At the Stroke of …

By John L. Malone

There’s a merry-go-round inside my head
and it’s starting up again
only there’s no music
and there’s no one watching
only me
from the sidelines
& I’m on the merry-go-round too
though I want to get off
but it’s going faster and faster
& I’m getting dizzier and dizzier
& I have to lie down
before I fall down
again.


John is a South Australian writer of poetry, flash fiction and the occasional short story.

Making Chutney

By Michael Bloor

I’ve been making green tomato chutney. Outside in the street, I see a woman and a small boy. He’s walking unevenly, avoiding cracks in the pavement. His mum gives his hand a mighty tug: mother and son, out-of-step.

Then, I can’t remember what weight of sultanas to add. When I find the yellowed recipe, I see it’s in my mum’s handwriting. She’d spelt ‘tomato’ with an ‘e’ at the end, which upset me a little.

I used to say my mum was a difficult woman, but perhaps she wasn’t all that difficult. Maybe it was just that we were out-of-step?


“Michael Bloor only discovered the exhilarations of short fiction after he retired.” – the writer

Glancing in the Mirror

By Dianne Moritz

“I can’t wait for tomorrow,” he says,
splashing cologne on his craggy cheeks.
Warm steam sweats the cool glass.
She smiles and happily plays along.
“Because I get better looking every day!”

Watching him comb back his thinning
salt and pepper hair, goosebumps prickle
her bare arms. She steps close, to peck
his still damp cheek …. startled to see
crows’ feet scratching the corners of her eyes.


“I write to capture indelible moments in time.” – the writer

Birthday Wish

By Zeri Ort

For one brief moment, the world faded away and Eric made his thirteenth wish. Then it all came flooding back as he opened his eyes, blinked at the camera flashes and candle flames, and blew. The acrid smoke was valiantly driven back by a warm enveloping maternal embrace. As she released him with a sniff, he took in the beaming, bittersweet smiles of his mother and sister, the carefully decorated homemade cake and overly bright balloons and streamers, all the senseless effort to cover up the ten-year-old dad-shaped void in the family, which only served to accentuate it’s depth.


“I try to write beautiful things for myself and others to read if we feel like it.” – the writer

The Fork Told the Spoon

By Barbara Schilling Hurwitz

I know it’s cold here set on this empty dining room table, behind shuttered restaurant doors, where the lingering scent of sumptuous food has dissipated. The hustle of waiters, the soft conversations and the sounds of clinking glasses are now all shadows of memories. Gone are the warm hands that once caressed us as we sank into the chef’s luscious indulgences. And most of all, we miss the mouthwatering lips between which we slipped, and the tongues that licked us clean.

But we’re not alone. We’re lucky to have each other to cling to through these otherwise dreary, lonely days.


“I write to keep my mind active and thoughts positive through these troubling days.” – the writer

Random Guy

By Robin Wright

Poets gather at Barnes & Noble and vocalize verse during National Poetry Month. I’m listening to magical metaphors when a man leans to my ear, asks if we’re reading our poems. The not-poetic, one-syllable, “duh,” comes to mind, but I mind my manners, nod, and motion to the chairs. He responds by asking who my favorite poet is but doesn’t wait for an answer, tells me his are Frost, Sandburg, and James Whitcomb Riley. I wonder what they would think of him, interrupting poetry to talk about poetry, but who said love of poetry has to be polite.


“In these uncertain times, I write to stay sane.” – the writer

The Subway Musician

By Shira Wilder

The day has been long. I’m sick of the city, I tell myself. My weary body won’t hold me up forever. Soon I will look like one of those old ladies everyone pities, until they become one themselves: lonely, back permanently hunched from urban living, weighed down by grocery bags and regrets.

My footsteps echo in the freezing station. I approach the melancholy refrain of a lone saxophone, playing just for me. The old man’s eye is foggy with cataracts, but his melody sees deep into my soul. Transfixed, I can’t help but smile.


“I write because the mundane really is magical.” – the writer

Six Shots

By John L. Malone

Six shots ring out.
Fat, hollow bangs
ricocheting against the walls
of the night.
I tense waiting for a cry
of pain,
a howl of distress,
a ruckus of some sort,
someone doing a runner from the commission
of a crime,
an active shooter on the prowl, who maybe
is not done yet.
But there is nothing
only a twitchy silence
a dead emptiness for our imaginations
to fill


John is a South Australian writer of poetry, flash fiction and the occasional short story.

Garbage

By R. Gene Turchin

When the garbage on earth began to be too much, we gave up parks and enclosed our rivers in pipes. We fired one way rockets full of the detritus of human society onto the moon’s dusty seas. At first on the dark side but after a while we didn’t care anymore, we just didn’t want to wallow in our own refuse. Talking points were three:

At least it won’t smell.
It won’t catch fire.
We won’t get all kinds of funky bacteria growing up there.

They were wrong about the last bullet point.


R. Gene Turchin writes “to construct something out of an idea.”

Modern Love

By David Berger

Charlie makes love to Annie AND Annie makes love to Charlie.

Charlie wearing VR glasses makes love to Marilyn Monroe AND Annie makes love to Charlie wearing VR glasses making love to Marilyn Monroe.

Charlie makes love to Annie wearing VR glasses making love to Bobby Kennedy AND Annie wearing VR glasses making love to Bobby Kennedy makes love to Charlie.

Charlie wearing VR glasses makes love to Marilyn Monroe AND Annie wearing VR glasses making love to Bobby Kennedy.

Marilyn Monroe makes love to Bobby Kennedy AND Bobby Kennedy makes love to Marilyn Monroe.


“I write to express the human desire for love and freedom.” – the writer