By Rachel Doherty
Again, I’m left waiting. It’s the third time someone forgot to pick me up at school this month. Mom will blame Dad and Dad will blame Mom. I blame them both. Living half my life with one and half with another. In other words, all of my life without someone.
They say it will get better. They say they just have to work out a better schedule. Ever since the separation I am told just give it time and the kinks will get worked out. I know better. This is the new norm. I’m done waiting. I’ll just walk home.
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
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
By Mentalist at Work
I can’t recall our first kiss
but I remember our last.
You tasted of coffee and toothpaste.
I murmured goodbye,
still naked, bleary eyed.
You let yourself out and drove back
to your work
I fell asleep and didn’t dream
By Isabelle Andres
When the words go, the writer’s loneliness installs itself,
makes its home into her head.
She is there, silent as always
only this time the words no longer flow through her veins
No longer supply her oxygen.
She sits there still and the words are within her just as always
only this time she can’t feel them cuddling her.
can’t feel them loving her.
She can’t connect to them and see that they are there just as always
only awaiting for her to wake
By Jamie Thunder
Write about what you know, they said. But when she wrote about the hollow pull of loneliness and the fear she felt when walking alone they said no, no that is self-indulgent, and unfair on the many men who do nothing to warrant fear, even late at night when the bulbs in the streetlights are broken and the shadows run across the pavement like foxes. So she wrote about dragons and magic instead, and they praised her humor, her lyricism, and her vivid imagination.