Family Secrets

By John Affleck

We moved a lot when I was a kid – different towns, long summers camping out. To stave off boredom, we played a game in the station wagon called “Hide the Car.” The idea was, you were on the run from aliens and had to find a place to hide the car. Turns out the best spots are where the grass drops off from the shoulder of the road at a sharp angle.

“Mom’s great at this game,” I once told an uncle who was visiting.

And he replied: “How much do you know about your parents’ lives, kid?”

              
“I write because I enjoy the craft, because I have thoughts I want to share, because I have to get it out somehow.” – the writer

Games of Hopscotch

By Dianne Moritz

Back in the days of innocence and Eisenhower, we girls would play games of hopscotch. We’d scratch out game-boards on the sidewalk’s rough cement with pieces of chalk snitched from school.

Like kangaroos, we’d hop, hop, hop, jump, hop, turn around, till sweat dripped down our sun-kissed cheeks, and our lips craved ice-cold cherry Cokes from Sweeny’s drugstore down the block.

Hand in hand, we’d skip off laughing, stepping over wide cracks, to spare our mothers’ backs, carefree, happy, high on life.

               
“Sometimes I write just for fun, but still dream of collecting my drabble in a book.” – the writer

Rose Petal

By Roy Gomez

Pink — like the meanest slap on the face. Of course, Mother will demand an explanation. A soccer ball spun ‘round a tall pole at the end of a rope when, abruptly, wham. We laughed! Mother, the boys invited me to return. Yes, I did indeed tell them I’m allowed outdoors only on Saturday afternoons – ‘weather permitting,’ as she says. But I’m refreshed now. Renewed! Studying String Theory will be so much more productive. She’ll agree. She must. Mother will concede that exercise serves me well. Pink, I’ll tell her — showing my cheek — pink like a fresh new baby rose petal.

         
Roy Gomez  lives with wife and pets on a hillside overlooking Medina Lake, Texas, in the center of the Milky Way.

Six

By Dianne Moritz

Teasing the dog
Back behind
The chicken coop
To distract myself
From loneliness,
Stench of the farm,
Uncle’s mongrel seized
My thin wrist, bit down hard.
My cries were smothered
In boozy serves-you-rights,
While blood spilled,
Staining my summer smock.
Auntie brought me milk
Straight from a cow.
I ran to the rusty sink,
Spit it out as Mother’s hand
Shot out, slapped me hard.
I raced outside.

The slam of that screen door
Still echoes …

         
Dianne Moritz dreams of publishing a drabble collection one day. She writes poetry for kids and is a frequent contributor to Highlights children’s magazines.

Monkey Bars

By stevieslaw

The old playground
was fenced off years ago.
The rusted frames
of sliding pond
and see-saw
stand silhouetted in the setting sun.
The swing set—seatless now
where young mothers
took their toddlers
on weekday afternoons—
and where we,
barely teen-age,
first made acquaintance with longing.

We fought on the monkey bars
for world domination,
screeched like chimpanzees,
pounded our chests,
and beat each other silly.
We ranked each other out
in words we hardly understood
and screamed
“I”ll murder ya”
“I’ll break ya neck”
at the top of our lungs
until one day we did.

     
Steve Deutsch’s work has most recently appeared in Gravel, Literary Heist, Nixes Mate Review, Third Wednesday, Misfit Magazine, Word Fountain, Eclectica Magazine, and The Ekphrastic Review. In 2017, he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His Chapbook, Perhaps You Can, will be published next year by Kelsay Press.

A Love Letter

By Minyoung Lee

In fifth grade, I wrote you a letter. I wrote my friend had a crush on you, which was true. I didn’t write I had a crush on you, too.

Your friends bullied my friend for a year. She cried all the time. She knew someone told you about her crush. I don’t think she knew it was me.

But that’s what you get for sharing your feelings.

I don’t remember what you looked like. I hope you were cute. I saw on Facebook my friend got married. Her husband looked hot.

If only I could remember your name.

Granddaughter Outside after the Rain Stops

By Robin Wright

Alisha, spindles of sun splashing her hair with light, runs,
bare feet tickled by a gauze of freshly washed grass, stops,
scoops gravel with hands soft as ice cream.

She devours this freedom like it’s a final candy-coated
meal. Unfettered by shoes, or car-seat straps,
no adult whisking her from harm.

She runs again, sails like a bright red kite,
ruffling on the wind’s lacy gusts, until she drops
into exhaustion’s arms.

    
Robin Wright’s work has appeared in Ariel Chart, Bindweed Magazine, Muddy River Poetry Review, Rat’s Ass Review, Peacock Journal, and others.

Play

By Deb Whittam

Pirates
retreat, retreat
through there
down the slide
around the bend
Oh look,
the empty swing

I’m a princess
you’re my serf
find me riches –
fill my royal purse
what? that’s not fun?
I know a circus
that’s fun for everyone

clowns … no acrobats
on the monkey bars we fly
spinning, turning
flying high but now
i’m falling
from an airplane
Oh no … it’s beginning to rain

a flood, the waters rise
quick, the boat
I’m sure we’ll survive
look ahead, whales
all the creatures there be
no …. its pirates
We’re on the high seas

Long, Lost

Our friendship was novel, I think, for both of us, having grown up on opposite sides of the planet. I introduced him to heavy metal and to the intricacies of scoring beer and weed.

One summer his parents brought me to the beach, where we body-surfed and told girls we were 18. (We were only 16.) We came home and told our friends we’d gotten laid, although we hadn’t come close.

Then, one day he was gone. Once again his father got re-stationed somewhere overseas, Thailand I think. That was a decade ago, and I haven’t heard from him since.

Shame

The boy is eight when his mother dies. Her death floods him with a grief he’s far too young to comprehend. He vows never to cry, lest he look weak.

Left to fester, his grief becomes shame—a shame that infects everything.

He feels unworthy, undeserving of love.

Later, his brain’s learned response to trauma of any kind will be shame.

In high school, he will do poorly in Algebra – Shame.

In college, he will self medicate – Shame.

One day he’ll lose his job – Shame.

Divorce – Shame.

He will point a finger always at himself, never at God.

Shame.