I can’t tell where land falls into water, nor where the lake bleeds into the sky. Between gentle laps of waves, a black blemish appears – a boat drifting in still water. A lone man stares.
Hesitant, I call, “Hello?”
The fog shrouds him as though he’d never been.
When not indulging himself by reading or writing poetry and prose, B.S. Roberts makes a living as a museum curator and an administrative assistant at the University of Maine at Augusta. He lives in Maine with his fiancée, daughter, silver pheasants, turtle, and four cats.
She smiles at the young woman in the photo: bottle-blonde, bright-eyed. Her hair always drew compliments. It was freeing, being 22, radiant, at the start of everything. Her fingers comb through current locks; tinsel strands that wink. She smiles again. Gentlemen may prefer blondes, but nothing shines brighter than silver.
Ann Kathryn Kelly lives and writes in New Hampshire’s Seacoast region. Her essays have appeared in a number of literary journals, found on her website at www.annkkelly.com.
On the street, strangers quickly glance away. At the mirror, the ravaged face smiles, because the mass of angry red splotches says the chemo attack, the destroyer, is working. Hurt vanity—and it is hurt, no question—has lost its hallowed standing to the incomparable treasure of a longer life.
Marilyn McFarlane is on hold from travel writing and takes pleasure in writing and reading the gems in fifty-word stories. She’s the author of Sacred Stories: Wisdom From World Religions, for children, and The Healthy Seniors Cookbook, for any age.
She was a classic beauty, no question. Poets adored her aloof smile, her grace and mystery, and some thought they knew her, but her secrets were masked behind a reflective melancholy. Even with age she retained a certain elegance, though her glory days were over. She was sinking. Arrivederci, Venice.
Marilyn McFarlane is the author of several travel guidebooks. These days she focuses on 50 word stories, haiku poetry, and occasional essays. And she’s working on a mystery novel. It looks good so far; we shall see.
Raucous caws, black silhouettes against gray clouds circling without formation, guided by sky-touching spires of firs.
She remembers last year’s ravaged corn. She remembers “The Birds.” They are powerful, smart, and numerous. They inspire primal fear, admiration, and covetous love.
They arise from more vigorous and ancient stock than she.
Becky Kjelstrom adores all winged thingies, real and imaginary. See more at thenighmail.com.
Under the stars, Iowa poets dance
from stanza to stanza, barnyard to barnyard
all across the state
Have you not noticed them?
Let’s celebrate with the poets of Iowa
and sip herbal tea together in cornfields
as we share our secrets in verse
by the light of the harvest moon
Roberta Beach Jacobson admits to being one of these poets.
Starlight city nestling inland
Where Magic is humming
And Mystery glows
Interwoven between threaded crossed lines
At each end is a watcher
A tall figurine
Stop centrally now, take care with your step
Yes, just there, on that same pinprick where
Stand the Artists who painted
The wild silken road.
Peter Li-ping lives far from the Silk Road but it’s always with him.
The Stars fade gently into a glowing horizon as the Sun arrives in the East.
Some remain still glistening to complement the radiant canvas of colour and light.
This visual spectacular provides a challenge to every artist’s palette
as they strive to capture the new dawn before it vanishes forever
John B. Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
Create a universe. Twist a hand and just let the galaxies flow through your fingertips. Obsess over tiny details: the colour of a flower, that specific shade of orange in the evening sky. Scatter moons into orbit like grains of sand.
That is what it means to be a God.
Isla is a fourteen-year-old aspiring author doing her very best to get her ideas across. Hopefully after exams she’ll have more time to write!
A man wrote a song and died.
Trembling, the song tried to sing herself. Each day she practised, flexing melodic limbs, strengthening pale notes, until she came to understand discordant beauty.
That day, her song spilled into rivers and comet trails, spread throughout galaxies.
The universe leaned in to listen.
Lisa Alletson is an emerging writer whose work has been published in The Globe and Mail, Ginosko Literary Journal, and The Write Launch. She was born in South Africa and lives in Toronto, Canada. Follow her on Twitter at @LisaAlletson.