By Jim Bates

I awaken to bird song. Really? So soon? Groggily I pull back the thick curtain and my eyes open wide in wonder. The sun is shining! I can see clear blue sky. Winter is over and the world has come alive. I run outside and embrace the new day. Yellow daffodils are blooming. Red apple blossoms, too. It’s spring! I find a park bench and sit, joyfully soaking up the sun. I’ve been stuck inside for six months. What did I miss? People walk by and smile. I smile back. Then it dawns on me. My guess is a lot.

“I write to try and bring a bit of happiness to people.” – the writer


By Liz Mayers

“Sit here in the moon light,” Grandma said, “Let it do its work.” I challenged her. “No,” she’d said. “No proof it does any good.” I often sat with Grandma on the porch in the moon light. Now, every month, my daughter meets me on our back step. We sip tea. In silence. In the moon light.

“I write about things I long for.” – the writer


By Lynn White

It was an accident.
You were involved
but it was an accident.
it would have starved and died,
but you fed it lies and watched it grow
fatter and fatter.
It was you,
who fattened it up
to make the bloated monster of today.

“I write to let the words escape.” – the writer

Yon Silv’ry Moon

By Fiona M. Jones

“Look,” said the judge. “You can’t just assault someone for writing ‘thee’ and ‘thou’.”

“But he did it WRONG,” the defendant insisted. “And he said azure and stuff. I HAD to do it.”

“A poem can’t harm—”

“Just read it, please, your honour.”

The judge gulped.

His eyes rolled in different directions.

He struggled to breathe.

“Case dismissed,” he said hoarsely. “Let the defendant go. Clearly this was reasonable self-defense.” He dropped the paper and wiped his hands.

“Thee,” said the poem, crumpled but unabashed, “art the yon silv’ry moon, Whom scaleth the azure stare case of nights room.”

“Well, this particular story was inspired by some people who post their poetry on Twitter.” – the writer


By Dianne Moritz

“Clothes of the dead won’t wear long,” wrote Ruth Rendell in her novel, The Brimstone Wedding. I was to remember that when my mother died suddenly.

My siblings and I flew out to Arizona to clear out her house for resale. “You can have Mother’s clothes,” my sisters announced, as if offering up precious jewels.

“No thanks!” I snapped.

“Some are brand new. These even have store tags attached. See?”

“So, divvy them up yourselves.”

In the end, I took a few things.

Back home, I unpacked them, then bagged them up for Goodwill.

“I write to capture indelible moments in time.” – the writer


By Andrew Anderson

The cottage on the west coast where we’d spent our childhood summers, was gifted to Eve; your savings, accumulated through a lifetime of avarice, went to Sam.

Reading from the will, the executor looked embarrassed to say that I’d inherited your wooden treasure box; the ugly shell-covered one you kept on the fireplace, decorated with cockles and periwinkles, varnished to preserve it from dust and soot.

I’d never know what you kept in it, though I’d always been curious. I hoped for a valuable family heirloom—a brooch or a ring for example.

But it was empty, just like your heart.

“(I write) to lay memories to rest.” – the writer

Modern Accessories

By Archibald Hobbs

Standing in front of her mirror, Katie critically assessed her appearance. Would Marcus like what he saw?
She pursed her lips and shook her head. Returning to her bedroom, Katie rummaged through her chest of drawers before plucking the item for which she searched.

“Yes, that’s better,” Katie purred as she inspected the image in the mirror. Her pink mask was just right. Small enough to reveal her endearing dimples. Tight enough to outline the promise of her plump, kissable lips. “Okay,” Katie said whilst opening her wardrobe. “Now, which jacket matches?”

“Archie writes primarily to impress his wife, but would not object a wider audience.” – the writer

Johnny’s New Telescope

By Salvatore Difalco

“Astronomy is for the birds,” I grumble, voicing old disappointments. “You learn nothing about life or reality studying stars.” They’re too far, too old to be of any use to my gooey mind. No matter how I squint my eyes, it all looks like a lit up nowhere. Meanwhile the precocious grandson—wearing a self-applied red-and-white polka dot bowtie of unknown provenance—has fused with a tube and froths about the nearby Red Planet, mighty Jupiter, and the mind-boggling multitudes of stars. Sadly, his passion is not contagious, but nowhere isn’t fairer or cooler than his happy little light show.

“(I write) for passion.” – the writer


By Steven O. Young Jr.

I’d attended his funeral from a distance. “Friends and family only.” I’d almost asked whose, but was choked up enough. Our time together amounted to a dash on his stone.

His executor later apologized with a box. For the loss, I presumed. She left before I could stomach opening it.

His left hand greets me, stiffened mid-wave. Evaporated rivers drained his ring’s tan-line reservoir. They’re shallower than the dash.

I navigate his tributaries and guide him to my source. I weather his wave along my shores and drown under his caress. For the first time, we both feel whole.

“I write to give greater depth to the dash between the years my figurative headstone decides to highlight.” – the writer