Mothballs, mother’s coats zippered away in clothing bags above a field of gloves, fingers outstretched as if in bloom. Dad’s fedoras molded into the shape of his skull, various moods for each day, all nestled sleepily above the rooms where we slept, seasoned to perfection with the dust of forgetfulness.
Jim Doss lives with his wife and three children in Sykesville, Maryland, and earns his living as a software engineer. He has previously published two books of poems: Learning to Talk Again, and What Remains. In partnership with Werner Schmitt, he also published a book of German translations entitled The Last Gold of Expired Stars: The Complete Poems of Georg Trakl 1908 – 1914. In his spare time, he is an editor for the Loch Raven Review.
Sidewalks have no desires
as do streets, no hidden agendas,
no future place they long
to go and see. Sidewalks are content
with being still and listening to the stories
that shoes and paws beat
into their skin day after day. Sidewalks
have no other place to be but here.
Arlene writes poetry, song lyrics, and flash fiction. She’s working hard on a romance poem about dead birds and their last confessions at present.
He turned to see his replacement being greeted as he had been, with smiles, handshakes, and razzmatazz.
All too soon his own time had been ravaged with despair, hurricanes, and many tragic manmade disasters.
The Old Year listened to the chimes welcoming the New Year and whispered: “Good Luck, 2018.”
John B. Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
Dreams and reality sometimes ravel and blur in the longest hours of the night. That’s when I reach out and touch your arm, your back, your thigh, lightly, ever so lightly, so I don’t wake you. We’ve grown old and frail together, you and I. Now, constantly, we seek reassurance.
Alex lives in a suburb of the Big Apple.
Gentrification marched its silent footsteps to the oak door of Moore’s Tavern.
Old Man Henry smiled and licked his wrinkled lips. If he couldn’t have it, nobody could. He grabbed the gasoline and lighter.
The starry night seemed brighter to him that night.
The stone chimney was all that remained.
Anthony works with numbers by day, and words by night! Happily married in the heart of Kentucky.
We arrived with all the time in the world.
Those first birthdays couldn’t come fast enough.
The middle days whispered in our ears.
Don’t worry; there’s loads of time left.
We’ve known from birth this day would come.
Still, we’re surprised when we open the door and find death waiting.
John Fowler served twenty years in the US Air Force before retiring and starting a second career in the IT field. He is also a Lay Pastor serving a small church near his home in Texas. His hobbies include reading, golfing, writing, and now oil painting.
A loon’s call echoes across the amber lake. Her mate’s wail reassures her.
Above, a rested comrade takes point. The spent goose banks away, catching the slipstream.
Hardwoods preen, sashay their brightest orange, gamboge, and crimson. The old ones yawn, smiling at the adolescents, who dream tonight’s dance never ends.
Matthew lives in Maine.
It’s the woods and the painted barnstar that hangs upon my neighbor’s house; the nightly vigils that loiter in the windows and the blue Dodge Dart eaten by rust that Mr. Thomas refuses to get rid of.
Placing newly built concrete gods in the rearview, I wonder… where’s home now?
E.O.’s pretty sure that Starbucks is evil. Stores keep spontaneously appearing where trees, herbs, and game used to be, even though their coffee isn’t very good. What type of obscure witchery is this…?
One spring morning
A strong wind arose
Waking the old trees
Their young leaves shimmied
Like tiny gymnasts stretching
Practicing handstands and cartwheels
While nearby other giants
Stood somber as if caught
By some old trauma
Some unspeakable shame
That had broken
Their mighty spirit
So many long years ago
Matthew lives and grows in Maine.
He looked at me, eyes rain-readied, heavy and distant.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered quietly.
“All these years, I’ve been telling myself ‘tomorrow’.
“But then there’s another tomorrow. Followed by another.
“And then a tomorrow follows that.”
He blinked and the rain began. Slow and silent.
‘Until there’s no tomorrow. It’s over.”
Jon is from the North West of England and an aspiring writer, working in Local Government but with a background in Newspaper Journalism.