By Laura McGinnis

Which shall shatter first?
My hopes and dreams?
Or the glass ceiling?

I see my future.
But how do I break through,
When I’m on the bottom, looking up?

By some miracle, I shatter the ceiling.
I crawl up, bloodied hands and knees,
To be greeted with, “What are you doing here?”

The ceiling is gone,
But the hearts and minds won’t change.
Waiting out attrition I pull up others,
Through the shattered ceiling.
The balance of power
Swings into a flat line.
Equal numbers,
Equal authority,
Equal powers.

I shatter the ceiling,
Not my hopes and dreams.

“I write because there are words inside me that need to get out. And I’m the only one who can free them from my mind, releasing them to the wild, to sow ideas in other gardens.” – the poet


The Grass Itches Me


By Zoey Chandler

It itches me, whispering too close to my ear, “softball games” “late Wednesday evenings,” and the subtle smell of grass and picnic blankets capsizes my emotion
To be four, six, seven,
When the problems were little and the shoes were too
I can hear the crack of the bat
I can smell cheese crackers
Because the ride to the field was twisty turny, and my mom told me snacking cured a tummy ache

I write because I don’t have simple words for so many feelings, and writing allows me to use metaphor and vocabulary to describe emotions.



By Mary Rohrer-Dann

Dog arrowing home.
Sunflower tracking sun.
Steel needle quivering north.
River opening to ocean.
True as any of these
my mother knows
each door’s location,
senses when one opens,
is left ajar or unlocked,
or when the exit alarm
two corridors down
is disarmed.
Only one she fails to find.
The door that opens to home.

“I write because I love words and because I want to better understand all that I do not.” – the poet

I Prefer to Call Deception –


By Phillip Knight Scott

– that duplicitous imposter
born of self-aggrandizement
amid seasons of otherwise warm
dispositions – a fraud
whose hazy outline bleeds lies
like smoke
as mirrors
portend a vague shadow
of a home where earthly browns fade
to nothing,
his intent from the start.

The fox who outfoxes (or do
I mean out-guiles?) no one cannot
reach the tree, leaving
with only sour grapes, paws scratched
among the pretense. Thorns stir us
from the artifice,
pedals dissolving
like smoke
as windows
stubbornly refuse to reflect
angled shadows
in a home where truth fades
to nothing,
and we arrive at the end.
Phillip Knight Scott is a native of Durham, North Carolina. He enjoys creating expansive worlds in as few words as possible.



By John L. Malone

You can’t swat it.
Spray it.
Shut it out.
Tell it to sit. Stay.
It’s in yr brain.
Waiting. Watching.
Friends. Fellow writers.
That first flicker of success.
The green frog of envy.

John Malone is a South Australian writer of flash fiction, short stories and poetry. He delights in Literature wherever it is found

on most days i


By Joan Mcnerney

just want to crawl back
to bed, never come out
become a turtle covered
by my hard shell

nothing appeals to me
not even food, just coffee
coffee more coffee
to keep awake

another hermit crab
who carries its home
sickened by shorelines
poisoned by oceans

climbing menacing
years … dumb-struck
after all those storms
diseases, accidents

i must keep going can’t quit
but would rather slither off
into some dark cave like
the spotted salamander

“i write because there is nothing else i would rather do.” – the poet

Sad (God in the Computer Screen)


By morningstar124

I am so sad –
I squeeze my soul out for you to see;
Wring it out like a flannel;
Wring out those very words that haunt me.
Read my heartbreak, my memories –
How sad I am, how unique,
Living in this modern world
Where loneliness has swallowed me.

What more can I do, but
Reach God through my computer screen
And pour out the words for you to see:
Reflections of a bleeding heart;
A shattered mind –
Liberate in poetry.

N.A.J. Sloan is a writer based in the UK. She writes because she wants to create something beautiful.