By: Vanessa Cutts A dusty old brass gramophone stood in the corner of the square, sparsely furnished room. The only other piece of furniture was a long wooden divan seat that doubled for sitting and sleeping. Black and white photos of…

By: Richard Lutman   He hoped the long drive through the cold December rain would be worth it. The decision to see Nancy again hadn’t been an easy one. It had been a year since he’d seen her last. There had…

By: Josh Lisiuk I am about to start Allow the journey to depart Please have a read of my poetical story Its one that took place in the odyssey Our brave Hero, Odysseus fresh from the battle of troy A drift…

By: Kharis Lund My cocaine angel speaks to me In psychedelic light Bring forth visions of ecstasy In moments that feel just right My needles are all rusty My veins, bruised purple-blue But my white angel still sings to me…

By: Kharis Lund The dead brown grass resurrects itself The trees no longer stand like sterile skeletons The flowers rouse themselves in blooms of color And the sun comes out of hiding, brighter than ever But nature lied to her…

By: Mitchell Krochmalnik Grabois I was drawn to all the wrong things ego ambition callousness Even after I understood I refused to be enlightened I dated women solely as an excuse to scare them half to death with my reckless driving…

By: Arthur Heifetz   In your hands, the fuchsia, which had never lasted, survived the winter and bloomed again in spring. At the first sign of frost, you took them in and placed them in a warm spot by the…

By: Anne Britting Oleson Ornate, wrought iron: I gently screw the plates into the doorjamb, a clockwise turn of the wrist tightening the dividers of my world, replacing a door which ages ago some previous resident of this house felt…

By: Andrew J. Stone The game went like this: My brother and his friends would stand in a circle facing each other with a stick of dynamite in their mouths. They’d light the wick and whoever let it burn the…

By: Geoffrey Hoffman What is poetry? In what form should it be written? Ought it to be written at all, or is it nothing but escapist nonsense behind which we shy from reality? These are questions so old that it…