The Went

By Kelvin M. Knight

He didn’t know where it went. He no longer knew what it was. Maybe it was him? Maybe it was others?

He looked blindly around. There was no one here to tell, nothing here to remind him who he once was, what he now was.

Now. Change had occurred. Change was the only constant in life. He dwelt on that word. Life was love. Life was loneliness. Love and loneliness lingering before something else.

It went.

It wasn’t.

It couldn’t be.

Nothing could, without hope. Yes. He clung onto that word even though its meaning went. Where, he didn’t know.

“I write to shine light into the shadows.” – the writer


By Alisha Davlin

“I could be a rabbi,” she muses.
He smiles out of politeness, not knowing this language yet.
“Other people’s pain doesn’t bother me, perhaps because mine happened so young.”

Suffering opens an armchair beside you before a shimmering fire. Sit here and hand me your heart. I will cup it in both hands. Suffering recognizes itself like mercury beads recombining after being scattered across an eternity of ground.

But innocence abhors suffering.
Winged, rosy-cheeked, breathless,
it disappears into the hollow of a tree without even glancing back.
While this new you stares after it with arms


“(I write) to make a ripple in the silence.” – the writer

The Four Turrets

By Patricia Furstenberg

12th century saw cannon fodder too. They arrived on wings of hope. Making it alive over Styx River. The deal, protecting the eastern border of an expanding kingdom.

At first, fortified churches sprouted. To each guild, a tower. To build. Defend.

Not castles in the air.

This folk came for land. Stayed for freedom. The Saxons’ skills at building stone fortresses brought them countless privileges. An autonomy that, in an Europe of monarchies, was matchless.

See the four turrets adorning the church tower? It’s the stamp of a city who earned the right of capital judgment.

Who’s crossing Styx now?

Writing, putting pen on paper seems to be a necessity I’ve embraced wholeheartedly. It clears my mind and helps me understand the world around me – or the past. Writing is my morning espresso, although the two are not exclusive.

The Passage of Sundown

By Arthur Sadrian

It is under the worn-out sandal
that summer days trod
into sleepless nights
where coyotes roam moonlit grasslands,
and crickets chirp in an undulating chatter,
their fern-tinted exoskeletons gripping luminous blades of grass.

Arthur Sadrian has been an avid writer since his crayon days. He writes simply to feel the satisfaction of words appearing on a page.

The Beach

By Jim Bates

Waves crashing on the shore,
Windswept sand blowing,
Dad with his camera,
Taking photographs.
I was barely aware of him.
Instead, I looked out to sea,
Over the pacific to the horizon and beyond,
To the infinite possibilities awaiting a young man.
Me, looking at the world,
Dad, framing his shots.
While in the magic of the moment,
I gathered sand dollars half hidden in the sand
Later, as the sun set,
Dad and I set aside our differences,
And walked into the last light of day,
And we started talking, really talking,
For the first time.
It was beautiful.

“I write to try and bring a bit of happiness to people.” – the poet

Don’t Go!

By Abha Das Sarma

Is all she would say
In wind enfolded,
Unhurried I could wait
At a gate fifty years ago as now—
By Parsee Tower of Silence with
Wet white walls transitioning souls.

The evening crashing in memory’s echo,
At times still, like the grip
Of a wrinkled hand—
Lengthening life in silence
As it would have been
When consumed by words.

“I write because it helps me find myself.” – the writer

Quiz Me

By Phillip Pettit

“What thyroid hormones are found in the blood circulation?” He asked dutifully from the passenger seat.

“I really appreciate this,” she said. “Lending me your car; helping me cram, even though…”

He knew the rest. Their relationship was on hold, maybe ended, after the death of her cousin.

“So you don’t know the answer?” He tried not to sound bitter.

“I’m serious.”

He flicked sullenly through his notes. The next question, thought but not asked, “What is it that connects this uneasy feeling deep in my chest and this fuzzy pain behind my eyes and this tightness around my mouth?”

Phillip Pettit lives in Perth, Western Australia where he enjoys reading and writing short fiction as a welcome diversion from his work in software.

Power Lines (While Waiting in a Shrink’s Office)

By Muskan Kaur

A rusty side street utility pole bows over the ugly brown pavement
In a hesitant approach to a thousand passers-by
Nobody notices it could fall
Nobody notices it wants to fall
Nobody notices it has stood long enough
Nobody notices if not for its twenty wire arms stretching wide out on both sides in violent entanglements,
running endlessly in opposite directions,
parallel to the rough, raised edge between rubber wheels and human legs –
it would be down already.
Somebody once cared enough to hang a low sign
Only to advertise on its delayed doom.

“I write to waste the blue of the ink, the bird, the berry, the mood, the sky and the ocean.” – the poet

I’ll Be Staying, Thanks

By Patrick Higingbotham

Name’s Mortimer Brontide. My family’s been on this land for generations. I don’t know how you came into possession of the place. Regardless of what the law says about current ownership, I’ll not be removed. So, kindly put away the candles and the incense. And didn’t anyone ever tell you that Ouija boards don’t work?

“I write because I love it and it’s cheaper than therapy.” – the writer


By Fiona H. Evans

In the days of bursting ripeness,
my breasts aching,
wondering how it might feel
to be swollen with child,
I yearn to surrender solitude
and drown in love,
devoted and selfless.

Then waking normal again
in the calm after the storm,
I’m relieved to be
slim and whole and vibrant,
my dreams of motherhood
and hormonal regrets
all washed away
in a red torrent of
wasted blood.

“I write to make sense of my feelings, and I hope to help others do so, too.” – the poet