By: Ruth Z Deming She’d kept his photo at the bottom of her jewelry box, under her stunning wedding ring that bastard Stewart had given back, after the four children were grown. She took back her maiden name, Goodland, had…
By: Carol Smallwood Lois Ruskai Melina, authorPaper back: 182 pages; $16.95: Kindle $5.99ISBN-13: 978-1951651411Publisher: Shanti Arts LLC (September, 2020)http://www.shantiarts.co/uploads/files/mno/MELINA_GRAMMAR.html A reviewer, Rene Denfeld, longlisted for an Andrew Carnegie Medal for Excellence in Fiction, observes about The Grammar of Untold Stories: “Each essay…
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: Frank William Finney Little Eden Our little oasis betweencondos and traffic sheltering shades ofgreen and grey. You’re under the creepersscanning the skyline. I’m in the doghousehowling as usual. We’ll keep our distanceWe’ll keep our vows till either one of…
By: Alan Swyer On a Tuesday evening in March, after getting cold feet three days in a row, Darlene Cook finally made an announcement to her family while serving dinner. “As you all know,” she told her husband and two…
By Rex Bowman It’s early summer and I’m sitting on the couch, hurriedly flipping through the sports channels with an air of desperation, as if the pin has just fallen out of the grenade and I need to find it…
By: Sultana Raza Part 1 Most artists and writers keep their inner space sacred and inviolate. The core from where their creativity springs. Some keep their inner world more private than others. They don’t need a quarantine imposed by the…
By: Strider Marcus Jones MY OLD SOCKS my old sockssheath the feetthat fill my bootsto walk on land. hard hands, sweating like peat,still break rocksin imprisoned heatborn trapped rootsin dynasties of the damned. the faded thread-diminishes in duty until deadwhile famous…
By: Sterling Warner “A load of buck salt in the butt was worth the price of stealing cherries and other fruit from the luscious orchards that seemed endless my youth,” Drew muttered to himself as he walked down Campbell Avenue….
By: Stephen Kingsnorth Fizzled The flame fizzled from first light,the history book at my finger tips:the roar red brand – a claimant mark –reminder where we had first met,now on my hand as hers had been,as if reluctant palms to…