It’s Over


By Bibiana

Amalie kept a diary throughout the ordeal. Today, on August 15th 2020, the emotionally recorded journey ended with a tiny punctuation mark.

“The news came just now in hushed tones – the end at last. So different from photos of crowds and kisses in New York on a jubilant V-E day. What will happen now? What will bring me out of the loneliness that went with me to bed at night, and greeted me in the morning? What will normal be?”

End of journal.

A ping from her iPhone. New message: Amazon update: Your order of Cottonelle Superior Clean has shipped.

“The last line of a potential drabble pops into my mind, and I have to write around it before the idea is gone.” – the writer

Seashell Scars


By Darlene Holt

The nomad of the sands,
discarded, abandoned, forgotten like
stories of the past.
Yellowed, molded
by the hands of the sea, forever
scars across ivory skin, but still
it wanders, searching
amongst the sands and seas,
a resilient warrior, bearing
its wounded armor with pride as it shines
brighter than even the diamond sands
in all its broken beauty.

“I write to remember, but also to forget.” – the poet



By Albert N. Katz

The armed trucks no longer roll passed my house, carrying the bodies to be cremated in the communal fire pits. I open the window but hear no human voice. Instead, I hear the chirr-chirr-chirr of a robin, signaling that spring is around the corner. I pull on my rain boots and for the first time in six weeks go outside. The air is smog free, and I can see buds on the trees, the tips of plants that have broken through the mushy soil. I walk to the pond, whistling and stretch my arms, embracing the warmth of the dawn.

“I’ve always written. Published poems in my twenties, spent 40 years as an academic writing scientific articles and now retired write poetry (again), short stories and sometimes even shorter pieces. ‘Aftermath’ was written during covid-19 isolation as a means to keep my brain active.” – the writer

Learning To Ride


By Helen Merrick

I see them from my window, a family in the park. Two small children wobble along on bicycles, eagerly following Dad, who slowly rides ahead. Mum trails behind bouncing a baby in her arms. She calls encouragement while watching, hawk-like, for signs of trouble. The older girl stops to adjust her helmet. She turns to wave at Mum before peddling furiously to catch up. The younger one, shrieking with joy, uses her bike like a scooter, feet never touching the pedals.

It’s comical, sweet. A family doing what families should on a warm spring evening – despite awful world events.

When she’s not teaching, Helen Merrick writes short fiction and poetry for fun.

Silent Hunter


By M.D. Smith IV

He’s dressed in camo. His rifle held at ready in his arms. The safety is on. Ever so quietly, he eases through the woods. His eagle eyes in a squint as he searches for his prey.

One cautious boot step at a time. Listening. Birds chirp, and in the distance, a squirrel scolds the intruder. While he makes no sound, his motion gives him away from a distance. Ever closer he approaches but doesn’t know it.

I am nestled motionless in the bush near his feet as he passes by me. That boy won’t have rabbit on the menu tonight.

“I write for fun and to better my skills in fiction.” – the writer

Decades of Storms


By Ivor Steven

Over the decades
I’ve lived through many storms
I read about an Atlantic island storm
After midnight
I had a dream about my life’s storms
At dawn
I shall open my door to the storms

I will then wait for my storms
To vacate the dark
And ask the morning sunlight
“Am I still the pilot?”

Ivor is a retired plumber, former industrial chemist and primary caregiver to his wife who suffered from severe MS. Most of his writings are about her and their tribulations over the 30 years of her illness. After his wife passed seven years ago, Ivor has gradually become more public with his poems.