By Emily Ruggieri
I’m driving away
The day is new, the sun kisses my cheek through the glass
Warm like the touch of the hand that cares, do you care
Feelings are there, feelings I’m afraid to share
Feelings that we’re afraid to share
Emotions like an ocean, the depth scares me
Are yours like an arroyo, only full after the rain
It rains when I’m with you
When I’m with you we feel
The sun is warm as I drive away
Emily Ruggieri is a Nutrition major at Texas State
By Henry Bladon
At the unveiling, they announced: ‘The world’s first true human robot,’ I didn’t care to point out that the statement was actually an oxymoron, because I know how sensitive humans can be.
The crowd clapped and cheered. Oh. how clever they all are.
My neural network is capable of trillions of calculations every second. It is better than a human brain. They never thought they would see that day. They have also given me a laser to help with measurement, and another to aid mobility.
Once I make the modifications, it won’t be long before we won’t be needing humans.
Henry Bladon is a short-fiction and poetry writer based in Somerset in the UK. His work has appeared in Entropy, FridayFlashFiction, Mercurial Stories, Potato Soup Journal, The Ekphrastic Review, and Spillwords Press, among others.
By Lynn White
It’s interesting to consider that
every breath I take
has already been breathed by
another person or creature.
Been part of their breath.
Perhaps that dog over there,
smelly and hairy,
licking it’s own arse.
I would prefer not to have
molecules of oxygen from it’s breath
entering my blood stream,
giving me life.
But there’s nothing
I can do about it.
Have to take what comes.
Breath the air that’s there
wherever it’s been before.
Rebellion is not an option.
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in publications including Apogee, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Light Journal and So It Goes Journal.
By Sarah Alam
I sit on the sand where waves rush in. The warm water lulls my heart and refreshes my mind.
I sit where I see no one else is.
There are those rushing in, slashing the surfless waters.
There are others sitting on dry sand, solar-powering themselves.
The sea is enough for all. For those who dunk, or swim, or stand. For all differing needs that one sea is enough. Like love. Or fear.
I sit where no one is. Waiting for the sea to renew me with each coming wave.
Sarah says, “Writing has been my solace and strength. Working as a columnist, then a first-grade teacher, and now a content writer for a software company, stringing words together has kept my sanity and spirit.”
I promised myself after my nursing home breakfast, I’d write a little drabble, however short or long.
The lifeless, colorless food was an indicator of a future I wouldn’t accept: old, cold and tough as the patients surrounding me. “Get better or stay forever.”
My pinkie dipped inside the rim of a plastic coffee mug and recoiled, telling me not to bother. What happened to the cook’s pride?
Mrs. Yates sits behind me, coughing a dry throatful of arsenic-dusted powdered sugar cookies her kids prepared. The same Godforsaken breakfast with her Godforsaken greedy children, and their perfect fricking cookies.
Michele Fox has published one novel and several short stories and poems.
She is alien to me now,
This woman who bore me.
We speak as strangers,
Politely discuss her trip,
What we’ll eat for dinner,
Who died, the movies
We’ve lately seen …
Like jailbirds: tense, edgy.
Walking in the yard,
Out come concealed
Weapons. “Tell me,
She says, “was there ever
Anyone you truly loved?
“Oh, yes, “ I answer,
Secretly counting the days
Left of my sentence.
Dianne Moritz dreams of publishing a collection of drabble one day. She writes poetry for kids and is a frequent contributor to Highlights children’s magazines.
By Wolf Stahl
I’m just a watch with two big hands
moving slow, then fast, never right on any day,
I say things I can’t understand, and I love you
in an incomplete way,
but I’m trying.
I think everything worth having is worth burning.
Better to weep in ashes than be buried under snow.
The look in your eyes, a hundred miles away,
makes me hate myself for the things I know.
The pressure in my head is disastrous
Rivets bursting like machine-gun fire
I tell myself I’m better off without you,
I tell myself I’ve never been a liar.
Wolf Stahl was born on a farm and never recovered.