By Andrada Costoiu The artist’s prison Your fingers are dancing molding the clay,In shapes that your heart has requested,Trembling,Touching with the force and desire of your inmate thoughts,That promise to become something. You clothing, covered in the black ash of…
By: Katrenia M. Busch The lighthouse The sun was shining through the cloudsAs the ocean waves poured inThe sky above indeed—did crowdAs the lighthouse stood within Within—the lapse of time foundWithin the depths of aweAs you listened carefully to the…
By T R Bates I feel like I’ve come to a small milestoneOr turning point in dealing withBarbara’s passing.Last Sunday morning wasA beautiful time for a bike ride,Up to the store for a few groceries whileSkirting a newly renovated park…
By: Nathaniel Okolo ! Approximately 12,000 miles away from camp Ajian, General Promes sat morose at his desk, slouched over in his too comfortable leather chair, he thought to himself, that this must be the most unproductive period in his…
By: Linda Barrett Johnny sat down across from the Singhs in the living room of their new home. Crossing his lanky legs at his knees, he spoke in his soft, gentle voice with his matching smile. “I used…
By: Ryan Quinn Flanagan Breaking into Song Instead of Houses No need for the skeleton key, the glass cutter,that dreaded ski mask in the darkwhile the family is away, or worse,when they are at home feeding cats withfaces more beautiful…
By: Marvin Thiele “Steven, you really need to stop calling me,” came her warm voice. “But, it’s been a year. I haven’t called in a year,” Steve said. A sigh, on her end. “Okay. Yeah, I guess that’s…
By: Katrenia Busch The sound of the alarm clock echoing in my head, as I’m still asleep and late for school again. “Daniel! Are you awake?” Dad’s probably still trying to impress that whore, he dragged home again. “I’m up!”…
By: Ed Nichols Strange Dog I have a strange dog. She can talk when she wants to. Sometimes she says, “E Pluribus Unum” when we are walking. I ask her what is she saying. She doesn’t answer. She usually…
By: Aruna Subramanian The caged canarypreserved her wingsfor another day,when she couldspread her songsacross the blue sky.Days & nights flew bybehind the closed doors.She waits and waitsfor the dawnthat might recoverwhat lay beneaththe layers of dustbelonging to the ages,disappearing,forgotten,her desire…