By: JCK Hnry graying light of morning in the graying light of morningi stand before the riseof a day built on hope and possibility. cold seeps through crumblingseals between window paneand wood. he pats the bed,whispers, come back to me….

By Autumn Sun The birthed, grew into epitaphs of demise. It’s growing pain, the elongation of anguish, hinged on joints connected to the bones of spuriousness. The crimes against brother and sister, shape the desolate unfertile ground, no longer harvesting…

By: Lyndsay Stanley All of her benefactors were dead.  Even Robert.  Her Robert.  She could close her eyes and still feel his gentle touches and the warmth of his tender lips lovingly hovering over her own.  He was the reason…

By: Cat Sole One: Shoebox             This was stupid, he thought as he dug. The dog was dead. Definitely dead.             The stupid yappy thing. Glenda loved it, doted on it, insisted it came everywhere with them.But John drew the…

By Amrita Sharma Numb When the human touch had lost its feel,To a perpetual cold that embraced within,In a morbid dusk with a timeless trail,A residue rests on a shining slate. The burning frames had left no marks,The scattered hues…

By: Sara Mahmood Ushered into a pathBy crushing crispy grassI witnessed an invitationFrom the wilderness The hanging creepers waving with windGesturing like fingers of a maidenI accepted and went onFor it was a provoking call It felt like a gripIn…

By: Edward Ahern Poets, more than fiction writers, are victims of the idiosyncratic tastes of readers and editors. Each journal nurtures its peculiar vision and spurns work that isn’t kosher. This leads to a lemming-march death rate for the publications,…

By: Mary Marca “Ha, ha, ha! Whoooeee! That’s really funny!” The sound of Dick’s laughter reached to all corners of the bar as his eyes darted about, checking the reactions of his co-workers. He reached for the beer pitcher and…

By: Okeypoet A Spirit Stirs A song,a stir from within,i am moved;Something touches me,i know I’m alive,i feel life;So much happiness,so much sorrow,the soaring eagle,the simple sparrow;I am lost,i am found;Life, is so profound. ### He’s Back The muse is…

By: J. Ross Archer May Jean Hancock was born to a mountain woman and a West Virginia coal miner. Her father was killed in a mining accident when May was a baby, leaving May and her mother without a source…