The Other Me

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By Toni G.

the other me

wears her hair slicked back

in a tightly woven braid

about three feet long

it swings fiercely as she walks

it tells folks to beware of this dame

the other me

wears 5” heels like a boss

has great legs

looks great in a mini skirt

and has power lunches at midnight

the other me

holds doors open for men

slaps them on the ass as they walk by

winks at them when they turn around in surprise

I don’t think I’ll ever get to meet

the other me

            
Toni G. writes because there’s just so much that needs to be said. She believes that everyone is a poet.

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By Rex Chilcote

Life is long;
the older you get,
the more you worry.

Confidence is for the young and naive.
When you don’t know the dangers,
you think you know everything.

When you get older,
you see more of the
insanity around you.

And you want to hide.

         
Rex is a chemist, a father, a husband, and an author trying to keep it together. He says cigarettes and scotch seem to help.

And the Way He Glares at Me

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By John L. Malone

I don’t want to face him again today. Each morning it’s the same. He’s hung over, strung out, bleary-eyed, unshaven and his hair — it looks like something slept in it overnight. He could make an effort. Spruce himself up a bit but no, the same old, same old. Mr, Ragamuffin. And the way he glares at me first thing in the morning. Is that really necessary, moaned the mirror ?

         
John Malone writes short stories, flash fiction and poems. He is working on getting a manuscript together.

Space Dew

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By Neil Clark

When you were in space, you told me the thing you missed most about Earth was the morning dew.

I spent the next decade threading our garden with a thousand webs, tall and broad as the house. I became an expert in 3D light displays. Rigged them so they’d catch the droplets perfectly.

On your first night back, you were quiet, like you were worried your words hadn’t adjusted to gravity.

You slept for eighteen hours and when you woke up at dawn, you went to the middle of the lawn and wept about how you already missed the stars.

         
“I write to surprise myself.” – the author

Mystery Solved

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By Jason E. Maddux

It happened suddenly. So sudden no one noticed at first. One of life’s greatest mysteries solved, and nobody picked up on it. Then reports began to trickle in. Individuals around the world posted about it on social media, timidly to start. No one wanted to sound crazy.
Once the hashtag started trending, the story went mainstream. Local, national, and international networks carried the news. #missingnomore appeared on everyone’s lips and in their feeds.

Apparently, a little-known Welsh fairy, Sock Finder Madix, ended her 500-year hibernation and got to work. She promises to wake her little sister, Key Finder Madix, soon.

           
Jason E. Maddux is an aviation attorney, who uses writing speculative fiction and children’s stories as a creative outlet each night once his two daughters are in bed.

Clarity

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By Alice Benson

Daphne’s hair was the iridescent amber of maple leaves in autumn and her giggles flowed freely at my every joke. After four months, I left a toothbrush in her bathroom. Still, we circled warily, neither of us able to commit. One Sunday, we stopped downtown at a slow red light. A man with a crusty beard and ragged clothes began a ponderous shuffle toward the car, his hand outstretched. “Lock the doors!” Daphne exclaimed, at the same moment I reached for my wallet. When I let her out at her apartment, we agreed she could just toss my toothbrush.

         
Alice Benson discovered writing as a passion in the third act of her life and spends much of her time in pursuit of metaphors. Alice’s novels, Her Life is Showing and A Year in Her Life were published by Black Rose Writing.

Bus Stop

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By John L. Malone

It’s a sunny day, a Sunday, I think.
It will be good to see the grandchildren.
I go down to the bus stop.
My friend is there,
You been waiting long? I say.
Yes, she says. It’s like waiting for Godot. Do you think it will come soon?
Of course, I say. It’s a bus stop.
We wait and wait.
The sun slides down the deepening blue sky.
Hunger gnaws at me.
I try to remember why I came here.
A young man strides up to us wearing a white uniform.
Come on you two. Dinner’s almost ready.

          
John Malone has settled in his new home and is relishing writing again.