One Night


By Dianne Moritz

Drunk with desire,
she waited
for him to come

home and to bed.
She longed for
his warm breath

on her shoulders,
his strong back
pressed to hers

in welcome sleep.
She pulled open
the window shades

and stood, believing
Man in the Moon
duplicitous as he.

At dawn, she woke
to find his duvet
neatly tucked in.

Dianne Moritz writes to make sense of life and love.

Welcome Home


By Hayley Reese Chow

After a year in the desert, the polished airport linoleum shimmered like a haunting mirage of still water.

Alex hefted the olive bag on his shoulder and stepped onto the escalator, gliding down toward the gaggles of excited families and friends waiting below. He watched another Lieutenant drop his pack and rush into the arms of a squealing brunette, her rosy Santa hat falling away in the passionate embrace.

Alex fingered the ring in his pocket, the one Jen had mailed back to him with her regrets.
With a sigh, he walked past the strangers and got in a cab.

“I work numbers during the day and spill sentences in the wee hours of the night. Words that sit in the soul only go sour, and writing is the cheapest therapy there is.” – the writer

Saturday Morning


By Kelley Morris

Late morning cup of coffee
Favorite blue jeans and
James Taylor t-shirt
Quiet music playing
In the background
My busy thoughts
Speeding toward
The upcoming week
While simultaneously
Revisiting the previous
Another sip of coffee
Suddenly I remember
Today is Saturday
Time to breathe
Slow my thoughts
Allow difficult moments
To become tiny specks
Obscured by splashes
Of bright colors
On a large canvas
A reflective painting
Of the past week
Where encouraging moments
Cause trying ones to fade
All on a Saturday morning

Kelley Morris writes because it “helps calm her sometimes over-thinking brain.” She is a wife, mom of three young adults, pianist, and an elementary music teacher. She is most at home when sitting at the piano.

Wisdom Listens


By Virginia Miranda

Knowledge speaks, but wisdom listens. Jimi Hendrix

She stood in the middle of her apartment and sighed. She felt like a ship without a rudder … a compass resting on a mobile phone, her poles reversed.

On the wall hung her favorite quote – A wise woman once said, ‘Fuck this shit,’ and she lived happily ever after.

Her thoughts ebbed and flowed. Was it wisdom or courage she needed to steady the ship?

Wisdom comes from living, she decided.

As the Air France jet taxied down the runway, she felt a thrill of anticipation for the future.

I love the challenge of writing drabbles, of condensing my wayward thoughts into 100 meaningful words.



By Sian Taylor

“What the—?”
Home from work, Helen sees the eggs and flour on the kitchen floor.
Her daughter looks up from her cellphone.
“Zack was making pancakes and dropped stuff.”
“Why didn’t he clean up?”
“He ran out of time. He’s gone to soccer.”
“What about you?”
“I didn’t do it.”
She’s had enough. Helen scoops up the eggs and flour, adds corn and a slosh of milk and starts stirring.
Thirty minutes later Zack’s back, throwing his soccer gear on the table.
“What’s for dinner? I’m starving.”
“Corn fritters.”
The kids eat quickly.
Helen chews her cheese sandwich.

“I write because I really enjoy it – and it’s great if others enjoy it, too.” – the writer

Submit Here


By Dirk Dunbar

If my poem is a commodity
why does the oak outside
call to me? The wind taps
a branch against my pane.
I write because nature is
always communicating.
If you happen to read this,
go outdoors and count
every organism you can.
It might help you question
our social norms. Inside
and out. I am not writing
to please you. Just imagine
swimming in the Red Sea
for no other reason than being
baptized in your own mind.

Dirk Dunbar has been writing poetry for some 50 years, but only recently started sending them to publishers. He loves expressing himself “in ways that cannot be shared in mere academic terms.” Dirk played pro basketball in Europe for nine years and has written four books—two scholarly and two aesthetic/autobiographical.

He Said, She Said


By Dianne Moritz

“If you’re angry,” he said,
“dig deep for the source.”
Must I dance on daddy’s grave?

“Relief for rage,” she said,
“is boxing, karate, running.
Take revenge on terra firma.”

“Try writing,” he said.
“It’s good therapy.”
“Punch pillows,” she said.

Weighing the choices,
I take up the mighty pen …
Writing, righting my life.

With an illusive stab, or two.

Dianne Moritz enjoys capturing brief moments in time, celebrating trials, tribulations, and beauty of life. She dreams of publishing a book of all her drabble.