my body on the crumpled, cream-colored sheets
my thoughts float
like an untied balloon
from a child’s outstretched palm
as they disappear into
alongside millions of dreams
just as i
to grasp onto
your fading voice
that whispers in my ear
burning my skin
Lauren loves creative writing and can usually be found reading on the beach or writing in her room.
Late afternoon, early winter
Shadows lie heavy
Across this old wooden floor
In sleep, my cat’s ear twitches
Pulling in his paws a little
Feeling his fierce softness
Sunlight between the shadows
Seems to brighten
Then it’s just this old familiar ringing
That always comes
when I am still
Matthew lives in Maine in the fall, winter, and spring. He wishes more of his family lived nearby, and his cat, Mephistopheles, who is a great hunter and a compassionate comforter, and inspires simply by doing nothing.
Well heck I finally deleted you
from my phone,
from my conscious mind
and then you had the nerve to show up in a dream,
all friendly and conciliatory.
I leaned against your shoulder, into the feel of you.
Sure, we can be friends
Sweet (did you whisper back?)
Robin Lubatkin does circle time with the very young and what she calls “songhealing” with the very old.
It begins early evening, lasts twelve hours
Resolute, incessant, deliberate
Weighing down the coloured canopy still clinging to the branches
Seeping its way into covered porches, rusting brake drums, and the joints of old men
Cold, wet, relentless
I pull the quilt over my head, for just ten minutes more
Paul Hock wrote this story.
I lie awake
Sand wet as molasses,
Smooth as dusk,
Your hair spread like the night.
I lie awake and
The ocean breathes
Until clear light of dawn pours
Through the bedroom window
Stirring dust in the air
Like great white gulls,
Scattering your memory everywhere.
Todd is an amateur writer and poet. This poem is one of several he is working on, in his own collection called “Cravings”.
When winds blow
Wild flowers face the sun
Love comes around
Catch it ‘fore it’s gone
Hold on tight. Infuse your soul
With sun’s golden rays.
She left, a dull empty heart
Stillness. Unbearable silence.
She slipped away. Without a sigh
Motionless hands, cold with death.
Wendy Oughtred is a semi retired criminal defence lawyer who is now finding the time in indulge her first love: writing. She has led a diverse life which includes curling, performing in community theatre, and raising a family.
We’re city rats, but we don’t hustle too hard. As long as we have rent control, we can share an apartment. I’ll hand write notes for you to find, like,
Let’s have an aesthetic when we’re old
rock & rollers never dead
or retired jungle botanists
Let’s be insufferable together
Alyson Fortowsky writes and teaches in Toronto.
The stage was set against a spectacular backdrop. The supporting character, a slick, mossy, camouflaged rock, stood ready.
I played the lead perfectly, delivering my agonized one-word line with no hesitation. It was over quickly.
Alas: sweet death and the mountain had made me the star of my own tragedy.
Linda writes quotes, songs, poetry and short stories and is enjoying the challenge of writing 50 word stories. Among her wishes is to never star in her own tragedy.
I don’t know why the starry sky
I cannot see how the river carves its way all the way to the ocean
I can only dream where songbirds go to die
I don’t know why
or how, left to its own
a salmon spawning upstream
swims hundreds of miles—home.
Todd is an amateur writer and poet. He met the love of his life in a college writing class. Since then, the two have spent their lives together.
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.