Thursday Evening Blues

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By R. Hegland

There is something to be said

for the dull ache in your belly

that always appears when you think of home.

The longing so heavy in its familiarity

that you can barely stomach it.

           
R. Hegland is a student from Norway pursuing a BA in History – for what purpose remains unknown.

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Beach House

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By Dianne Moritz

That house is lonely now.
First my dog, next your old cat.
No one expected a cancer,
So quick and greedy.

How I miss your laugh,
Blaze of blue eyes as you
Spoke of love and work,
Offered sage advice.
I miss these happy sounds:
Ice tossed in a glass,
Jazz in the background,
The unlikeliness of us
Being together there.

Those brief moments,
Memories so clear,
while the house stands
Bereft now, cold, empty as air.

         
Dianne Moritz enjoys capturing brief moments in time, celebrating trials, tribulations, and beauty of life. She dreams of publishing a book of drabble.

Still, Only He

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By Ron. Lavalette

He watches everything around him
unfolding in super-slow-motion,
but no one else seems to notice
despite the fact that they’ve all
been standing in line for days.

Even though the line never moves,
everyone banters and chatters away
at a normal pace. No one else
seems to notice that everyone’s
clearly frozen, motionless, in place.

              
Ron. Lavalette lives on the Canadian border in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom. His debut chapbook, Fallen Away, is now available from Finishing Line Press.

You Unnerve Me

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By John L. Malone

Can I speak my mind?
I never know where I am with you.
One minute you’re stable.
The next you’re like a wind turbine
When the wind blows.
One evening you’re a calm sunset..
The next you blaze like a wildfire.
You unnerve me.
You’re a fruit loop.
A loose cannon.
An IED waiting to be stepped on.
But you’re mine.
I’m responsible for you.
So give me a break now and then.
Rein yourself in.
Act responsibly.
Don’t go off the rails.
I keep a close watch on you,
This mind of mine.

          
John Malone is pushing the envelope, thinking outside the square and still trying to make sense.

Weekend Friend

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By Nayana Nair

I tell my friends
that “I’ll probably die of loneliness.”
They smile and reply “Me too.”
I wish I had told them “I love you” instead.

                   
Nayana is an engineer and a technical writer who moonlights as an amateur poet. “Writing for me is a process of self-realization and an effort to understand what is ever elusive.”

Hospitality

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By Christopher Lettera

I couldn’t save
my father the
night his heart
mushroom-
clouded against
the horizon of
his insides.

Neither could
the EMT who
left his bag at
my father’s
bedside.

He followed me
back to the house
and before he left,
on reflex, I offered him:

water, green tea, a granola bar.

            
Christopher Lettera teaches poetry writing and fiction writing at Youngstown State University. He received the Robert R. Hare Award for Fiction and placed as runner-up in the Ohio River Valley Chapter of the National Society of Arts and Letters Short Story Writing Competition. His poetry has appeared in 4th and Sycamore; his fiction in Crack the Spine, Jersey Devil Press, Literary Orphans, and Postcard Shorts, and was selected for The 2015 Jersey Devil Press Anthology. He has been twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

Riding the Train to New York

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By Dianne Moritz

Sailors in starched whites,
Jostling, joking, bumming
Cigarettes, whistle as I pass.
Young mothers, beside cranky
Children, seem wistful.
Old men glance up
From newspapers, smile
As I pass with my tall,
Handsome boyfriend.
We find our seats.
I reach for his hand.
He shakes me off
Like a smoldering ash,
Leans back to nap.
I turn away, fuming.

When I gaze out,
Into the dark glass,
A panicked stranger
Stares back.

           
Dianne Moritz enjoys capturing brief moments in time, celebrating trials, tribulations, and beauty of life. She dreams of publishing a book of all her drabble.