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My eyes closed, moments from sleep, I hear a voice. I hold my breath for a moment, my heart racing in protest.

“Bill, is that you?”

Other noises follow. I’m as still as the bed beneath me.

At last I realise it’s from the TV downstairs. I feel pinned to the bed. The thought of getting up beyond me, sleep inches away.

Oh Bill. Why did you have to leave? I forget sometimes you know.


My sleep is broken through the night. Fragments of images and faces from my dreams fade quickly becoming lost in a clump of dust, dull and knotted inside. The thoughts jagged and confused. I return to sleep. The fragments I search for in my dreams make more sense. Sometimes I clamber up into waking thoughts only to slip and slide back into confusion. When awake my first thoughts are a struggle to remember how I got here or where I’m to go.


I stop to catch my breath. The people brush past me.

Let them hurry.

I forgot to bring change for the trolley. I walk slowly willing my fingers not to uncurl their grip, dreading the bag falling to the shop floor.

I arrive at the checkout. Lines of queues in front of me, which one to join? I choose the line I think will move quickest. There’s a little boy tugging at the empty trolleys.

“Hi, “he says looking up at me. His parents are busy unpacking onto the conveyor belt.

We stare at each other for what seems an age.

Oh no. Have I forgotten again.

“Mathew, is that you?” I say quietly to him, doubting my words. This breaks his concentration and he steps away.

His mum pulls him in front of their trolley.

The boy looks at me. Any resemblance I saw to Mathew destroyed by his parent’s lack of recognition. I feel my face relax, my bags a little lighter. No harm done.

I thought of Mathew. I don’t think I know him now.
Eventually, my turn comes.

As I unpack, I study the items, struggling to remember what I picked. Some items I found I no longer want but I buy them anyway. Nobody wants a fuss.

I’ve given up on reading. Few of my books remain. My mind can no longer connect back to where I had left off, the bridge to my reading memories dissolved over time.


I pull the comb gently through the strands of blond hair, adding increments of pressure when meeting resistance against the tangled knots. I look at my reflection in the kitchen door, all the while maintaining the strokes, using touch as my guide. My face drops. My, how my cheeks look! My cheeks all bloated. My eyes glaze over.

A movement beyond my reflection catches my eye, my pupils adjusting to look beyond the misted window. The black cat from next door had jumped the wall and clung to the edge as it pulls fluttering hind legs onto the ledge.

My thoughts flash back to a recent memory returning from the school run. Seeing the same cat sprawled over the tarmacadam near the stationary shop. At least, that’s how I remembered it but here she is.

My daughter Sophie finishes her breakfast, and I complete the last stroke as she stands up. It’s time to leave. I catch my reflection again. No, this is Lisa, my granddaughter. My cheeks flush but I haven’t time to reflect on my lapse.


This can’t last. Something keeps me going. Some thought. I’m not sure what it is.


Stuck in the traffic, I latch onto the latest radio soundbite while filtering out the pedestrians around me, looking for changes in the landscape. I look at the entrance to the corner estate. The traffic line exiting the estate is stalled but the queue is small. I recognise some of the cars. Some familiar faces looking intently out the window, cocooning in their own little bubble.

I look at the place where I saw that cat run over. No trace remains. Few cats could be seen at this time. The rush hour is best avoided.

I brush off some crumbs of toast from the passenger seat. At least Sophie finished it. I look at my nails, skin peeling around the edges. The varnish is fading away. But it will do.

Uh. I only coloured them a couple of days ago.

I release the handbrake, easing past stillness, my thoughts propelling forward in time.


The smartphone is something I'll never get into. There is a barrier erected in my mind stopping me. I’m glad.


I wash my hands, food preparation out of the way. The deep rumble outside quickens my efforts. One last glance out the window to see the shadow from the sky spreading with menace, the wind shaking the trees in my garden.

I sit on the couch in the sitting room. I ignore the remote on the armrest.

“Mum, Mum?”

I know that voice. I open my eyes. Sophie is looking down at me. Some of the hair not pulled into her clips is dangling in front of her eyes.

“Oh, I slept it out,” I say. She doesn’t say anything, and I look away from her gaze, forcing myself to my feet.

“You sit down, I’ll check on the oven,” I say.

Sophie puts her hand on my shoulder, her fingers wrapping around but I walk on, her fingers lost in the air.

In the kitchen, I recognize the smell. Our local takeaway. Different dishes blending into a complementary fragrance.

But no sign of my food. I open the oven door and inside is empty. It‘s spotless as if it had never been used. I can feel her watching me.

“This smells nice,” I say, the words sharp against my tongue.


I’ve lost touch with today’s generation. I feel dull and fragile beside them.

I look at the TV screen. It makes little sense. Sophie sits beside me entranced by the spectacle, her legs touching mine on the couch. I slump into the couch. Getting up would be an effort. My arm presses into the armrest which creaks and bends far too easily.

When would Bill be coming back?

“Maybe some tea?” I ask. I think of Bill again.

Sophie says something quietly. Slowly, she pulls her attention from the TV, frowning with a shake of the head and moves across in the chair, giving me some space. She looks at me flashing a cold-stretched smile, before slumping her back into the couch, her body becoming loose as she catches up with her TV.

On my feet, I turn one way and then the other to go to the kitchen. Where’s Bill anyway?
Inside, the chicken is covered on the table. The dishes put away. I can taste the chicken still in the corners of my mouth, and yet standing still I have to collect myself to recall eating the meal.


The kettle is safe enough. The oven scares me.


The character from the TV breaks into my nap with a sharp change of tone. There’s silence from the TV for a short while, as if aware I was watching them. It’s an old black and white film. Trying to recall the actors’ names is futile though they‘re vaguely familiar.

I reach out to my tea. Picking it up I peer closely to examine its texture. There’s no warmth coming through the cup, so I place it back down on the coffee table. The TV flickers lights around the darkened room. I stand up and go to draw the blinds.

Outside there‘s enough light from streetlamp to see that the road is deserted. Sophie has left, the driveway stripped of her Fiat Uno. I draw the blinds; the shadows creep up my hands as I do.

Turning on the light, I walk to the stairs.

“Bill. Bill. BILL!,” I shout, each shout getting louder.

“BILL!” One last time but there’s no movement. Is he asleep?

Going to the kitchen, I switch on the kettle, looking around for jobs to do. The place is spotless, no trace of the laundry I left in the washing machine. Sophie is too good.

I hear a beep from the corner of the room. A phone vibrating. I pick it up. George comes up on the phone. I answer, my mind scratching to recall who George is.

“Hello?” I say.

“Mum, it’s Sophie. Are you coming?”

“Oh,” I say. What does she mean?

There’s a pause.

“I can come for you,” she says.

“Please. I must have forgotten.”

“I’ll come now.”

“OK, dear. What about Bill?”

“It’s ok Mum, Bill doesn’t have to come tonight. It would be good to have you there. See you in a minute.”

“Uh huh. See you in a minute.”

The phone goes dead. What is all this? I suppose I should change into my nice shoes.


It’s getting harder to reconnect with my past. There are photos somewhere in the house. But a feeling inside whispers caution.


I awake stiff, looking around.

The bus is now near full and has come to a stop outside the Craggy Rock Pharmacy. Despite the sun beating off the pavement, a coldness presses down under my velvet coat.

I hope Bill will be there. Why wouldn’t he?

The bus takes off again. A man sits beside me, I hear the mumble from his earphones. I feel my throat constricting. I’m the next stop.

“Excuse me,” I say.

I nudge him with my bag, and he gets up. I catch my image in the bus mirror as I press the button. How old I look. I sigh.

I step off the bus, my hand leaning on the rail till my foot hits the ground.

I take in the scene. This isn’t the place I was expecting. The green area now a car park. With a sudden clarity, I remember this rendezvous was years passed, and Bill hadn’t been there that time and it’s impossible for him to be here now. Tears creep over my cheekbones warmed by rising embarrassment.

I can go back now. Nobody will notice.


My house is kept spotless. I have little room for clutter.


I put the key to the door. I turn with enough pressure that my fingers turn red. The lock resists just enough that I yield. I try again and this time there’s a soothing clicking sound. I look around, anticipating somebody is watching me but I’m all alone.

I step onto the soft mat and remove my shoes. I can smell coffee. I smile. It would be good to see Laura. I pause to rearrange my thoughts. Sophie I mean.

I walk towards the kitchen, the smell of coffee getting stronger.

Sophie grips her mug like she’s gaining strength from it. She’s not in good form. I better hold my tongue. I can’t give her control. Not yet.

“There you are. I’ll join you,” I say

“Mum, what happened? You missed Lisa’s play,” she says, worry creasing her forehead.

Oh no. What can I say now? Be careful now.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought…” Words tie up on my tongue as I look, head bowed, around the room.

“Mum, I’m worried,” she says sparing my struggle to rescue the situation. “You’ve been gone all day. You have to tell me what you’re doing. You remember what happened last May?”

I look at Sophie. The image of the child I remember simmering and fading around her. So serious now. What happened in May? I don’t think I have the energy to hear about it. Not while she’s wearing that expression!

“Don’t worry. Sometimes I need to get out of the house. OK, pet, I’ll talk with you later."

“Mum, we need to have another look at your phone. I need to know you have it on you at least.

What if something happened? At your age?”

I nod, my hand resting on the counter.

“OK, dear, maybe I should call Lisa.”


Look how my hands shake. Maybe they’re next to go.


BIO: Patrick Curran works in Banking. He enjoys different types of literature, including comics. He has done some animation and recently enrolled in an Immersive Technology (VR/AR) class. Patrick is married and lives with his family in Dublin.


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One Precious Day

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A Pot Full of Beans

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How You Can Go Wrong

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Lisa Benwitz

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Angelina’s sagging...

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The Piano

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Makers and Takers

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Jake dropped the baby off at daycare early that morning and replaced three water heaters by lunch. There were two HVAC systems left to service, so he wolfed down a sandwich as he drove between jobs. When he got back to the shop that afternoon, his boss called...

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The “Ely Kay”

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It’s my boat yard, and I don’t much care for the look of her. It’s a point of pride. You should be able to take a level to a boat up on lumber. Every day with her list, she stares me down. She looks guilty and sad with...

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What We Long For

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Cyril Dabydeen

Creating an imaginary garden
                            with real toads in it.
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Frogs circle the yellow-and-black snake in the trout stream by instinct, no less. Mr. Yorick, tall, but roundish, ...

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Emerson

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Paul K. McWilliams

He hurts, body, mind, and soul. Death has made its introduction and he has given it a knowing nod. At this moment he’s in a hospice unit. The head of his bed is elevated and he’s in the consoling company of his dog, Emerson. The dog proved quickly...

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Blunt Trauma

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To all, excepting only Annie, Charles W. Durgin fell while fishing and drowned.  It has been nearly ten years since she struck him with his own club, the club he affectionately called “the priest.” Nightmares still waken her upright and screaming. Not the stifled screams into his calloused...

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Man in the Mirror

by

Nitin Mishra

It may have been the sultriest day of the decade, who knows, maybe two or even three decades and the excessive humidity had invited swarms of insects. In such a sweltering afternoon people were destined to stay indoors, and if anyone ventured out, the insects would certainly torment...

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The Impostor

by

Mick Clark

I was amazed by how many people were stuffed inside my uncle Henry’s corpse.

My aunt clung to me for the first time in her life, bird-bone brittle and ashen pale, while the mourners breathed crowds of ghosts into the icy morning air.

The coffin swayed...

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21 Days of Lockdown

by

Donna Abraham Tijo

Day 1:
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A five-year-old declares, 'I wish to always have my favourite pancake in my world.'

Day 2:
An E-mail of Hope
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Sugar Daddy Dreams

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Enza Vynn-Cara

Burnt toast, avocado, honey, two poached eggs laced with turmeric and garlic, and a new vitamin concoction that makes my stomach churn, and still, I guzzle half of it down with gusto, as if it’s our first Godfather Cocktail at Carlo’s Bar.

Why, you ask?

Because...

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The Visitor

by

Brigitte Whiting

Madeleine saw the visitor in her Sunday school class, a man her age, maybe fortyish —she considered herself a youthful fifty —with a deep dimple in the middle of his chin. He wore no wedding ring. He introduced himself as having just moved to Cannington, and was the...

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Chickens

by

Brigitte Whiting

First, there was dust everywhere, but now, far worse, there were chickens everywhere. They were pecking through the yard, leaving puffs of dust. They were roosting in the pine trees. And they clucked from morning to night. The five roosters vied for which was loudest and shrillest. Amanda...

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Desiree

by

Joe Cappello

I buried him in the backyard one night after a rainstorm. The soil I removed from the hole was thick and sticky and clung stubbornly to the surface of my shovel.

I connected the hose to the backyard spigot and used it to clean off the shovel. Then...

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Milkweed and Monarchs

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Brigitte Whiting

Each fall, Maine’s monarch butterflies migrate two thousand miles to spend the winter in Mexico. Then the following February, the butterflies begin their trek north. It will take three to five generations—the adult monarchs laying eggs, the caterpillars growing, forming themselves into chrysalises and metamorphizing, and new butterflies...

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Bibliosmia

by

Penny Camp

My love for reading started early. I traveled the world and rode dragons, fought knights, stormed castles, stole treasure with pirates and rescued kidnapped princesses. I floated down rivers in the deepest regions of unexplored lands. I climbed trees and mountains and flew on clouds.

Mom read to...

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To Thwart a Wild Turkey Hen

by

Brigitte Whiting

A flock of wild turkeys has wandered in and out of my yard for years. I have a raised deck so my birdfeeders stand ten feet off the ground and the turkeys graze under them. They are timid birds, and typically when I step out onto the deck, ...

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The Style of No Style

by

Frank Richards

I must be the Charlie Brown of writers because I’ve never been able to figure out what “style” is all about. What does that word, ‘style,’ mean? I’ve always had a problem with it. If there were such a thing as “styleblindness,” a disease like colorblindness, I’d be...

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Corona Clean

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Fran Schumer

The Corona virus presents new challenges. Stuck at home, and with more of us sleeping, eating and working here, and a dirtier house, I was finally going to have to figure out how to use my new vacuum cleaner. Ordered a year ago, it mostly sat in its...

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Occasional Neighbors

by

Brigitte Whiting

I understand a little bit about wild turkeys. They're on a constant hunt for food, drifting through the neighborhood scrounging what they can. But I don't know how it happens that a few will either be left behind by the flock or leave it. This past fall, I'd...

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Enjoy the Ride

by

Penny Camp

Get up early. You can’t ride all day if you sleep in. Braid your hair tight — you don’t want it flapping in the wind. Make sure you don’t wear the undies with the seams down the back because after a long day of riding they will make...

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Cocoa and Biscuits

by

Penny Camp

Saturday mornings were special occasions at our house when we were growing up. My friends begged to spend the night so they could be part of the Saturday morning ritual.

Mom would take out her green plastic bowl and splash in a little water, a little cocoa powder, ...

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Livin’ the Dream

by

Holly Miller

When I was a child, my mom and Aunt Leona would pack us six kids into our blue Chevy Belair and drive to a local mobile home dealer (they were known as trailers back then). We would walk through the new homes, just for something to do. How...

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Fall in Maine

by

Brigitte Whiting

Autumn is falling in Maine, harder this year than I remember over the last few falls. We've had two nights of close to freezing temperatures, not enough to ice over the birdfeeders or kill any of my plants yet, but cold enough to turn the furnace on. My...

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Best Laid Plans

by

Penny Devlin

Every year shortly before spring, the Gurney’s Seed & Nursery Co. catalog shows up on my doorstep. The cover is plastered with a WARNING label in big black letters informing me that if I don’t order now, this will be my last catalog. It also has coupons: $100...

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One January Morning

by

Brigitte Whiting

Mornings, I like to have a Kindle eBook open on the dining room table so I can read and look out into the backyard to see what might be happening. 

I live in a raised ranch with an attached two-car garage. My deck, which is off the kitchen...

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The Ruins and the Writing Technique of Negative Space

by

Sarah Yasin

A book club I’m part of recently discussed The Ruinsby Scott Smith. It’s not a book I would have finished reading based on the first 50 pages, but sticking with it afforded me insight into what a narrative voice can do. The story is about a group...

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A River of Words

by

Penny Devlin

Go to work every day. Do your job. Do it well. Always learning, getting better every day. Soaking in the letters that become words, that lead to success.

Meetings, instructions, to-do lists, directions — the words start to drown like a river of brown muddy water rushing through...

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Canada, Marty, and The Exorcist

by

Jen Lowry

On our homeschool adventure today, we dreamed aloud of the places we would travel to if we could. My kids and I agree: Ireland and Scotland are our top two places to visit. We played music from Spotify and sang aloud to the merry tunes of the Irish.

...

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Monarch Butterflies

by

Brigitte Whiting

I had no idea what milkweed looked like because I'd never seen it, but I'd always wanted it to grow in my yard so I could see the monarch butterflies.


For the longest time, I've hoped the patch of wonderfully fragrant plants with pale purple flowers growing...

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A Monarch Chrysalis

by

Brigitte Whiting

The monarch caterpillar couldn't decide where to turn itself into a chrysalis. He wandered across my front stoop so many times I was afraid I'd step on it so I stopped using the front door. One time, he'd be crawling up a post of the front railing. Another...

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Truth

by

Angela Hess

I am twisted, bent, and deformed on every side. Everyone trying to use me to serve their own purposes, to justify their own beliefs and actions. Their eyes constantly sliding away from my pure, unaltered form, too brilliant and painful to behold without their chosen filters to dim...

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The Goldfinch

by

Brigitte Whiting

On a Monday afternoon, I carried a bucket of water outdoors to refill the birdbath. A male goldfinch jumped down from the bath’s rim, and hopped away as quickly as he could to creep beneath a nearby spruce branch. I thought how odd he was...

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Of Heroes and Holiness

by

Angela Hess

What does a hero look like?

 

George Bailey is a hero.

 

George Bailey dreamed of traveling the world.

 

George Bailey gave up his dreams to care for his family and community.

 

Rudy left his family...

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My Desk

by

Luann Lewis

Another rejection letter and I feel like a loser. Yeah, I know, I’m not trying to make a living doing this. I even claim to be “writing for myself.” Butwe all want validation and, let’s face it, us writers want readers. So here I sit, ...

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My Mobile Space

by

Janet Harvey

 

In June, I will expect to find my special place in Townsville, Queensland. Last year it was in Darwin, Northern Territory, and today my place is in Hobart, Tasmania.

 

 

We live in a truck, a 2004 Isuzu 350NPR turbo automatic...

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A Red Squirrel's Narrative

by

Brigitte Whiting

This past summer and fall upturned me. The birdfeeder, usually so generous, abdicated her job, and I had to scrounge for food during the long wet season. My mother told me it was unusual to have such a rainy August and October. She would know. I was born...

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Talk-Back, Dear Lia, on FnF

by

Joy Manné

This essay is part of a Talk-Back series – I owe that title to Karen. A Talk-Back is my response to a chapter in a WVU textbook, my communication with its author.

This Talk-Back is a response to the exercise in Lia Purpura’s chapter, ‘On Miniatures,’ (Flas...

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Reunion

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

“Why the F--- Do I want to see a F—ing alligator jump up to eat a F—ing chicken hanging on a clothesline?”

 

The last time I hung out with my Uncle Dan is when I dragged him to Gatorland to do something touristic. ...

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Lynn’s Tree

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

Lynn’s maple tree
was always the last to emerge
from winter’s sleep,
when it burst into leaf,
the...

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The Moods of McCorquodale

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

Our very first visitor was a cat.
Corkie came for a day, adopted us.
He soon had his...

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Haunted House

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

a grey woodsy coloured house
stands abandoned
in the midst of a haunted wood,
its windows are broken,
...

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ARS Poetica

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

I paint with words

I see
the pink tinge of fluffy white clouds
at sunset

I see
my...

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Lake Katherine

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

turquoise water of the lake
stretches for miles,
as far as the eye can see

two spruces wave
...

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The Scream That Is Also a Song

by

Enza Vynn-Cara

Free verse on the page that
is my tongue; raw flesh,
smooth and thin, dipped
in blood-tinted ink—

...

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Déjà Vu

by

Enza Vynn-Cara

She went into the woods to find
the wolf that haunted her

She went to the brook to...

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Be Leery Of What Falls From Above

by

Gerardine Gail Esterday

My forest dances on the wind, swirling above the green and brown copsewood. Above, branches split, held up...

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Neighborhood Walk Meditation

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

Vultures gather on the old man’s neighbor’s barn,
‘decorated with ravens and barren trees.
A small cottontail stirs...

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Dream Metaphor

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

I shiver in the darkened room,
stretch, try to pull the covers higher,
suddenly I am floating near...

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A Whitmanesque Inventory: Spring

by

Phebe Beiser

So glad it rained last night. Now, late morning, sun shines,
an unexpectedly warm early March. What a...

Read more: A Whitmanesque Inventory: Spring

 

 

 

Solitary

by

Malkeet Kaur

For eons now, the very core of my being
has become inaccessible.

Solitary.

Once it used to be...

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The Blanket Hugs Me

by

Louise E. Sawyer

I’m grateful that I have a daybed
downstairs where I can rest during the day
with my Guinea...

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On Love and Dreams

by

Miriam Manglani

1.
Love is a beast and angel and dream on fire.

2.
Your soul wakes in your dreams.

...

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The Writer’s Breastplate

by

Louise E. Sawyer

…apologies to St. Patrick


Creative Spirit with me,
Creative Spirit before me,
Creative Spirit behind me,
Creative Spirit...

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The Sweater

by

Malkeet Kaur

As I rummage through the clothes,
I spot it, the well-worn white sweater
that now had aging spots...

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The Holly Tree

by

Nolo Segundo

We have a large holly tree
in our backyard—
is it foolish to say
you love a tree?

...

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waiting on an email

by

Gerardine Gail Esterday

rain beats against the metal awning.
winds whipped up against two storms
racing each other over the Mississippi
...

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Looking for Weeds

by

Louise E. Sawyer

Pushing my walker with the purple
pet carrier propped up on the seat,
I walk down the driveway.
...

Read more: Looking for Weeds

 

 

 

Ocean Mood

by

Malkeet Kaur

The roaring, crashing surf summon us.
Soft and damp ecru sand lies beneath our bare soles.
The sun-baked...

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The Beetle in the Sink

by

Miriam Manglani

There is a beetle in the sink.  
A big fat one,
shiny and black
with sharp needle...

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Four Cats – Four Friends

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

I
the painting of four cats
hangs on my living room wall


II
you can see
Glory Barrie...

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On Eating an Orange and Seeing God

by

Nolo Segundo

I miss the big navels, the big navels when they are not in season,
but almost any orange...

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Summer – A Pantoum

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

I sit on my deck and enjoy summer sun.
Zephyrs caress my cheeks with soft kisses.
Bombay cat...

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Your Broken Heart

by

Miriam Manglani

I found your heart’s hinge —
I knew it could open!
Inside, I saw all of its broken...

Read more: Your Broken Heart

 

 

 

Who Is Margaret?

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

I find the small black and white picture in a box
of old letters untouched for twenty years.
...

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Made Whole by Others

by

Miriam Manglani

Some people fill deep holes in us
the space that’s left when our loved ones leave
they plug...

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Autumn Villanelle

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

leaves don orange, crimson and yellow gowns
as they prepare for Cinderella’s autumn ball,
soon the leaves will...

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Sunny Day Epiphany

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

Umberto, my Golden Retriever is sad,
Sparkie and Sal, his companions, have died

I wanted to adopt a...

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Ocean City

by

Nolo Segundo

I saw it then as my own little Shangri-la,
for I was very small and knew nothing
of...

Read more: Ocean City

 

 

 

All The Dead I Know

by

Nolo Segundo

Let’s start with Eric—a nerdy-looking kid before
nerds were invented, and only 18 when he crashed
his funny...

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The Dinosaur Will Get a Makeover

by

Miriam Manglani

She talks of makeovers with friends,
using contour sticks and beauty blenders,
making “Tiktoks” with dance moves
called...

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A New Day Begins

by

Bob Hembree

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Angst

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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The Fly on the Wall

by

Bob Hembree

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Glancing Vulnerably

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Fowl Squabbling

by

Bob Hembree

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A Mid-Photo's Daydream

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Solar Reflection

by

Bob Hembree

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Being Held Up

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Reflections

by

Paula Parker

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Jack

by

Gerardine Gail Esterday

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Hollister

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Evelyn

by

Gerardine Gail Esterday

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Curiosity

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Rebecca

by

Gerardine Gail Esterday

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Hazel

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Working Hands

by

Paula Parker

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Maya

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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The Birds in the Flower

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Pst... Hey

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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The World in Her Hands

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Oak

by

Craig Gettman

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Flower

by

Craig Gettman

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Berries

by

Craig Gettman

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Winding Road

by

Craig Gettman

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Sunset - April 2020

by

Craig Gettman

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