The Weary Healer

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By Mark Tulin

I don’t want to be a healer anymore.
I grew weary of helping people,
massaging and soothing a troubled spirit,
absorbing their pain and suffering,
and spending years redirecting them
to a manageable change.
I don’t want to be a therapist anymore,
sitting across from a client who distorts the world
and help them out of crisis mode
from a one-hour session to the next.
I want to take care of my woes,
treating my wounds and hurts
and befriending my child-within.
I want to find a sense of place,
discovering the joys in life,
and getting good REM sleep.

             
“Writing creates an intimacy with the world.” – the writer

Lifted

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By Piano girl

Lost track of time
Wandering in the
Shadows between
Dark and light

This will pass
I told myself
A feeble attempt
At reassurance

And then …
Thinking of you
Are you ok?
Praying for you

Glimmers of hope
Breaking through
The haze to
Light my path

Cautiously I
Inched forward
Each step
Growing lighter

My spirit
Began to rise
As the fog
Lifted

             
Piano girl writes “to calm her sometimes over-thinking brain.”

Fence of Thorns

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By Shelly Norris

If I should not wake
before the wind cleans house
do not be surprised if I do
not remember your names
you dejected yellow scales
moping inconsolably
floating spiritless
petal-by-petal down
baptizing the concrete drive
in your final demise
leaving that corner
of the yard
light-less for the rest
of another long year.

               
Norris writes “to explore vicissitudes of unrequited love and loss, dysfunctional wounds, healing quests, and the role of cats in the universal scheme.”

Sid Said Said

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By Fiona M. Jones

“Sid always says said,” said Sarah with a sigh. Sarah’s stories never said said. Sarah wrote untagged dialogue and hoped for the best.

Vera nodded vehemently. She valiantly avoided the verb. Vera always veered violently off into various virtuous alternatives. Her characters stated, confirmed, surmised, breathed, chanted, barked, requested, blurted, and—weirdly—smiled or frowned their lines of dialogue instead of saying them. Reading Vera’s dialogue resembled riding a bucking thesaurus through a heaving labyrinth.

But Sid almost always said said; and, strange to say, no reader who wasn’t a writer had ever complained that Sid said too many saids.

           
Fiona Jones “has a short attention span and writes very short things.”

Something Good May Come of This

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By may hem

When the word came that all schools would be closed, that shops and businesses could only admit up to 50 people if they could keep them two meters apart, that all those who could, must work from home, they wondered about all they would do while confined to their home.

“Maybe there will be a baby boom in nine months,” her husband intimated out loud. “Or a surge in divorces,” she augured in her head.

           
“I write to express intentions that missed their mark or ideas that couldn’t find another outlet.” – the writer

Yours—

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By Louise Worthington

Not yours sincerely, yours faithfully, best regards or best wishes, kind regards, or regards.

Love.

There are half-remembered quotes I would like to say to you. I can’t remember the way you said them, or I said them but I wish I could.

I have a snapshot of you in a park beside a swing weighted down by iron chains and the sun is in your hair – the tremendous harvest of your hair.

We weren’t a story, not a short story. We were unfinished letters and we never knew how to end them.

Was I yours ever? Ever, yours?

           
“I write to connect with others and to express myself and what I see around me.” – the writer

Age of Winter

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By Tess M Shepherd

A lifetime, not months, had brought her to this final season. Old-woman’s bones in the chair by the window. Shrouded in blankets like the garden’s blanket of snow. Everything she once was shrunk to bare monotony. Even the memories dwindled. Without them, why live?

Outside, a flash of fire. An ember glowing amid winter’s decay. Her robin, like a symbol, sparking faded recollections into brighter hues. Children playing, before they flew the nest. Her husband, gardening beside her while he lived.

“Feed my birds,” she told the visiting carer. Then smiled …

Ever faithful, the garden still gave her a purpose.

           
Tess M Shepherd is currently working on two full-length historical novels. It has always been a dream of hers to be a published author.