By Mason Yates …never want to leave. Penelope Valeria- also known by her nickname of Penny to lucky individuals who were fortunate enough to call her a friend- whipped her head around in an effort, or last-minute attempt, to…
By Dorothy Seehausen “She looks so, uh, different,” his sixty-nine year old Auntie said, peering into the bronze casket framed on one side by a fragrant bouquet of roses and on the other a poster depicting colorful highlights of Maude…
By: Michael Gigandet “There are two drivers to watch for,” my mother told me when she was teaching me to drive. “…little men in hats and women wearing glasses and scarves. They’ll run you over every time.” I was…
By: Carl Papa Palmer We raised rosesrelished by usand by the loads of lovely ladybugs,tended thymetrimmed by usand by our overabundance of bunnies,weaved wisteria for usand for the haven of one hundred bird nests. We transplanted tulipstreasured by usand by…
By: Michael C. Seeger Field Notes from a Far Place in the Mind Between vision’s palette and the processof its understanding and potential —an irrefutable question rattlesthe cold mind’s eye contravening everysteepled ritual from childhood forward —What replaces the irreplaceable?…
By: Jim Bates Frosty snowy moonThin clouds serenely driftingNight so softly veiled.
Ed Nichols of Clarkesville, Georgia has published another fiction book titled We’ll Talk Some More, which is a collection of southern short stories. The stories are set in the rural south, primarily Georgia. Each story captures the lives of ordinary…
By: Pramod Rastogi Harvesting Happiness Clouds brim with ambitions insaneAnd top up their tank with nostalgiaReady to besiege the barren farmlands.Here tears spatter in smoky plumesAnd in dance pose is the paddy farm. The sun is large in the sparkling…
By: Ursula O’Reilly STORM Rain is pounding tearsOnto my windowpane.Oozing tears intoThe abandoned forest. Wind wails in the treetops.The forest sways and creaks,Anticipating the worst.Water soaks leaves and grass. The waterlogged earth groans.Stout storm clouds gather,Soon to burst.The storm will…
By: Ruvindra Sathsarani The darkness, singsInOccasional chimesof how you cannotcoincidewith the saving ofhis soul, and it isn’tsimpleto wave your hand inair and tellthe world howan explosionsomewhere elsewas staged, stampedand launched, in seconds,and reason outwhythere were few dropsof bloodon your palms….