Ghosted

By Diana Diamond

I’ve been crumbed like a pigeon
I’ve been simmered into a crisp
I’ve been ghosted so bad
I no longer exist
The backburner; a familiar place
Cook me into perfection
Leave without a trace

I’ve been ignored into oblivion
I’ve been gaslighted into denial
I’ve been unmatched and crossed out
Blocked and deleted;
Oh, you name it!
I’m a one-hit wonder;
You hit me once then leave me wondering

I’m a heavy lifter
Carrying a dead horse
The horse is riding me
And now I am trodden
A fatal encounter
But to you, it’s all forgotten

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“I write because I can.” – the writer

Cataract

By Lynn White

Before the moment when the cloud cleared
I had no idea how blue the sky was,
no idea how silvery the rain
though I’d felt it many times
falling gently
or fierce
as a cataract
after a storm
and I’d searched my memory
and my imagination
to find how they were coloured.
Before the moment when the cloud cleared
from my eyes
and tears spilled
like cataracts,
I had no clear idea.

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

Choose

By Chris Cooper

It starts with picking crayons, cartoons,
interests, and curiosities.
Choosing playmates and hobbies,
eventually a trade and vocation.
And then the choices aren’t so easy, resulting in consequences,
trauma, bliss, or both.
You’ll choose a partner or lose one, maybe.
You might make a decision that sends you to an early grave
or somewhere very much alive, halfway across the world.
You’ll grow complacent or incomplete,
nostalgic or hopeful;
you’ll die alone or with a loved one.
And it’s of uttermost importance,
making choices,
because it’s a series of choosing
that dictates the quality and quantity of life,
so choose.

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“Writing, for me, is one of the most enjoyable existential distractions.” – the writer

Listen to the Hum

By John L. Malone

O
for the ears
of Gilberto Medina,
the 69 year old foreman
of the laundry room
at the Hotel Pierre
who could detect a problem with a machine
by a slight variation
in its hum;
if I could have listened to the hum
of my relationships
like that
I might still have been with my ex,
avoided an eight year trainwreck
moved further along in my profession
become a better poet
but as it is
what can you do?
I’ve always had a tin ear.

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“I read about Gilberto in a recent New Yorker and it inspired this piece about listening.” – the writer

Fate of the Art

By John Davis Frain

First time, I was doing laundry.

Joey Jr. handed me a drawing. “It’s you.”

I smiled at his effort. Until I gazed at the artwork. Birds pecking my eyes. Next day, walking to my garage, two crows swooped down, talons grabbing my hair.

Another time, on vacation, illustration of me on a stretcher. Hiking the following day, I slipped into a ravine. They airlifted me out.

I sent Joey to boarding school. Yesterday’s mail arrived with a picture of a demon dragging me up the basement stairs.

I hear my ex-lover’s car rattling out front. No sense locking the doors.

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“I’m shopping a novel, and I write short fiction to hone (or develop) my craft.” – the writer

Writing the Write Stuff

By Sandra Arnold

“Stan says you’re a writer.”
“Yep.”
“Nice job. Sitting on your bum all day waiting for inspiration.”
“Well …”
“What name do you write under?”
“My own.”
“Never heard of you. I like to read that crime guy whatsisname and the wife likes that romance authoress whatserface. Maybe try your hand at that, eh?”
“Probably not.”
“So what do you write?”
“Literary fiction.”
“Yeah? Whatsisname is a millionaire. Worth giving that a go, if you ask me.”
“Ah well.”
“I won a couple of writing competitions in primary school. Might take it up again when I retire. Bit of extra money.”

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“I write to create imaginary worlds that readers can relate to.” – the writer

Old Delhi Couplet

By Rachaita H.

I will go to Ghalib’s house, the next time I’m in Delhi
Pay him homage with one of those urchin flowers
That lie fallen – on the sidewalk of the street
I must visit the old poet
One of these moonlit evenings
In the city of lovers, they call it
His spirit still walks along the winding lanes
Or so, some believe.

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“I write to externalize my thoughts, and to give others a glimpse into my experiences.” – the writer

Ode to the Beach

By Dianne Moritz

Oh, to wander the beach
on spring afternoons.

To relax in the sun,
or slide down big dunes.

To hear the surf roaring,
waves splashing on shore.

To watch sea birds feasting,
seagulls dive and soar.

To pick pretty seashells,
appealing driftwood.

To reflect and to dream,
as everyone should.

To exult in sea mist,
breathe in fresh salt air.

A beach walk in the spring
is beyond compare!

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“I write to express life’s simple pleasures.” – the writer

I Wear Your Jacket Today

By Sheree Shatsky

The drab gray with the corduroy collar. You left the cuffs unfastened, the red flannel lining cold. A pack of smokes in your pocket, a book of matches in the other. A cigarette hole on the sleeve. You said you would quit. You’d try. You never did. You liked to watch the embers burn, the ashes flick cool, as do yours, cast vast across the snow.

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“I write like there is no tomorrow, getting the words down, leaving perhaps, a bit of my past on the page.” – the writer

The Get Together

By Prapti Gupta

Today my mom and I are very excited. Today we are going to meet with our father after a long time. I am very excited for it. But the meeting period is very short, just 10 minutes.

We reached the place. Mr. Morgan was waiting for us. He was the medium through which we are going to talk with him. We are going to do planchette.

My mom and I haven’t talked with him since the day we two died in a road accident a year ago but my father survived! It’s really a special day for both of us.

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“I am a 17-year-old girl from India. Writing thriller stories has been my hobby for a long time.” – the writer