A Relationship in Bottles

By Emma McEvoy

Perfume Bottle
You present it on our second date, elaborately wrapped and tied up with ribbon.
“An old-fashioned gift, for my old-fashioned girl.”
I return your smile, but realise you’ve got me wrong.

Champagne Bottle
You pop the cork, and we sip the dream-filled bubbles, sharing promises of ever after. As the sun glints off my new diamond, I tell myself your tight grip is a sign of the depths of your love for me.

Arnica Bottle
I wince and dab at the marks you’ve left on my skin, blooms which will bruise,
and I realise I got you wrong.

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“I write in an attempt to stay sane.” – the writer

Winter Babies

By Charis Negley

Unnatural beauty of newness of life
When everything else is cold and dead
A small cry, a warm touch
All else is still and snowy
The harsh time of year allows a birth
Breaking the rules for just a moment

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Charis writes “to find beauty in jumbled thoughts.”

Each Morning an Animal

By Nolcha Fox

Each morning an animal
growls at the clock,
rises from bed,
brews thick mud coffee.

Each morning an animal
works out to music,
leads a zoom meeting,
kisses his wife.

Each morning an animal
paints on a smile,
pretends to be house-trained,
then hunts with the pack.

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Nolcha has always written, “starting with poop and crayons on the walls.”

Nightswimmer

By Raymond Sloan

Toward the shuck of sea she drew
In blackness lit by whited loom.
Like stone in throw she hit the water
Cold slaps of stroke and breath fought her.

She buried till it burned, came to
Inhaling the room, the cosmic view.
Blue skies and tides a world away
This girls ol’ stroll at end of day.

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“I write because I love writing.” – the poet

The Poems I Have Not Written

Another favorite from the archives.

By johnlmalone

I am outside late at night
Writing poems
About the poems
I have not written
The ones I’ve shied away from
Because of embarrassment
Or timidity
Or fear of shedding my jovial persona
And find
Somewhat alarmingly
That the poems I have not written
Far outnumber those I have

           
John Malone is a South Australian writer of short stories, flash fiction and poetry.

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Secret

By Eryn Murphy

My younger self once thought being the last to know your secret was a badge of honor. I wore it with silent pride, masking the agony of you choosing someone else.

As a prize for untangling your new web of lies, I find myself unwillingly part of another triangle I never knew existed, one more cleverly hidden than the last.

I may be the last to know again, but I realize she is not your secret.

I am.

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“I write to preserve my emotions like a time capsule.” – the writer

beatitude

By Sister Lou Ella Hickman, I.W.B.S.

how blest is the brief the momentary
the day lily
the cherry blossom
the cactus flower
and the one high sweet note sung
long enough to make the heart weep
blest is the brief
our breath
a bird’s flight across our acre of sky
blessed one look of love
one ache that makes us whole

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“(I write because) I must.” – the writer

Emergency Call

By Dwayne Allen Thomas

Jane unlocked her phone to call Judy. For the ten thousandth time, James had questioned Jane about her clothes. First, it was cute; now, it was grating. Even worse, he was right. Sort of.

James inferred low self-esteem from Jane’s slightly-too-sexy-in-every-situation wardrobe. When he would say, “You’re wearing that?” (in a tone more condemnation than compliment) he was thinking, “You’re beautiful just the way you are.”

However, Jane relished power. Entire rooms paused when she entered. Nine months into the relationship and James didn’t get it.

Jane scrolled through her contacts and called John.

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“I write about the social and psychological roots of success, and other stuff.” – the writer

Regrets

By galianoalison

I sit at the scrubbed wooden table, firelight flicking shadows across the room, nursing my drink in solitude as the moon climbs into the star-filled sky.

It was a good trade.

One youngest daughter in exchange for a lifetime of wealth. Generous dowries to ensure my eldest two marry well. My wife has the fur coat she’s always wanted. Dresses. Jewels. Servants to do the heavy work. No one will ever be hungry again.

I only wish the calculus of one life balanced against three hadn’t seemed so simple, because when I’m alone at night, the math is less clear.

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Alison organizes community on a little island in the Salish Sea and enjoys deconstructing fairy tales in her spare time.

Dusk.

By Joshua K. Sapp

Yesterday’s crippled destiny plagued Richard. Was it a man who watched him from the street, or was it a ghost? A spirit conjured by memory and guilt. He crossed the wet street. “No such thing as ghosts.”

Shaking hands found a crumpled Marlboro soft pack, “Hey buddy. You got a light?”

Long, thin fingers produced a battered Zippo. Pale flame lit a hard face, “Sure.”

Richard took a long drag and exhaled. “Do I know you?”

The shadowed lips moved, “No reason you should.”

“Are you following me?”

“I am fate. I follow everyone, but this night we walk together.”

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“Drabbles fascinate me. It is amazing how much story can be packed into one hundred words.” – the writer