By: Anthony Ward             It was not a sun day like its namesake. Instead the sky was overburdened with cloud. The rain that was forthcoming remained so. Though today that suited Dan down to the ground. He had hoped for…

By: Alan Berger Nobody is listeningSave your breathYou will only find out whyAfter your deathThink I’m kidding?Here comes the rest This is the hookAnd here is the stingNobody is listening But then again, it’s sure fun to trySing your private…

By: James Bates The summer when I was eight years old a new highway began being built about a mile from our farm. My older brother Lewis and I were fascinated by the huge, noisy machines: road graders, dump trucks…

By: Linda M. Crate perhaps another queen you’re barking up the wrong treeif you only want a night of bliss looking for a lovedeeper than the roots of the oldesttree, and i’ve been told to bemore realisticbut miracles happen every…

By: Mayesha Islam Abanti Let’s, o dear!To heal, as a matter of fact ;To indulge in a mystical sphere of tranquil.To love, with the heft of savouring allure.To escape, like the valourity of a bird looming around with incessant flee.To…

By: Harrison Linklater Abbott I was in the library at high school and was hovering over the aisles. I wasn’t much interested in novels. But when I got to the magazine section I came across these mustard coloured mags which…

By: KJ Hannah Greenberg Lost Sagacity By sounding smooth or inviting, sagacity often vanishesAmong words, turns of phrase, weird little expressions. Consider; a surfeit of depression, weight gain, glandularTrouble, fatigue can be sourced to rhetorical brouhaha. When fighting “monsters,” one’s…

By: Praniti Gulyani There’s a lot that goes into your dad being a doctor. When your dad is a doctor, you get to step into a white coat that almost blankets you; covering you from head to toe. You get…

By: R.T. Castleberry THE SILENCE IN FALLING Staring down a waning January moon,I feed dry brush to the campfire,watch the desert track of freight carsrounding a mesa silhouette.Wild dogs yelp, loping the crossties.Rising night pulls at my hat brim,carries bright…

By: Doug Bolling Urn Times 0ne night a year I attend theesteemed artist telling of his life,his travels through the longtunnels that become poems, poems in their rich cream,their motions and soundsthat lift from the pageand mingle with theshadows. 0ne…