece.
A piece of the whole.
At twelve you expect nothing wonderful to come of a death. You close your door to contemplate him—all of us—going, and sob.
A knock startles you. Your aunt.
She lays a book on your bureau. “She thought a lot about death.” She leaves you alone with Emily Dickinson.
Several of Pamela Hobart Carter‘s plays have made it to Seattle stages. She also writes short books in easy English for adults.
A working man, words to say
Strong like an Oak on a hot summer day
Protection to his family
A veteran, standing proud of flag that says we’re free
A husband, a father, a brother, and a son
A man of God, soft spoken, yet a leader to everyone
Shelia Burket wrote this story.
And then it hit me.
I realised that nothing I know is true. That person I loved is dead. People change.
The world is continuously moving around me. I’m caught in the past. In slow motion. And then it hit me.
Again and again it, he, hit me.
Rosa’s pastimes include working cattle and co-owning two cattle stations. With only a year-7 level education she does her best with writing and is working on her second novella.
There’s a buzzing in my mind,
like a swarm
from a ripped and tattered hive.
Looking in my direction,
can you see my soul
through your dark and stinging eyes?
What happened to the words
so softly spoken,
your gentle hand,
your warm embrace,
as we walked, talked, and smiled.
Patrick works with robots and computers, at times writing software, but he would rather write poems.
As the bartender prepares her a drink, he tells her how he’s a poet at heart and will publish a book of poems one day.
“Will you write one about me?” she asks, grinning.
He starts to recite something of Frost’s as though it’s his, drunk with his own lie.
Debbi Antebi (@debbisland) lives in Istanbul, Turkey, and blogs at debbiantebi.wordpress.com.
Clear starlit sky above the frozen snow, we sit unmoving, eyes scanning the fields ahead, praying for the next attack so that we can move, life sought in another’s blood.
Our breath freezing our eyes, but hands too heavy to lift, behind the eyes the mind slips into eternal vigilance.
Craig MacDonald lives in Scotland, where he has worked as a hypnotherapist and computer consultant. He loves trying new and interesting things and meeting new people.