By Alanna Pass
from my pencil
anchor me to this earth
like a kite on a string.
form words on these pages
giving shape to my thoughts
running wild in my head.
These lines that form words
are lassoed into sentences, then paragraphs
a calm order brought from the spiraling chaos.
My soul is tamed
At least for a while
From the simple act of writing.
By Jade M. Wong
A chilly breeze plucked a white petal off the tulip sitting at the open window.
He loves me.
A second plucked petal floated with the breeze before coming to a rest on the damp soil.
He loves me not.
The flowerpot trembled as a stronger wind blew in, sending petals fluttering in the air.
He broke my heart.
A giant gust rushed in, flinging the flowerpot across the room, shattering the clay and showering the floor with soil.
So I’ll break everything he’s got.
By Kecia Sparlin
Keith drove me to the station. He carried my bags, bought my ticket, and waited with me for the bus.
“Give Emily my love.”
I’d stay a while with our daughter while I looked for a place of my own nearby.
“I’ll tell her.”
The bus rolled, and I turned to find Keith through the window. Twenty-five years of marriage, I thought I should wave goodbye to the heartless bastard even if he felt nothing.
The brakes shrieked. Passengers screamed. My head hit the seat.
“A man,” a woman shouted. “He ran in front of the bus!”
I want to be a crayon today
an instrument of imagination
intermediary to ideas
incendiary to action
A familiar of the hand
the color of thought
iridescent when I want to be
I want to be hugged
by cinnabars and ceruleans
blended on rag
with indigo and heliotrope
except when radiated
a shaving of once was
Proud scribble of sunday
the purple of saturday
melting all over you
I want to be a crayon today
… I love waiting in line because it feels like working without having to actually work.
… I give my inner child permission to just set my monkey brain aside while I’m waiting in line.
… Actually who am I kidding? I hate lines as much as the next guy.
… In fact, screw that guy! (with his one-two-three-four … thirteen-, fourteen-fucking items in the Express Lane!)
By Robert Krenzel
This Lady has lost her way.
She is an immigrant: a French girl, originally.
She welcomed others, lighting the way to a better life.
She watched, twice, with pride as the boys sailed off to rescue her homeland. She counted them back; too many never returned.
She wept as she watched the towers burn and fall. They were immigrants, like her. How could they?
She grew angry and suspicious.
Lately she has lost her way. The light has gone dark. She no longer welcomes the wretched refuse.
Only for a time. Maybe just for a few years. Maybe just four.
Bio: Bob Krenzel writes historical fiction in his spare time. A 24-year Army veteran, he served in the Balkans, Iraq, and Afghanistan.
You will fall in love with words and writing, and in the process, you’ll hear this a lot: “Don’t write like a victim.”
Don’t listen! Don’t let anyone else tell you how to express your truth.
Someday soon you will come to realize the Universe is arbitrary. Things will happen that are outside of your control, and some of those things will be painful. Yet, somehow you will make it through, I promise.
I’ve written this because I love you, and I don’t want you to ever forget that.
Your future self