It did not feel right when he touched me but I said nothing because I trusted him.
He meant the world to me. I craved attention from him so I accepted everything.
One day Mum came home early and he was in my room, when we had our ‘special time.’
Mum went ballistic and a part of me did not understand. In my eyes he could do no wrong.
My life was changed forever, I would never see him again.
Part of me still missed him dearly, secretly I blamed Mum.
I loved him dearly.
But did he love me?
The writer lives with her family in London and has decided to make more time for writing.
By E. B. Bradley
“I plan of dying before I turn 35,” she said as she balanced on a chair, trying to get her panties from the ceiling fan.
“Why’s that?” I ask, muffled from lying face down on the bed.
“Because nothing good could possibly happen after that,” she answered pulling them back on.
I haven’t seen that girl in years, I hope she’s doing well. Still as beautiful and wild as ever, like a human firework. I hope her plan fails. I’d love to see her ride life with the same vigor at 60 as she did at 19.
“I write because words can show the romanticism of everyday life.” – the writer
By Juanita Rey
I have a dog.
He whines for walks,
for me to toss a ball
so he can fetch.
He doesn’t beg for sex
like the guy he replaced.
Being needed has taken
a turn for the better.
“I write because it helps me to understand my life in this new country.” – the poet
By John L. Malone
A little kid climbs into an oven.
It is dark and sooty as a cave.
The kid turns on his torch.
The door shuts behind him.
Someone turns up the heat.
His brow perspires, his eyes begin to bulge,
His heart to race.
The kid scrambles to find an opening, bangs on the glass.
The door slowly opens.
The kid staggers out.
There, says a stern, kindly voice. How was it?
Life isn’t plain sailing. Just so you know.
Huh, who was that? The kid asks.
No one answers.
Bio: John Malone is still into it, fascinated as a kid before a cave where his writing might lead.
By Barbara Schilling Hurwitz
I screamed. The visceral pain too much to contain as my baby was wrenched from what I had falsely assured her was the safety of my arms. Words were fired at us, words we could not understand, words filled with visible hatred. Fear and unanswered questions consumed me.
Caged with others pained like me, frightened not for ourselves but for our innocent children, I weaved through the stench of the anxious crowd toward an opening in the pen, hoping for a glimpse of my baby.
A guard who spoke my language explained, “She’s been taken to another shelter.”
Barbara Schilling Hurwitz writes “For the joy of creation, the journey and the delight in watching my characters grow.”
By The Cheesesellers Wife
He told me of how coal can be split
To reveal hoof prints of long buried deer
If you get the angle and grain right
Of how, in the deepest mines
Darwin was proved each day
By the strike of a miner’s hammer
And how opening the coal opened him,
Drove him to library and Miners Institute
To learn, wonder, argue
His gentle voice, with its natural grace
Led me into his world
To the child opening trap doors in constant dark
To the young man, passionate for justice
Filled up with the joy of learning
All forged in coal.
“I write poetry because I have to, they come to me. I blog for the company.” – the poet
By Teresa M. Stouffer
On my side,
on my back,
on my side.
I count my breaths.
Some numbers exhale ghosts.
Three … Olivia drowns,
Thirty three … my niece’s age now,
Fifty nine … Dad’s when he died.
I exhale my number.
Exhale my number.
“I write because I fill up inside and need to have a way to spill the overflow and free up space for more.” – the writer