She felt safe in asking only a few trusted friends.
Do you question your motivations?
Most said no, they just did stuff.
She asked a spiritual teacher if it was important.
Don’t waste your time, said the teacher.
Now, when it bubbles up, she gets real quiet,
like a tree.
Matthew lives in Maine.
While smoking my second-to-last cigarette under a street lamp in the desert, I decided that life operated on bad metaphors and absurdist poetry.
As I was crushing the last embers, two jack rabbits ran pitter patter away to have their children and die among the sand dunes and salt flats.
Peter Vickland is a college student living and working in Sacramento, California. His hobbies, aside from writing, include reading and collecting books and not cutting his hair as often as he needs to, as he is frequently reminded by his loving girlfriend. See more at petervicklandwriting.com.
The dead got up from the battlefield. Some played with their wounds. Others witnessed the horror of what they had become. As they walked away a young private looked back and saw their bodies where they’d fallen and sighed, “If all this is for that, why did we bother coming?”
Connell writes a bit and no more.
She’d never liked fog; it always seemed smothering and inescapable. Like Life. Like Motherhood.
Today, the cool grey mist wrapped around her felt open and somehow freeing.
Her eyes fell to the stone at her feet and she wondered what she could do now that she’d buried her last child.
Melissa is a writer, teacher, and dog lover in the Middle of Nowhere, Michigan.