Village Square Logo

Fiction refers to literature created from the imagination. Traditionally, that includes novels, short stories, fables, myths, legends, fairy tales, plays, etc. The ever-widening scope of fiction in today's world may include comic books, cartoons, anime, video games, radio and television shows, it could be genre fiction, literary fiction or realism.  But regardless of its form of conveyance, fiction is a device that immerses us in experiences that we may not otherwise discover; takes us places we may never go, introduces us to people we may never have met. It can be inspiring, captivating, and even frightening. In the end, it exposes us to a life not our own. It can help us to see ourselves and our world in a new light.

We invite you to join us as we embark on a journey of fiction created by these talented authors. We applaud all of our contributors and encourage everyone to continue to follow their artistic and literary dreams. For those whose works we’ve selected, we hope this is just the beginning of an illustrious career in the arts.


Einaudi

by Luann Lewis



An elderly woman shuffled up the sidewalk and took a seat on the bench across the way from me. I watched her slow steps and noticed her feet stuck in matted slippers and her swollen discolored ankles. Breathing a sigh of relief, I felt grateful for my mobility, for my youth and comfort. The woman carried with her a small boom box. She sat it on the bench by her side and, with much huffing and puffing, she settled herself. Big sweater sleeves flopping, she put one scrawny elbow on the arm of the bench then used her gnarled hands to pull headphones over her dull gray head.

I could hear snatches of the melody drifting from under the tattered pads on her ears… some beautiful piano… was that a symphony? I couldn’t quite tell.

As she listened, her face relaxed. She tilted her head back in the sun and her skin seemed to smooth. Her shoulders loosened and her back straightened as tight muscles relaxed and gained strength from the sound. Her lips parted and seemed to grow fuller as I watched. Blushing and bursting with color, this youth traveled up into her cheeks, her nose, her eyes and her forehead until it appeared that her complexion was that of a teenager, radiant and flawless. Formerly drab and white, her hair had somehow become flowing pale locks, thick and glowing in the sun.

Then her blue eyes opened wide and she...

Read more: Einaudi


My Car, My Friend

by Leona Pence

Tony Spencer applied the first coat of wax to his prized possession, a 1973 Pontiac Grand Prix. Oh, sure, it had flaws, like a smashed door and a dragging muffler, but the interior was a beaut. It had bright-red bucket seats with a gleaming silver gear mount between them, and flawless upholstery with not even a speck of lint on it. Tony had owned the car for about a year now, and it was just like an old friend.

“Kid!” screamed the old man next door. “I told you to keep that piece of junk away from my house.”

“And I told you, sir, that you don’t own the street and I’ll park where I please.” Why couldn’t that old goat leave them alone? They had five cars – so what? There were five of them and they all needed a car. Mom and Dad’s took up the driveway, and his, Keith’s, and Barb’s were on the street. Luckily Rhonda was married or there would be another one. The garage was so full of junk a bicycle wouldn’t fit, let alone a car. But, a lousy six feet of space was enough to give the old crab a hissy fit.

Tony gave one last flip to the headlight with his cloth, and then gathered his cleaning materials, and added them to the growing mound inside the garage. He had thirty minutes to get cleaned up and get to work at the local Kroger store. He liked his job...

Read more: My Car, My Friend

 


 

Brother Bastion

by Linda Murray

The rain that had pelted the high mountain jungle all morning stopped abruptly, and the sun gradually dissolved the lingering clouds. Insects hummed again, birds burst forth in joyous song and flowers lifted their dripping heads, spreading their petals wide to receive the sun’s bright blessing. The People, the Faithful Ones, gathered under the banyan tree by the Great Hall to hear Brother Bastion’s words.

After the daily rains, Brother Bastion used to sit with them and teach them. Lately, though, he spoke only from a distance. He was ill, he said, and dared not come too close.

Today, he would not appear at all. He was too ill to leave his cot and would speak only a few words to his beloved people from inside his chamber. Still the Faithful Ones gathered, silently waiting.

As the sun’s rays touched the Blessing Stone, Reuben sounded the cymbal. A moment later, Bastion’s voice drifted, slow and dreamlike, through the sultry air.

“My children, there are those who do not believe, those who will say we are wrong to live as we do. We are not wrong. Some will say we are deceivers. They will say I am a deceiver. We must not let that deter us from our purpose, to serve the needs of others.

“Remember, my children,” the voice crooned, “we are all stewards of this world and must care for one another’s needs. If we each give a little of what we have, just a little, ...

Read more: Brother Bastion

 


 

Standard Police Report

by Frank Richards

Standard Police Report - Inventory of Possessions - Portbou, Catalonia, Republic of Spain

27 Sep. 1940

Location: Hotel De Francia


Noted contents of subject’s hotel room as follows:


- a large steamer trunk containing books in various foreign languages, for example, Les Fleurs du mal, A la recherche du temps perdu. Books carefully packed.

- steamer trunk also containing pens, paper, pencils, and bottles of ink. Packed under the books are several artist’s canvasses. On top is what appears to be an original oil painting of a figure, facing backward, signed by the artist, one Paul Klee. The painting is titled Angelus Novus on an index card pasted to the back of the canvas.

- a separate valise containing several manuscripts, handwritten pages of crabbed scrawl, bound with butcher’s twine. The top page has a hand-written note pinned to the top, entitled, Theses on the Philosophy of History. It is addressed to a Professor Theodore Adorno in New York, New York, United States of America.

- another (much larger) handwritten manuscript, labeled Arcades Project.

- a well-used pipe and tobacco, an open packet of Galois cigarettes, round thick spectacles, and a Swiss-made wristwatch with a black leather strap.

- a passport, issued in Germany, with photograph of the bearer. Bearer's address: Prinzregentstrausse 66, Berlin-Wilmersdorf. Passport invalidated (by the Gestapo).

- an identity card issued in Paris, France identifying one Walter Benjamin, Jew, born 15 July, 1892, Berlin, Germany. Age: 48. Height: 168...

Read more: Standard Police Report

 


 

Starburst

by Brigitte Whiting

We sat, you and I, alongside the lake, watching the sky spread above us in an immense starburst, the Milky Way threaded through its center, seeming to beckon us to follow it.

"A reverse inkblot," you said.

I thought, no, no, nothing as mundane as that, but all I said was, "I guess, although that takes all the sparkle out of it."

Somewhere an owl hooted and a loon responded, laughing. The night crept in, darker and chilly, but neither of us wanted to move. Not on this last night of summer when tomorrow we'd drive back home to our work schedules. Not on this moonless night when it seemed possible to make wishes, and dream, knowing that tomorrow they'd be impossible.

"Sometimes," you said, "I wish time would stay just like this."

And for a moment, I felt at a standstill, locked here alongside this lake, the crickets clicking, and the mosquitoes buzzing around my ears. The lake became a black hole, and somewhere behind us along a dark trail sat our camper.

I looked up at the starburst of stars, whispers of clouds drifting across them, dispelling the magic that had been there moments before, but I didn't want to stand up, or fold up my chair, not yet, not yet.
 
I didn't understand then, or now, years later, why I was so afraid that if I didn't hold onto experiences, push at them so they'd continue, I'd lose all of them.

But they're never...

Read more: Starburst

 


 

There Are No More Pets in My House

by Enza Vynn-Cara

 

There is death in my house.

“It's gone to a better place,” she says. "Now flush it down the toilet and wash your hands. Breakfast is ready."

Like that, she cans Juju, our goldfish. She did the same with Didi, Ma’s parrot, Brook, the family cat, and Wild E. my she-wolf— and it always happens early in the morning, right before breakfast.

In my home, since she stepped in, pets die at night and are rid of in the morning. Juju’s brother floated in the tank, belly up, the Monday after she hooked up with Pa. Two days later, Didi got eaten by Brook. Some of its feathers are still stuck against the bars, and they’re going to stay there until she cleans it up. It’s her chore. She left the cage open.

Brook herself, too fat with Didi, fell from the barn roof onto a mousetrap, lost a paw, and bled to death overnight. And a few weeks after, I found poor Wild E. dying on our doorstep with a bullet in her left eye.

Imagine that, Wild E. dying, yet seeking me out to say goodbye. That is true loyalty.


There is little loyalty in our house.

Or empathy for one's grief.

Take Pa, he hooked up with her two months after Ma kicked the bucket, and I mean that literally. Ma cut herself on the rusted chicken-feed bucket she,our farmhand from New...

Read more: There Are No More Pets in My House

 


 

Revenge of the Fishy

by Leona Pence & Tom Whitehead

 

 

 

Tom Whitehead: (In the deep husky Marlboro movie guys voice) HEEEEEEEEEEEER FISHY, FISHY, FISHY!

It was an early Saturday morning. He thought it was just another day of fishing, then all of a sudden out of nowhere he realized it WAS just another day of fishing...the end.

 

Leona Pence: And Fishy knew right then the ruse had worked. The next time the gullible hulk stuck his pole in the water, he'd catch much more than he bargained for. 

 As the unsuspecting fisherman approached the water he heard in a low voice heeeeeeere human human human. 

 Sadly, the poor unsuspecting human thought the voice was part of the creepy music he'd been listening to. With a smirk on his face, he danced around his camp chair twice before sitting down and opening his tackle box. He didn't notice the huge school of Fishy swimming in a circular motion toward him. The fisherman thought he was graceful enough to dance, but he was just tripping over the uneven ground. He saw a movement in the water but paid no attention to it. As he baited his hook the motion was getting faster and bigger. He slowly backed away from the water. 

He stepped back right into a small hole in the ground which caused him to lose his balance and fall hard on his fleshy butt. Immediately, the fishing line wound rapidly and tightly...

Read more: Revenge of the Fishy

 


 

Temp-Tation

by Leona Pence

 

 

David Porter watched his wife and two sons as they played on the monkey bars at the park. He smiled in contentment as peals of laughter rang out. Two short weeks ago, he’d been in danger of losing his family.

His executive secretary had left on a well-deserved vacation while a trainee had stepped into her shoes. Michelle had been with the company for less than three months but showed promise in her work. David stood and prepared to leave for the day when Michelle tapped on his door.

“Sorry Mr. Porter, but I can’t find the Bremmer file for the eight am meeting.”

“Linda told me she left everything you’d need for the week on her desk.”

“I know, but I’ve looked everywhere for it. I don’t mind staying later to help you redo the file.”

David glanced at his watch and sighed. “Give me a minute to call my wife. It’s going to be a long evening.”

Two hours later they closed the new file and were ready to head out.

“Would you like to stop for a drink or dinner before you go home, Mr. Porter?”

“I can’t tonight, Michelle. My wife’s parents are visiting. But please, feel free to put a good meal on your expense account. I’ll see you at 8:00 sharp.”

David walked her to her car before returning to his private parking space and his...

Read more: Temp-Tation

 


 

Free Range Souls

by Enza Vynn-Cara

Samael and Malachi, two brothers working for different bosses, sit on the fence dangling their booted feet each on their side of the divide. One pair of boots is caked in white droppings; the other scrubbed clean. It’s like a dare. Trespassing? Not quite. They kick the air, slam the rubber heels against the wooden fence but don’t cross over. It’s dusk.

“Admit, brother," says Samael, the one with the well-scrubbed boots. "It doesn’t just look the part, works too. Keeps them tight and happy.”
 
“Happy?” Malachi leans over to wipe off the droppings. He too likes his boots clean but knows it’s an impossible task. With a tap of his boot, he gently shoos the young hens and looks over at his brother. “You think they’re happy?”

“What’s not to be happy about?” Samael slams his heels on the fence. "Think about it, brother,” he says. “They sleep, feed, roost— all in one place. No time wasted, just a stretch of their pretty necks to peck, and when they tire, they can plop and rest on a bed of heat-resistant hay. All they possibly need is inside these concentric circles spreading out into the field like the petals of a rose. Ecological Art Deco Enriched Cages Complex, EADECC, we call it. It’s a gem of architectural engineering and warm as hell.”

“Warm as hell? Oh Samael, coming from you, that’s no joke.”

“It sure isn’t.”

Samael’s chortle booms...

Read more: Free Range Souls

 


 

Campfire

by Brigitte Whiting


We sat around a campfire in the backyard that evening, our parents and us four kids, aged four to fifteen. Dan, the oldest at nineteen, was in the Army serving somewhere that Mother didn't want to tell us. "You don't need to worry," she said. "I'll worry enough for all of you."

This was our first fire of the year, July first, and already the summer was hot and dry. I sat cross-legged on the grass staring into the flames. We'd roasted the last of the marshmallows. Grasshoppers hummed in the background. The first star hung like a bright teardrop in the eastern sky.

Mother sat over to the side and I watched her pursing her lips, frowning, and pushing back in her lawn chair. Dad stood up, got another chunk of wood, and threw it on the fire, the embers flying up till they were swallowed in the deepening darkness.

From inside the house, the phone rang, shrill, a wailing almost. I stood up to run inside but Mother jumped up next to me, her chair thudding to the ground behind her, and she knocked me out of her way. Dad followed her indoors.

"Who's going to call us now? What do you think, Kathleen?" my twelve-year-old brother asked.

"I don't know," I said. My breath felt clogged in my throat. My little sister leaned against my knee, her breath in my face smelling of sweetness and marshmallows.

"Maybe...

Read more: Campfire

 


 

Jack and the Beanstalk

by Albert Orejuela

The global wealth distribution has been heavily off balance, the scales of capitalism have plunged so far into disproportion they will fall before they will be fair again.  Jack and his widowed mother have economically crammed a century of mourning into an egregious year but failed to prudently pull a dollar of dividend out of a precocious penny; all the while all the affluence has impractically and practically belonged to one percent of the population.

 

Jack’s departed dad had all but literally bet the farm on the new government, voting for aristocratic candidates masquerading as bourgeois benefactors.  Pulling the masks of democracy from their fraudulent faces the moment they took their offices: Popular promises of pursuits and patriotism were promptly repossessed by despotic regulations and obligations.  Jack’s passed parent ultimately paid the price of that deception, and the family’s economic losses, by taking his own life rather than continuing his reprehensible reimbursement in stress, and he was not alone… suicide was rampant and not unexpected.

 

“Jack, I need you to go online and sell the last of our blue-chip stocks.  Without your father’s trading and with the latest round of tariffs, our portfolio is no longer the cash cow we need it to be.  Those dividends were our only income, and we’ll need money from the sale to continue to survive.”  The widow’s voice shivered slightly as she tried to hide her apprehension and hoped her son had learned enough...

Read more: Jack and the Beanstalk

 


 

Lost and Found

by Brigitte Whiting

Smelled: a gamey odor downstairs in the basement. Searched for its source but couldn’t find it.

Found: one dead mouse with reddish-brown legs and a white underbelly in the basement bathroom. A deer mouse. Picked it up with tongs, took it outdoors, and tossed it atop a four-foot pile of snow. It was gone by the following day.

Found: bits of foil wrappings and a chunk of nibbled chocolate on the floor of an upstairs closet.  

Found: a dusting of chocolate powder when I moved a new plastic jug of Nestles Quik. Discovered a 1/8th by 1-inch hole nibbled near its bottom.

Found: a torn-open bag of Hershey's Kisses.

Placed: chocolate mix canister and kisses in a trash bag. Kept them upstairs so a mouse wouldn’t find the treats again before trash pickup in four days.

Could not find: the mousetraps.

Bio: Brigitte Whiting lives in Maine and often uses settings and experiences from her backyard in her writing. She earned Fiction Writing Certificates from Gotham Writers Workshop and UCLA-Ext and is working on her WVU-MFA Certificate. In addition to facilitating WVU classes, she meets weekly with two local writers' groups. Her poetry group has published a collection of their poems, Wit, Wisdom and Whimsy.

Read more: Lost and Found

 


 

One Hundred Yards

by McCord Chapman

 

 

A deep sigh came just as Jason was pulling off the highway onto Route 11. He was close and could feel his back tingling as if his whole spine had suddenly fallen asleep. This happened every time he headed into a small town, no matter the location. His hometown had tainted similar places through memories of loneliness, frustration, and expected yet undeserved sympathy. Due to his small-town avoidance syndrome, Jason had missed housewarmings, weddings, and most family gatherings over the years. But this felt like a worthy sacrifice to maintain a comfortable distance from his childhood. Anxiety was an easy excuse to turn around, but he knew this time must be different. It was unavoidable.

The car’s backseat was filled with clothing & books to the point where most surrounding vehicles had been rendered invisible during the long drive north. Jason never noticed. He rarely checked his blind spots even on a good day. Water bottles were strewn across the floor in front of the passenger seat, along with a half-drunk, now spoiled fruit smoothie from earlier in the week. Burger King bags had joined this pile during his four-hour drive when Jason told himself there were no other options, but in reality, he simply couldn’t contain a craving for chicken fries.

The twenty-four-hour name-brand gas station swiftly came and went as Jason lit a cigarette for the final stretch, a Pavlovian response that kicked in once the Mobil was in his...

Read more: One Hundred Yards

 


 

Yearning - F2k WINNER!

by Noel



Trish pushed her hair to the side to show off her sparkling diamond earrings. “Alvin just got these for me. I didn’t even have to drop a hint.”

Heather leaned forward for a better look. “Oh Trish, they’re beautiful. And LuAnn, did I see you drive up in a new Lexus today?”

“Yes. It’s a belated birthday present. We had to send the first one back. Jeffrey surprised me, but it just wasn’t the color I wanted.”

Heather put on her biggest smile. “Well, cheers ladies. To all your new gifts.”

Trish beamed back. “Thanks, Heather. Now that John’s with the company, I’m sure you’ll be benefiting soon too.”

Heather sighed and shifted almost imperceptibly in her seat, then raised her glass of Prosecco. “Here’s hoping so.”

Heather allowed her friends to pay for her lunch again and then rounded the corner to her Kia. Slipping into the driver’s seat, she felt the sun-drenched pleather sticking to her thighs and closed her eyes to imagine the feel of cool leather cradling her skin. She drove home and pulled into the driveway just as her husband, John, returned home from work.

“Early day, hon?” Heather pecked him on the cheek and linked arms with him to walk up the front steps.

“Not really. I brought some work home. I was too distracted at the office.” John threw his suit jacket onto the sofa, kicked off his shoes, and headed for the kitchen. After grabbing a beer, he straightened up to find...

Read more: Yearning - F2k WINNER!

 


 

Flamenco

by Cedar White

We’re late, of course. Won last-minute tickets to a concert at the Greek, the Gipsy Kings, but now parking is impossible. Ten years of driving in LA and the traffic makes me want to move to, I don’t know, Kansas. Then my date points to a spot. “You almost drove past it,” she says. Thirty-nine seconds later we’re speed-walking with three hundred Angelinos and I think we might just make it when the crowd halts. Now it’s a human traffic jam, but, like most highway jams, no one can see the crash. Though that doesn’t stop all of us from rubber-necking. I spot the hold-up. Up ahead, walking, cane-in-hand is the oldest women I've ever seen. She's moving at the speed of dark, and the crowd, now a line, clusters behind her. We hear music, and people groan because now we’re all late.

 

Twenty minutes later most of the crowd filtered past the bottleneck, except us. We are trapped, and there’s nothing to do. Her gait is algorithmic: pause, cane, pause, left footpause. She strains each time to move her right foot. I’d jump ahead, but my date shoots me a look that says if I do she’ll take a cab home. I resign myself to the pace. It doesn’t matter. We’re nearly there. Still, I’m miffed and simultaneously ashamed of my miffedness. We follow her slowly for another ten minutes. Twenty more people crowd behind us. Then...

Read more: Flamenco

 


 

Marbles

by Brigitte Whiting

 I had plans for that summer and everything changed because of the marbles. But I’m way ahead of myself.

My brothers, Jeff and Mick, hung around Farmer Tom’s place, feeding chickens and riding on the tractor with him, watching while he milked his yellow cow, Bess. I’d been over there a time or two when Mama had shooed me out of the house to go fetch my brothers home for supper. I’d seen Mrs. Farmer a few times, a slight woman with gray hair pulled back loosely into a long ponytail and we’d waved at each other.

Farmer Tom died the last day of June and we were let out of school early, to mourn the loss of a great friend our teachers said, and to get us out of the school building because we couldn’t sit still for excitement. I should have figured something was up when I saw Jeff and Mick whispering intensely with Sam, the undertaker’s son.

Two days afterwards on Saturday, my whole family and me sat scrunched together in a stifling hot church, the fans creaking to push out even hotter air. Mr. Farmer’s coffin sat in front with a single vase of blue forget-me-notsnext to it. Mick kept shoving Jeff with his elbow, which jostled me into Mama. Mama looked at the three of us and glared, her lips in a tight line. Finally, she slid between Jeff and Mick. I kept noticing that Jeff and Mick...

Read more: Marbles

 


 

Ruler of the House

by Luann Lewis

We never should have bought this old house.  We sunk all our savings into it plus we took on a mortgage so huge that at this point I would have to pay out money just to get rid of the place.

 

I hate the sounds this house makes.  I hate the way it smells.  It’s a completely different house than it was the first day I walked in here.  That first day it was sunny.  This house at the top of the hill looked glorious even though it obviously needed work.  Sun sparkled off the windows and it was surrounded by green, lush trees.  Sam and I walked through it, room by room, amazed at the open area and imagining all we could do with it.  That perky realtor encouraged our dreams.  She thought our offer might be accepted.  It was all we had.

 

Champagne and chocolates were our celebratory dinner when we closed and the next day the movers brought our furniture then box after box.  Pictures were hung, beds were made, fluffy pillows were thrown onto the couch.  Cable was hooked up, and we snuggled in front of a real fireplace enjoying the heat as fall closed in. 

 

But the changing season brought more than just cold.  Sam shivered and coughed at first.  Simply a virus, we thought.  A few Tylenol and a good night’s sleep ought to take care of it.  ...

Read more: Ruler of the House

 


 

Abe, the Teenage Hypnotist from Planet Garfunkel

by Albert Orejuela

You’re hearing a voice, but no one else hears a sound. It’s a deep distant whisper, soft, safe, and inviting: the words of which you can’t yet make out. The harder you listen, the softer it gets; softer and softer, deeper and deeper. The more you listen to it here, the further away it brings you. You want to stop listening, and you try, but you can’t.

You don’t want to leave, but you realize you are looking at the door. There is an emergency exit sign above the door, and when you look directly at it the letters begin to move. Twitching at first, then bending and stretching. Back and forth, up and down. Until finally breaking apart and forming new words.

You read the sign again, for the first time, “Abe, the Teenage Hypnotist from Planet Garfunkel.” The clink of the door latch grabs your attention; as the long metal handle clangs against the door you realize you’re walking through it.

You should be outside, and you might be, but when you look around you just see white light. The walls, ceiling, and even the floor you are standing on are just light. You want to panic, but that indistinguishable whisper keeps you safe. You look ahead again and see a figure for the first time.

Pink and purple at first, but it’s bright and you need to blink a few times. As it’s coming into focus, you can hear the voice getting clearer...

Read more: Abe, the Teenage Hypnotist from Planet Garfunkel

 


 

A Night in Fontana

by TJ Marshall

Brody Carlisle halted his horse on the crest of a shrub-covered hill, slapped his Stetson twice sending dust floating skyward, and after placing it back on his head, coaxed a swallow from his canteen.

To the west, the sun slid behind a scattering of tall pillar-like plateaus. Their shadows snaked across the barren valley and across the town of Fontana like a giant disembodied hand with long, flattened fingers, claiming the settlement as its own.

Clicking his tongue, Brody guided his horse slowly down a narrow path toward the town. As he neared the first building – a squat shack with a bullet-riddled barber’s sign hanging from one squeaky hook – a dog, hidden somewhere behind the buildings, announced his arrival with a series of long low howls. The wide dirt road, splitting the town in two, remained vacant. The hairs standing on his arms told Brody he wasn’t alone; someone watched.

Making his way between a closed tannery and another building that displayed an assortment of hand tools and a bag of grain in its dirty window, Brody headed toward the far end of Fontana where the only stone building in town stood. Even in the fading light, the broad white letters that spelled “SHERIFF” were easy to read.

His horse huffed and slowed as they neared the building. Brody clicked his tongue again and urged him forward. Once in front of the sheriff’s office, Brody slid to the hard ground, tied...

Read more: A Night in Fontana

 


 

Full

by Luann Lewis

Food. Globes of mashed potatoes glistening with a thin layer of gravy, plump slices of pie gushing with ruby red cherries–food was sensuous. It was sensuous before Abby even knew the meaning of the word.  Sparkling Christmas goodies enticed her as a child. She would sneak from her bedroom, a tiny looter, to nab candy canes and foil-wrapped Santas as midnight snacks. Food was her reward, her comfort, her sanctuary.

Perhaps it started with the light in her mother’s eyes when dessert was served or the happiness in Mom’s voice when they went to a fancy restaurant. Eating was important. Food was joy.
Maybe it began in the dark when those intruding hands pushed her covers down and her nightgown up. M&Ms shoved into her mouth, mingled with her tears; a sweet reward for bitter pain. 


The bags of candy Abby got from the neighbor after he fondled her ten-year-old body seemed like a fair trade. How was she to know she was also accepting bags of shame?  Still, the texture of the sugar granules rolling over her tongue, the spunky lime, the happy orange, the surprising lemon all helped to lighten the heaviness in her heart.

 

When she curled up on her bed, bookagainst her knees, amidst bowls of cereal or bags of chips, she escaped into other lands.  Those crispy foods were her best friends.  Their animated crunch was loud enough to drown out the sound of her parent's...

Read more: Full

 


 

The Decision

by Brigitte Whiting

Stan stood on the sand, crumpled by how many people and birds running and sliding into it today. Now, it was getting dark, the last of the purple, streaky clouds turning black against a pale, gray sky.

Go or stay, just two choices.

He reached down for the wire handle of the lantern, then slid its switch to on, and set the lamp back on the sand. No one to hurry back home to. That’s what Marie said was the problem. How did she put it? “Dad, you’re drifting.”

A lone seagull flew overhead, screeching at him.

“Okay, okay,” he said. He buttoned up his red plaid jacket, pulled the edge of his cap tight over his ears, picked up the lantern.

His cell phone rang. He pulled it out and squinted to read the number before he answered it. “No, Marie.”

“Have you even thought about this?” her voice held a hint of anger.

“That’s not what I meant. I mean I haven’t decided yet.”

“You promised you would by this evening.”

He turned back and looked toward the black ocean. “I will.”

She was just like her mom, pestering till she dragged a promise out of him. Hard as it had been sometimes, he’d never broken one. But abandoning Beth’s grave, no, it wasn’t quite that, Beth wouldn’t know the difference anyway. It was leaving home, routines. Making changes.

He followed the path along the...

Read more: The Decision

 


 

Swiftwater

by Cedar White

10

Amos stood on a thick, muscular knoll on the shoulder of a dark river. He shivered, soaking wet from his silver hair to his leather shoes, and stared, disoriented, at the pines across the river. They seemed to stand with their backs to him. Amos felt his heart racing and realized he was out of breath. He turned. Behind him lay a rumpled blanket and an overturned bag of sandwiches. He turned again, still lost, and watched the swift surface of the river reflecting an apathetic sky. Somewhere in the tall pines a crow called. Amos heard a voice. His phone lay in the grass below him, and there was someone on speakerphone. The screen said Nina, in red letters. Amos picked it up.


"Hello?" he said.


"Daddy? Did you call?"


He paused, "I don’t know."


"Are you alone? Where’s John?"


"Not sure," he said. "I mean… I don’t know. I’m… there’s a river. I’m alone… and," he looked at his hand. "There’s blood."

1

Earlier that day John Faraday, husband of Dr. Nina Faraday, lifted their four-year-old into his brand new, overbuilt car seat, sufficient to protect the boy from almost any accident. "Dylan, time to hop-in strap-in. We’re going to get Grandpa," he said. Dylan sat, compliant, his curious eyes studying his father as he strapped him in.


"Gram-paw?" Dylan's voice squeaked, the second syllable a higher pitch, eyes widening as he finished the word.


...

Read more: Swiftwater

 


 

Minerva Shield

by Frank Richards

In July the monsoon rains returned and with them came the little green frogs. Price Aurigena had first seen them in the summer of 1969 when he’d arrived in Korea and now, a year later, they were once again everywhere. Frogs sprang from the ground like exploding popcorn kernels. They whizzed by his face from the sides of buildings. They dropped off the roof and twitched down the back of his shirt. At night, frogs were nestled in his cot when he pulled down the covers and frogs leapt from his boots in the morning when he got up to dress. On patrol one rainy night, he’d left the Provost Marshall’s Office, driven out of the compound's gate and, as he turned right, the road came alive, pulsating and undulating in the twin beams of his headlights. Not knowing what caused it and in a slight panic, he jammed on the brakes and his jeep slid to the side of the road on a slick of smashed frog goo. He had not believed the old-timers when they’d said it rained frogs here. Now he knew the unexpected could happen and maybe frogs really could drop from monsoon clouds.

Those clouds had other, almost supernatural powers. They affected communications, making the radio hiss and spit like an angry cat. He had difficulty getting through to the Provost Marshal's Office because of the interference, even though he might only be a few miles away.

When they had a...

Read more: Minerva Shield

 


 

Seinfeld Moment

by Frank Richards

I have studied martial arts all my life: Karate, Judo, Kenpo Tae Kwon Do, Aikido, and Hsing-I, but as I've gotten older, I pretty much stick to Tai Chi. I used to study Tai Chi at a park in Washington, D.C. called Glen Echo Park. It's an old park, not much used anymore. Most of the park has fallen into disrepair since the sixties. There's an old kid's carousel. I'm not sure if it still works. Shabby buildings, overgrown with tall grasses or volunteer trees sprouting up here and there, that's the character of the place.

I used to wear a T-shirt and shorts to Tai Chi. We practiced on Saturday mornings in a building that was also set up as a dance studio, you know, a place with wooden floors and big full-length mirrors in front. No one wanted to arrive late, because if you did, you wound up in the front of the class, and everyone's eyes were on you the whole hour we practiced.

One Saturday I was held up in traffic and realized I had to hurry so as not to arrive late. I parked and began to run toward the class building. I came around the corner of a building and two women ran up to me, one on each side. "How are you doing?" asked one, handing me a bottle of water. The other asked, "How do you feel?" as she ran along beside me. She handed me a sack...

Read more: Seinfeld Moment

 


 

Wedding Portrait – Life Portrait

by Glennis Hobbs

July 20, 1942


Escorted by her eldest brother Neil, Annabell walks across the front lawn to meet Bill. her groom. She is dressed in a long gown of pink net overlying pink point d’esprit. A bandeau of artificial roses secures her pink net veil. She also wears something old  —  a lace handkerchief belonging to her grandmother, something new — her wedding dress, something borrowed — her sister’s locket, something blue — a frilly garter. Her bouquet consists of pink roses and long ferns from her mother’s garden as well as sprigs of heather from Scotland. Bill wears white pants and shirt with brown jacket and a brown tie with green fans on it. 

 
Bill looks forward to living in their own home on St. Clare Avenue. He needs to make certain the chimney works properly. He fears a fire like the one that burnt his parents’ farmhouse. His mother grabbed the seven-month-old Bill and threw him in the manger while she ran for help.

Annabell looks up at her mother’s burnt chimney and sighs with relief. She remembers how, in the midst of wedding preparations a month ago, lightning struck the chimney while her wedding cake was baking. Annabell rushed the half-baked cake over to her next door neighbour’s house to finish it. Her younger brothers tease her about getting a warning from the Lord. She replies that she doesn’t care and insists she is getting married anyway. This becomes a family...

Read more: Wedding Portrait – Life Portrait

 


 

Salvation

by Teresa Crowe

S is for Scintillation. 

Their arms and elbows locked as they vied for control.  Major released her grip and dredged her beet-colored nails across his muscled chest.  Zane glanced at the four lines of ripped skin, blood dripped onto the rim of his pants.  He lunged forward, grabbed a clutch of her hair and pulled her close.  His sweaty face was too close.  Wafts of garlic and marsh invaded her nostrils.  Her stomach rolled and she had to swallow the bile as the edges of her vision waned.

“Bitch,” he seethed.  “I don’t know many times we have to go through this.  You know the game.  You befriend them, and then you bring them to me.  End of story.”

“Zane, these ones are too young.  They’re scared.  They don’t want the drugs or the booze.  They cry day and night.  What the hell am I supposed to do with them?  They won’t trust me.”

He loosened his grip and flattened her hair back into place.  His finger followed the trail of blood down to his navel.  He brought the bloodied finger to her lips and applied the macabre lipstick. 

“I don’t give a fuck how you do it.  Knock them unconscious for all I care.  When I say I need two, you bring me two.  When I say I need one with no hair or breasts, you bring me one with no hair and no fucking breasts.  If you can’t get your head around...

Read more: Salvation

 


 

-=> Click Here for More Fiction <=-

There Are No More Pets in My House

by

Enza Vynn-Cara

 

There is death in my house.

“It's gone to a better place,” she says. "Now flush it down the toilet and wash your hands. Breakfast is ready."

Like that, she cans Juju, our goldfish. She did the same with Didi, Ma’s parrot, ...

Read more: There Are No More Pets in My House

 

 

 

Revenge of the Fishy

by

Leona Pence & Tom Whitehead

 

 

 

Tom Whitehead: (In the deep husky Marlboro movie guys voice) HEEEEEEEEEEEER FISHY, FISHY, FISHY!

It was an early Saturday morning. He thought it was just another day of fishing, then all of a sudden out of nowhere he...

Read more: Revenge of the Fishy

 

 

 

Temp-Tation

by

Leona Pence

 

 

David Porter watched his wife and two sons as they played on the monkey bars at the park. He smiled in contentment as peals of laughter rang out. Two short weeks ago, he’d been in danger of losing his family.

...

Read more: Temp-Tation

 

 

 

Free Range Souls

by

Enza Vynn-Cara

Samael and Malachi, two brothers working for different bosses, sit on the fence dangling their booted feet each on their side of the divide. One pair of boots is caked in white droppings; the other scrubbed clean. It’s like a dare. Trespassing? Not quite. ...

Read more: Free Range Souls

 

 

 

Einaudi

by

Luann Lewis



An elderly woman shuffled up the sidewalk and took a seat on the bench across the way from me. I watched her slow steps and noticed her feet stuck in matted slippers and her swollen discolored ankles. Breathing a sigh of relief, I felt grateful...

Read more: Einaudi

 

 

 

Campfire

by

Brigitte Whiting


We sat around a campfire in the backyard that evening, our parents and us four kids, aged four to fifteen. Dan, the oldest at nineteen, was in the Army serving somewhere that Mother didn't want to tell us. "You don't need to worry," she said. "I'll...

Read more: Campfire

 

 

 

Jack and the Beanstalk

by

Albert Orejuela

The global wealth distribution has been heavily off balance, the scales of capitalism have plunged so far into disproportion they will fall before they will be fair again.  Jack and his widowed mother have economically crammed a century of mourning into an egregious year but failed...

Read more: Jack and the Beanstalk

 

 

 

Lost and Found

by

Brigitte Whiting

Smelled: a gamey odor downstairs in the basement. Searched for its source but couldn’t find it.

Found: one dead mouse with reddish-brown legs and a white underbelly in the basement bathroom. A deer mouse. Picked it up with tongs, took it outdoors, and tossed...

Read more: Lost and Found

 

 

 

One Hundred Yards

by

McCord Chapman

 

 

A deep sigh came just as Jason was pulling off the highway onto Route 11. He was close and could feel his back tingling as if his whole spine had suddenly fallen asleep. This happened every time he headed into a small town, no...

Read more: One Hundred Yards

 

 

 

Yearning - F2k WINNER!

by

Noel



Trish pushed her hair to the side to show off her sparkling diamond earrings. “Alvin just got these for me. I didn’t even have to drop a hint.”

Heather leaned forward for a better look. “Oh Trish, they’re beautiful. And LuAnn, did I see you drive up in a new...

Read more: Yearning - F2k WINNER!

 

 

 

Flamenco

by

Cedar White

We’re late, of course. Won last-minute tickets to a concert at the Greek, the Gipsy Kings, but now parking is impossible. Ten years of driving in LA and the traffic makes me want to move to, I don’t know, Kansas. Then my date points to a...

Read more: Flamenco

 

 

 

Marbles

by

Brigitte Whiting

 I had plans for that summer and everything changed because of the marbles. But I’m way ahead of myself.

My brothers, Jeff and Mick, hung around Farmer Tom’s place, feeding chickens and riding on the tractor with him, watching while he milked his yellow cow, Bess. I’d...

Read more: Marbles

 

 

 

Ruler of the House

by

Luann Lewis

We never should have bought this old house.  We sunk all our savings into it plus we took on a mortgage so huge that at this point I would have to pay out money just to get rid of the place.

 

I hate the sounds...

Read more: Ruler of the House

 

 

 

Abe, the Teenage Hypnotist from Planet Garfunkel

by

Albert Orejuela

You’re hearing a voice, but no one else hears a sound. It’s a deep distant whisper, soft, safe, and inviting: the words of which you can’t yet make out. The harder you listen, the softer it gets; softer and softer, deeper and deeper. The more you listen to it here, ...

Read more: Abe, the Teenage Hypnotist from Planet Garfunkel

 

 

 

A Night in Fontana

by

TJ Marshall

Brody Carlisle halted his horse on the crest of a shrub-covered hill, slapped his Stetson twice sending dust floating skyward, and after placing it back on his head, coaxed a swallow from his canteen.

To the west, the sun slid behind a scattering of tall pillar-like plateaus. Their...

Read more: A Night in Fontana

 

 

 

Full

by

Luann Lewis

Food. Globes of mashed potatoes glistening with a thin layer of gravy, plump slices of pie gushing with ruby red cherries–food wassensuous. It was sensuous before Abby even knew the meaning of the word.  Sparkling Christmas goodies enticed her as a child. She would sneak from her...

Read more: Full

 

 

 

The Decision

by

Brigitte Whiting

Stan stood on the sand, crumpled by how many people and birds running and sliding into it today. Now, it was getting dark, the last of the purple, streaky clouds turning black against a pale, gray sky.

Go or stay, just two choices.

He reached down...

Read more: The Decision

 

 

 

Swiftwater

by

Cedar White

10

Amos stood on a thick, muscular knoll on the shoulder of a dark river. He shivered, soaking wet from his silver hair to his leather shoes, and stared, disoriented, at the pines across the river. They seemed to stand with their backs to him. Amos felt...

Read more: Swiftwater

 

 

 

Minerva Shield

by

Frank Richards

In July the monsoon rains returned and with them came the little green frogs. Price Aurigena had first seen them in the summer of 1969 when he’d arrived in Korea and now, a year later, they were once again everywhere. Frogs sprang from the ground like exploding popcorn...

Read more: Minerva Shield

 

 

 

Seinfeld Moment

by

Frank Richards

I have studied martial arts all my life: Karate, Judo, Kenpo Tae Kwon Do, Aikido, and Hsing-I, but as I've gotten older, I pretty much stick to Tai Chi. I used to study Tai Chi at a park in Washington, D.C. called Glen Echo Park. It's an old...

Read more: Seinfeld Moment

 

 

 

Wedding Portrait – Life Portrait

by

Glennis Hobbs

July 20, 1942


Escorted by her eldest brother Neil, Annabell walks across the front lawn to meet Bill. her groom. She is dressed in a long gown of pink net overlying pink point d’esprit. A bandeau of artificial roses secures her pink net veil. She also...

Read more: Wedding Portrait – Life Portrait

 

 

 

Salvation

by

Teresa Crowe

S is for Scintillation. 

Their arms and elbows locked as they vied for control.  Major released her grip and dredged her beet-colored nails across his muscled chest.  Zane glanced at the four lines of ripped skin, blood dripped onto the rim of his pants.  He lunged forward, grabbed...

Read more: Salvation

 

 

 

The Explorers

by

Glennis Walker Hobbs

Black, ginger, and tortoiseshell felines zoom through the open screen door onto the deck. Black Nic pauses and surveys his domain from the top of the steps. Kittens race down the ramp and scamper into the backyard. Glory, the tortoiseshell, runs to the maple in the corner, ...

Read more: The Explorers

 

 

 

Beckett – you asked for this

by

Joy Manné

Here am I, on this grey morning, here I am again, entering this day as I entered yesterday and the day before and unless I am spared by death will enter tomorrow and the day after, endlessly growing older with the anxiety that brings, the fear of coming...

Read more: Beckett – you asked for this

 

 

 

Reconciliation

by

Brigitte Whiting

Mattie opened the front door. "I'll be back in a while, Henry," she said, then stepped onto the porch and clicked the door shut.

It opened behind her and Henry stuck out his head. "Wait, I can come with you."

She shook her head. "I need...

Read more: Reconciliation

 

 

 

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...

Read more: The Goldfinch

 

 

 

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...

Read more: Of Heroes and Holiness

 

 

 

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, ...

Read more: My Desk

 

 

 

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...

Read more: My Mobile Space

 

 

 

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...

Read more: A Red Squirrel's Narrative

 

 

 

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...

Read more: Talk-Back, Dear Lia, on FnF

 

 

 

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. ...

Read more: Reunion

 

 

 

A Fear of Broken Things

by

Angela Hess

“Does he look at you?”

 

My cousin’s innocent question triggers a flashing red warning light in my brain. My baby doesn’t look at me. I assumed he was too young still, but my cousin’s baby is only four days older than mine, and they are...

Read more: A Fear of Broken Things

 

 

 

Wild Roses Growing in the Ditch

by

Louise E. Sawyer


It is a joy to hold a lovely scene, a delightful moment, in memory.
~Marjolein Bastin

Frank was four and I was five and getting ready to start school when Dad and Mom moved us into a new house on Glasgow Avenue—a three-bedroom home that wasn't quite finished—in...

Read more: Wild Roses Growing in the Ditch

 

 

 

Hazardous Happenings

by

Albert Orejuela

At some point, everything comes to an apex.  Status quo can only persist for so long before the natural balance of the universe calls for consumption, and then it all comes down to a choice.  That’s it, a lone decision that ultimately leads down a pathway to a higher level...

Read more: Hazardous Happenings

 

 

 

Dealing with Rejection

by

Carolann Malley


Sending your writing out into the world can be scary whether you write poetry, fiction, or nonfiction. But, at some point, if you are a serious writer, you will do it. Getting a rejection letter back can be more devastating than asking a girl out as a teenager and...

Read more: Dealing with Rejection

 

 

 

Backyard Neighbors

by

Brigitte Whiting


I took an hour to walk outdoors in my yard, first to clip dead honeysuckle branches, pluck dandelions, and then to fill the birdbaths and feeders. And to ponder what to write about one of my backyard neighbors, the gray squirrel, Sciurus Carolineses. Its name is derived from the...

Read more: Backyard Neighbors

 

 

 

Betrayal

by

Angela Hess


My four-year-old son has a friend over. I overhear my son’s friend tell my two-year-old daughter, “Gracie, you can’t come in here.” Then my son’s voice: “It’s okay, she can play with us. Here, Gracie,” he says, presumably handing her one of the toys they are playing with. My mama...

Read more: Betrayal

 

 

 

The Weight of Emotions

by

Angela Hess

  I can hear my parents’ raised voices upstairs. They are fighting again. I turn on the sink faucet, letting the sound of the running water drown out their voices. I thrust my hands in the nearly scalding hot water and methodically scrub each dish in the sink...

Read more: The Weight of Emotions

 

 

 

An Apology

by

Brigitte Whiting

   I'm sorry that I hadn't thought of how I would take care of a puppy. It had seemed like a good idea, accept the gift of a puppy from acquaintances. She had the coloring of a coyote and was named Brindle for those tawny markings. I'd...

Read more: An Apology

 

 

 

Baby Precious

by

Louise E. Sawyer

It was Christmas Day 1950 and my sixth birthday. Under the tree was an unusually long, large box with my name on it. I was excited to open it. I couldn’t wait. When I finally did, I was amazed to look upon the most gorgeous doll I’d...

Read more: Baby Precious

 

 

 

Downsizing

by

M Clare Paris

 
I think about death quite a bit. Not morbidly, nor do I worry about what happens when one dies. Although I enjoy a spiritual life, I am also philosophical about the end of my life. If there is something else, it will be darned interesting. If there isn’t, ...

Read more: Downsizing

 

 

 

Absent But Present

by

Louise E. Sawyer


My father, Thomas George Sawyer, was absent at my birth and absent the first seven months of my life.

It was Christmas Eve 1944 at the two-story white house on Beechwood Drive-my Grannie’s house in Victoria, the capital city of British Colombia on Vancouver Island. Grannie Price, my...

Read more: Absent But Present

 

 

 

Gathering: A Contemplative Essay

by

Brigitte Whiting

I'm always looking for ideas to use in writing: for that prompt at which I first gulp and then slowly retrieve some thread of an idea, for the poem I need for the Monday morning poetry group, for an essay that's due in two days.

I've heeded...

Read more: Gathering: A Contemplative Essay

 

 

 

Seasons in a Wild Turkey Hen's Life

by

Brigitte Whiting

Last spring, a wild turkey hen incubated her eggs for twenty-eight days. When they hatched, she scrambled to keep up with them. Poults to scientific literature. Babies to her. She didn't need to teach them to scratch for bugs—they came with that instinct. Nighttimes during their first four weeks, ...

Read more: Seasons in a Wild Turkey Hen's Life

 

 

 

Lesson in Subtext

by

Joy Manné and Karen Barr

Roles

Teacher – Karen Barr

Student – Joy Manné

Teacher

WELCOME TO WEEK 8 OF SUBTEXT.

There is no word count, but the challenge is to get all ten types of subtext in as few words as possible. Here they are:

Show don’t...

Read more: Lesson in Subtext

 

 

 

Teenage Escape Plan

by

Danielle Dayney

I woke to warm, gooey air smothering me even though the ceiling fan was spinning on high. Dangling lightpulls smacked and banged the glass globe with each rotation of the blades. The base of the fan swayed and groaned, ready to jump from its screws in the drywall any second.

...

Read more: Teenage Escape Plan

 

 

 

Miracle Baby

by

Harry C. Hobbs

The mother and father watched as the sun rose on a cold morning in February 1945, wondering if their four-month-old son had lived through the night. Could miracles really happen? Perhaps this child they had wanted so badly wanted wasn’t meant to survive. His mother was a month past her...

Read more: Miracle Baby

 

 

 

Ylva the Úlfr

by

Cynthia Reed

When I flew to California in September, the golden archipelago summer, verdant below and mazarine above, still held sway. Twenty-three days and eleven thousand two hundred and forty miles later, if you’d sat here with me on the back deck this afternoon--you’d know, too--autumn now envelopes Sweden in...

Read more: Ylva the Úlfr

 

 

 

Thank You, My Tech Friend

by

Louise E. Sawyer




Thank you, my tech friend,
pretty with back dressed in rose gold
practical with front framed...

Read more: Thank You, My Tech Friend

 

 

 

What Is Not Said

by

Enza Vynn-Cara




Why do you speak and say nothing?
Say everything when you’re silent?
Am I to...

Read more: What Is Not Said

 

 

 

Ups and Downs

by

Enza Vynn-Cara




Up there
inside the tower
with the air filters on the roof
you watch the...

Read more: Ups and Downs

 

 

 

Telemarketers

by

Glenda (Glennis) Walker-Hobbs





those evil scourges of civilization
call morning, noon and night,
harass me every day
...

Read more: Telemarketers

 

 

 

Oceanography

by

Wynelda Ann Deaver





Ocean holds secrets close. Millions, trillion, gazillions of droplets mixed with millions, trillions and...

Read more: Oceanography

 

 

 

Mystery Man

by

Leona Pence



I once met a man from a far distant land, so handsome and charming...

Read more: Mystery Man

 

 

 

Minotaur

by

Joy Manné

 

Two children, girl and boy,

progeny of servants of King Minos,

...

Read more: Minotaur

 

 

 

Lullaby for a Lost Child

by

Glenda (Glennis) Walker-Hobbs




I

I feel you kick under my heart,
soon my special angel child,
I...

Read more: Lullaby for a Lost Child

 

 

 

Look Up

by

Gerardine Gail Baugh





Stand back and look up. Do you see it? Do you?
Alice's rabbit checking...

Read more: Look Up

 

 

 

I'll be a Poet

by

Glenda (Glennis) Walker-Hobbs





I’ll take my pen in hand

crystallize thoughts into ideas
paint magic with...

Read more: I'll be a Poet

 

 

 

Give Me The Wings Of An Angel

by

Leona Pence





Give me the wings of an angel
To lift me above worldly things
Give...

Read more: Give Me The Wings Of An Angel

 

 

 

Flashing Lights

by

Leona Pence




(My songwriting attempt)


I want to see all the lights upon a flashing...

Read more: Flashing Lights

 

 

 

Eidolon’s Wind Chimes

by

Gerardine Gail Baugh





I miss our disagreements, laughter and silent times.

Memories of listening to your...

Read more: Eidolon’s Wind Chimes

 

 

 

Don’t Piss Off (or on) a Yard Gnome

by

Leona Pence

Prose poem: This one was inspired by the poet’s dogs, Jax and Luna.


I cringed...

Read more: Don’t Piss Off (or on) a Yard Gnome

 

 

 

Do You Remember, AJ?

by

Glenda (Glennis) Walker-Hobbs





June 30, 1967, we met on Parliament Hill,
listened to the Centennial music gala,
...

Read more: Do You Remember, AJ?

 

 

 

Deacon Knox Young is Turning One!

by

Leona Pence



 

Everybody’s gonna have some fun.
Aunt Peggy, Uncle Kris, Sydney...

Read more: Deacon Knox Young is Turning One!

 

 

 

Daddy Dearest

by

Enza Vynn-Cara




Today, I saw you for the first time, without disguise, nestled in the corner where...

Read more: Daddy Dearest

 

 

 

Boardwalk Excursion

by

Glenda (Glennis) Walker-Hobbs




sunlight diamonds glitter on the lake,
blind me until I don sunglasses,
warm summer...

Read more: Boardwalk Excursion

 

 

 

Late Summer

by

Debbie Noland

The winner of the April 2019 Poetry Contest!

  
Summer gasps its last hot breaths,
panting...

Read more: Late Summer

 

 

 

Teenage Turmoil - (Aged 16)

by

Miss Natalie Sackstein.

Part of the series: #1 THREE AGES OF WOMAN

TEENAGE TURMOIL
by (Aged 16)

My mind is but...

Read more: Teenage Turmoil - (Aged 16)

 

 

 

Frustration - (Aged 28)

by

Mrs. Natalie Liknaitzky

Part of the series: #2 THREE AGES OF WOMAN


FRUSTRATION
BY (Aged 28)

Creation stifled. Each...

Read more: Frustration - (Aged 28)

 

 

 

Multipotentailite - (Aged 80)

by

Natalie Knight

Part of the series: #3 THREE AGES OF WOMAN.

MULTIPOTENTAILITE
(Inspired by Lydia Davis to write...

Read more: Multipotentailite - (Aged 80)

 

 

 

By Late Winter

by

Brigitte Whiting


My unfinished deck waits beneath two feet of snow.
The driveway is one long strip of ice,
and...

Read more: By Late Winter

 

 

 

Joy Crawls Out Of Her Bag

by

Louise Sawyer




In memoriam of Joy, my animal companion, who died January 9, 2018.

Joy crawls out of her sleeping bag,
...

Read more: Joy Crawls Out Of Her Bag

 

 

 

Cyber Sisters

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

we meet in online classes,
strangers in cyber space,
we share
a love of poetry,
a desire...

Read more: Cyber Sisters

 

 

 

Winter Ballet

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs




snowflakes swirl in a dance
hurl themselves against the window
pine trees rock branches to and fro,
gently, then furiously
...

Read more: Winter Ballet

 

 

 

Computers and Catspeak

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs


I move the mouse
over the pad
type in password

mouse?
did I hear the word mouse?
where...

Read more: Computers and Catspeak

 

 

 

A Soldier’s Letter Home – A Found Poem

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs



Based on letters by Private George Walker, written June 12, 1918-July 17, 1918

I got your letter just about lights...

Read more: A Soldier’s Letter Home – A Found Poem

 

 

 

Ottawa Reverie

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs



As I leaf through my manuscript of Ottawa poems, “In the Shadow of the Tower,” I decide to check...

Read more: Ottawa Reverie

 

 

 

Get Out the Penitentiary

by

Albert Orejuela

More Details...

 

 

 

Tulips or Three?

by

Albert Orejuela

More Details...

 

 

 

Rock and Roll

by

Albert Orejuela

More Details...

 

 

 

Garden of Hearts

by

Albert Orejuela

More Details...

 

 

 

Evil Eye-pad

by

Albert Orejuela

More Details...

 

 

 

Portrait of Solitude

by

Albert Orejuela

More Details...

 

 

 

Break Time

by

RJ Hembree

More Details...

 

 

 

Colors

by

Maggie Fieland

More Details...

 

 

 

Wild Horses with the Snow Covered Mountains

by

RJ Hembree

More Details...

 

 

 

Color Cubes

by

Maggie Fieland

More Details...

 

 

 

Rest

by

Albert Orejuela

More Details...

 

 

 

Camera Smile

by

RJ Hembree

More Details...

 

 

 

To Relax Wild Horses Before a Photo Shoot, I Find it Helpful to Tell a Couple of Jokes

by

RJ Hembree

More Details...

 

 

 

First Step

by

Karen Barr

More Details...

 

 

 

Orchid Alone

by

Albert Orejuela

More Details...

 

 

 

Veg 2

by

Maggie Fieland

More Details...

 

 

 

All Along the Watchtower

by

RJ Hembree

More Details...

 

 

 

Ham

by

Karen Barr

More Details...

 

 

 

Winter

by

Maggie Fieland

More Details...

 

 

 

Backlit Great White Egret

by

RJ Hembree

More Details...

 

 

 

White Lightning

by

Karen Barr

More Details...

 

 

 

Wild Horses

by

RJ Hembree

More Details...

 

 

 

Cow Gossip

by

Karen Barr

More Details...

 

 

 

Cooper's Town

by

Albert Orejuela

More Details...