By Nayana Nair
When you see me walk toward my grief,
toward my past,
with my head sinking down,
with my hands full of my own pieces,
stop me dear.
Come to me.
Run to me.
Call out to me
even when you think I cannot hear.
Hold me back
even when you think I cannot be stopped.
that you will try.
Nayana is an engineer and technical writer who also moonlights as an amateur poet. She says, “Writing for me is a process of self realization and an effort to understand what is ever-elusive.”
By G. Allen Wilbanks
“Why are you afraid of the dark? Darkness is the natural state of everything. It’s the light that’s unnatural. When God said, ‘Let there be light,’ he was imposing an artificial reality on a universe that had previously only know known total darkness and emptiness, and every force in nature is currently trying to drive us back to that original point of neutrality. Everything around us is temporary, and at some point in the future we will all return to that initial state of nothingness. It’s inevitable.”
“Maybe,” his wife admitted. “But, I still want you to replace the lightbulb.”
G. Allen Wilbanks is a member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA) and has published over 60 short stories in Deep Magic, Daily Science Fiction, The Talisman, and other venues. He has published two story collections, and the novel, When Darkness Comes.
By S.B. Borgersen
Partners were compulsory at primary school: for nature walks, for P.E., and to return to class after playtime.
Partners were picked, most popular first, until there was very little choice left. I, with my missing front teeth and my old black plimsolls, was always a straggler. So were you.
Fifty years later we are still partners. We had so many other things in common.
S.B. Borgersen writes because she just cannot help it, she also knits socks, and walks her smashing dogs on the south shore of Nova Scotia. Her favored genres are short and micro fiction, and poetry. She is a member of The Nova Scotia Writers’ Federation, Writers Abroad, a founding member of The Liverpool Literary Society, and she judged the Atlantic Writing Competition (Poetry) 2016 and Hysteria (Poetry) 2017.
By Dianne Moritz
That house is lonely now.
First my dog, next your old cat.
No one expected a cancer,
So quick and greedy.
How I miss your laugh,
Blaze of blue eyes as you
Spoke of love and work,
Offered sage advice.
I miss these happy sounds:
Ice tossed in a glass,
Jazz in the background,
The unlikeliness of us
Being together there.
Those brief moments,
Memories so clear,
while the house stands
Bereft now, cold, empty as air.
Dianne Moritz enjoys capturing brief moments in time, celebrating trials, tribulations, and beauty of life. She dreams of publishing a book of drabble.
By Dianne Moritz
I could write the saddest poem.
War, disease, famine, bone-chilling
Cold seeping in through the cracks.
I see the saddest poem: words spilling
From your mouth, smooth as lies,
Those empty promises never kept.
Yes, I could write the saddest poem,
But for this – one lone bloom
Brightens the barren winter bush.
Dianne writes poetry and picture books for kids. Her next book, Hey Little Beachcomber, will be out in May, 2019.
By Roy Gomez
I would’ve bet a heart couldn’t ache any more. But I was wrong. There my boy sat, alone, waiting in that silent chapel for someone, anyone, to show up for his dad. Danny gripped flowers. Even wore my favorite tie. The knot was tight, off-center. That too was my fault. I wished I could cry. I was grateful to Bud, though. He was late – almost missed it all – but he came. As shovels of dirt thumped on my coffin, my old cellmate consoled him. Telling whoppers. That hurt worst … my boy feeling proud of his old man and all.
R. Gomez has been kicking words around for a while. He lives with his wife and pets on a hillside overlooking Medina Lake directly in the center of the Milky Way.
By Ali Grimshaw
the light turns red before we have left the intersection
leaving our tail end vulnerable
our brakes don’t work, spinning on black ice with
blurred windows of reaction
we must go slowly, inching through the fog in faith
blinded by dense thoughts
breakdowns leave us on the rainy roadside
forgiveness shows up like an invitation
an off-ramp never seen before
we just need to stay on the road
grip and steer