Her Blank Page

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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

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Writing advice

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By Jamie Thunder

editors pickWrite 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.

Q&A

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By Nick Dunster

editors pick“Why’s the sky blue?” the little boy asks his father.

“Not actually too sure,” his father replies.

“And how long would it take to swim to the bottom of the ocean?”

“Hard to say,” his father says, rubbing his cheek.

“Is there an edge to the universe?”

“Well, you know, there might be.  There’s an edge to most things.”

“So what’s on the other side?”

“Ah, you’ve got me there,” his father says, smiling.

“Do you mind me asking you all these questions?” the boy asks.

“Not at all,” the father replies.  “How else are you going to learn anything?”