“Why does the bird fly?” He asked.
I gazed through the lone window of confinement: the ascent of a kite.
My focus shifting from it’s rust-colored wings to the rusted grills, I replied, “because he’s free.”
The philosopher in stripes laughed, then he stopped and laughed again.
“The bird flies not because he’s free,” he said. “He himself is a prisoner of hunger.”
“We don’t write, time writes through us. We are moments.” – the writer
by Lois Perch Villemaire
Uncertainty knocks on my door.
I’m not sure I want to let you in.
You make me uncomfortable and sad,
Nervous and anxious,
Like being at a funeral.
I see you are wearing a mask
You make me feel like I want to take
A deep yoga breath,
Or do a few planks,
Or jump back in bed.
I hate to be rude but
Are you planning to stay long?
I hope not.
Maybe I could get comfortable,
To pause with you and reflect,
Or do things that I never had time to do.
That’s part of Uncertainty.
“I write to entertain myself and to describe feelings, experiences, and relationships.” – the writer
I left the daisies to their decay at the headstone. Happy birthday, Grandma. A few yards on, the man in the suit was still eying his watch; oily gray, denture grin, rose in hand. Grim place for a blind date, purple dusk morphing fingered oaks into hovering claws. He extended the rose over a gravestone; thought I heard Beautiful as ever before the rose vanished, never falling. He stepped into the adjacent plot, disappearing. I walked over. Standing between two graves, an unnatural warmth curling around me. Cinnamon-scented wildflowers at my feet, rising to share their secrets with the breeze.
“I write to release the sense I’ve made of a tough childhood, the self-sabotage of my young adulthood, and the way it has shaped how I see the world.” – the writer
By Fiona M. Jones
It never was a dark and stormy night—not quite. But whatever the weather, Corey’s stories always began with it. A grey and misty morning, or a hot and cloudless noon? You knew straight away which led to ghostly visitations or a gunfight.
For two of Corey’s novels, set in Scotland, the nicht had not only been braw, but also bricht and moonlicht; and once he had even begun a story at brillig, but without the slithy toves.
But then, one black and tempestuous evening, Corey’s stories ended with the weather too. Lightning struck his computer, and they perished forever.
Fiona M. Jones has a short attention span and writes very short things.
By Shelly Norris
Out of cold limestone walls
leaf and petal-shaped pockets
picked of their gold, jade
and carnelian inlay
blindly stare, the looted
plunder untraceable now
in some foreign Monarchy’s
coffers. A menacing arrangement
of iron implements
for farming and torture
still embedded with particles
of dirt and blood of innocents
now decorates an entryway.
A marble tomb, an engineering
marvel and geometric wonder
of the world, eternally
mourns the death of one love
favored to the exclusion of all others.
Shelly Norris began writing around the age of 12 as a way to survive. She continues to write to explore the vicissitudes of unrequited love and loss, dysfunctional wounds, healing quests, and the role of cats in the universal scheme.
By Lian Wang
when god piled up lumps of dirt and stone
did he think to himself
host singing competitions
between baritone owls
and soprano sparrows
sport seasonal fashion
green and frills for spring/summer
orange and nude for fall/winter
shed dead skin
from a symbiotic relationship
with bamboo scaffolding
yet tall ones would be mountains
and short ones hills?
“The mountain outside my window distracts me from virtual classes.” – the writer
By Melissa Gill
If you find me
Please do not pluck me
Out of my element
Let me live
Among the wildflowers
Instead of leaving me to wilt
In the corner of your room
“I write to slay the monsters in my head, and to remember my grandmother’s smile on my birthday.” – the writer