By Steven Holding
Forbidden things were hidden away on a shelf in her father’s office. Musty hardback books that only grown-ups should look at. An antique letter opener shaped like a samurai sword. Catapult and cap gun; confiscated contraband, never to be fiddled with again. Even on a stool, standing on tiptoe, she still couldn’t reach. “It’s unlikely you’ll ever be as big as me” her old man would tease.
Putting the urn in its place, she wonders how something so small could possibly contain someone who was always much larger than life. And when exactly was it that she got so tall.
“Twenty-six letters rearranged then placed upon a page never ceases to amaze.” – the writer
Dear Mr God’s gift to women,
Aphrodite would turn in her grave
if she knew your hands had
touched the purest of hearts,
Mother Nature would spit the ocean
back at your facetious face
if she knew your lips had touched
those you are unworthy of,
I now understand why Eve bit the apple
if Adams were destined to become
men like you, you are not a God
you are merely a serpent in disguise.
“I write to watch the pain roll out with the ink, onto the page and out of my mind.” – the writer
Circular cracks show on its map
Its rivers do not flow, only dried up sap
Mountains rise up and its structure still sure
However, the dying giant has no cure
Grey, empty, hollowed out
Water it cannot go without
It gains new life on a lonely night
when by lightning strike it is set alight
Its ashes nourish
The soil it will encourage
Seedlings sprout from its ground
The extent of life is ever profound
Tanzelle writes “for creative expression.”
By Dianne Moritz
How I yearned for the golden years as I hit retirement age. Days with plenty of free time, relaxing by the beach, traveling to far-flung, exotic places: Tahiti, Peru, Paris. No work. No worries.
In reality many friends died, suffered dementia, or moved away. Then, suddenly came a global pandemic no one could have fathomed in their worst nightmares. Life changed in an instant.
Now, we huddle in our homes, wipe everything down, wash our hands raw, wear masks, and pray. Yet, still, people die.
The future of this brave, new world looks bleak.
“I sometimes write to help lessen my anxiety.” – the writer
By Ashley Andrews
Anger is a starving beast
Her place will forever be above you
She consumes weakness
She feeds from defeat
She thrives when you submit
She dines on fear
Bitterness is a gluttonous fiend
Her appetite is insatiable
She finds little nourishment in affection
She ravishes discontent
She feasts on the broken spirit
She pushes you to the abyss just to watch you fall
The sadist is a beautiful deceiver
She insults you
She breaks you down
She discards you
She opens her arms wide
And you find comfort in her warm embrace
If only for a moment
“My keyboard types odes to pouring rain, terrible coffee, sleepless nights, Ramen, flaccid cacti, and many more muses, because they all deserve flowery words.” – the writer
By Ron. Lavalette
After a couple hours bobbing in brilliant lakewater, there are grapefruit margaritas on the sundeck, or maybe a couple of cold beers out under the shadetree. Everybody’s full-throated, half-naked, sunburnt, and totally shot by three o’clock, even though happy hour is still several hours away. Everyone’s already as happy as anyone can be, thanks to their lengthy lounge, chips and dip in a darkened bar, and their spirited but friendly debate about the current sad state of affairs no one’s paying any real attention to anyway.
Eve snaps up a Tupperware filled with applesauce, steers Adam toward the back door.
Ron. Lavalette writes “to overcome his stir-craziness up on the Canadian border in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom.”
By Arinda duPont
If you stop the dancing girl, and stare into her eyes
you can see they are red and puffy from crying all the time.
For all her whirls and twirls,
and carefree spins
there are tremors in her hands.
If you can watch her long enough you might realize
that she is not dancing,
but trembling, silently weeping, spinning out of control
“I write because I don’t know who I am without writing.” – the writer
By Shane Kroetsch
I see them all. Walking as a means of social interaction, or an escape from a forced family life. They stroll down the middle of the road, at a distance. Or the sidewalk, close enough to touch.
If only my biggest complaint in life was boredom. If only I could ignore facts, because they stand in the way of my own privilege.
I squeeze above my knee, massaging the pain away. Except it doesn’t ever really go. From what I’m told, the worst is yet to come. Which is why I’m up here watching, instead of down there living.
“I write to make sense of life, and to give the monsters in my head a place of their own.” – the writer
By Dianne Moritz
Isolated here at home,
Healing slowly, safe, alone.
Watching movies on demand,
Comfy, cozy, Coke in hand.
Theaters closed up anyway.
No complaints, so here I stay.
Watching films for price of one,
Popcorn, too. I’m having fun!
Finding joy in every day,
Till this virus goes away!
“After a recent traumatic fall own a flight of stairs, shattering several bones, and in a care home for over 3 months. Virus free, I’m healing and writing again.” – the writer
By Tim Dadswell
I pass the familiar ‘For Sale’ sign outside our house.
I find Celia reading in bed. Her manicured nails, cream-cleansed complexion and slender body are now meant for another.
Her head turns. She scans me top to toe, spotting a hole in my sock. One corner of her mouth curls upward.
My well-rehearsed sentences shrivel into sun-dried stalks. There will be no showdown tonight.
In the spare room, it’s like I’m in a basket under a hot air balloon. My atomized words swirl overhead, out of reach.
Where are the ropes to return me to the ground?
Tim Dadswell writes “to connect with like-minded readers.”