By Heather Sager

She had a friend, but she was too depressed or anxious
to see him.

She was too twisted up, so she let years of friendship
slide into the gutter.

He was her favorite, and she couldn’t reach him. In fact,
she thought he hated her, didn’t care about her,
though that was not true. Not true at all.

Wind rattled the panes of her room’s window
one dark morning. She listened. Too depressed
and anxious, she couldn’t leave her house.

She is reading this right now.

Heather Sager writes poetry and fiction. Lately, she writes to dream, or to hold up a mirror, or to share a feeling or interest.


By stevieslaw

Why not write
about it,

she said with that grin.
It was the last

friendly day
of the season

and we sat
on a weathered

log overlooking
the creek

that would
freeze by midweek—

about the time
her Greyhound

would run her
back to the city.

I come here

for inspiration,
though I’m more

likely to find

on a crosstown

there is nothing

I need add.
Pure description

is second-hand

I write because it is fun. A blank page is a challenge. I write and revise and revise. Often I get to say, “where’d that come from.”

The Kiss

By J. Iner Souster

I can hardly think of a better way to say goodbye.
To the sun and the moon, the water and the clouds,
I’ve always wanted to live on a planet where the sky was blue.

I can hardly think of a better way to say goodbye.
The light of a star. The smell of a blooming fruit tree. The kiss of a bare human hand.
To the fading flowers on a winter’s night

I can hardly think of a better way to say goodbye.
To be one last person who will fall in love.
Because in death, she is beautiful.

Short bio (Tell us why you write.): “I do it for love.”

Some of the Time


By Ali Grimshaw

(Originally published March 3, 2019)

the light turns red before we have left the intersection
leaving our tail end vulnerable

our brakes don’t work, spinning on black ice with
blurred windows of reaction

we must go slowly, inching through the fog in faith
blinded by dense thoughts

breakdowns leave us on the rainy roadside
unpacking resourcefulness

forgiveness shows up like an invitation
an off-ramp never seen before

we just need to stay on the road
grip and steer

In a Parlous State

By Mel Fawcett

Poverty and hunger are knocking at the door
Abuse and moral turpitude are rife;
Torture, greed, and exploitation rule.

But who cares about all that –
I’ve got a pimple on my nose!

The polar ice is melting and the natural world is dying
Soaring temperatures are beyond our endurance
And pollution is killing us all.

Of course we’re destroying the planet
But what about the pimple on my nose!

Wars and famine are everywhere
All kinds of horrors abound
People are dying for no reason

Everything is out of control!
And no one cares about the pimple on my nose.

“I’m not sure why I write.” – the writer

Talking Turkey

By Lynn White

There is a rumour going around
as rumours do
in this community.
It is said
that a celebration is being planned
by humans.
by those humans who feed and pet us.
It is being said
that we will be invited
to join them,
that we will be a part,
an important part
of the celebration.
So now we are waiting
what role we shall play,
if we will get drunk,
if we will enjoy it all
as much as our humans will enjoy
our presence.

“I write to let the words escape.” – the poet

About the Bee

By Lois Perch Villemaire

A bee was looking in my window
wings moving at incredible speed
coming so close to the glass
hanging in the air.

It moved away and returned
several times, watching me staring back.
Suddenly I realized
it wasn’t about me at all.
The bee was looking at itself
perhaps thinking it’s reflection
was another bee.

That’s the way it is with people who act
a certain way and I think it’s because
I said something hurtful
or insulting but like the bee,
I’m discovering it’s not always about me.

“I write because it makes me happy to play with the order of words.” – the writer

Held Together by a Thread

By Kim Hart

Pushing pins into vintage fabric
you remember
and hear her laughter
echo down the stairs.
You sew a tiny dress
of floral cotton,
pink peonies and
yellow daisies.
A request,
“Please Mummy
Delilah needs something
pretty for my party.”
So you thread a needle
and stitch,
Misty-eyed at memories
of mud pies and makeup.
You lift
the finished piece
and hope
they’ll love it.
“Ellie honey,”
you call,
“I have Delilah’s dress.”
You follow the giggles
and open the door
to a room,
where dust motes float,
refusing to settle
on an empty bed,
still waiting
for her.

“I write to entertain and to see the thoughts running through my head take shape on paper. I love the thought of others reading my words, interpreting them differently, reading a myriad of meanings into the letters I’ve placed on the page.” – the poet

Things Change

By Avril Tan

Young, spry, happy,
A miracle of life is born.
Unbeknownst to the harshness of the world,
Ignorant to the cruel and vicious.

Rebellious, immature, stressed,
Welcome to the precursor of adulthood.
Troubled by their looks,
Fixated on the materialistic, instead of idyllic.

Tired, worn, drained,
The corporate rat race is on.
Tormented by the thought of dismissal,
Enticed by the green paper.

Aged, seasoned, wise.
Congrats, the chase is over and you’re a veteran at life.
Cared for and loved by the next generation,
Unaware that the hunter has become the hunted.

Things have changed, haven’t they?

“I write as a way to de-stress from all the chaos and melancholy of life. As a student with a love for the arts, writing is one of the few things that still brings a smile to my face.” – the writer


By Jeff Hill

The girls and I have a system
They are the beauty
I am the brawn
But we are all the brains
We don’t go against anything or anyone who gets hurt
And we don’t do it to anyone who doesn’t deserve it
We aren’t vigilantes
We aren’t modern-day Robin Hoods
Because we don’t kill
And we don’t share our wealth
But we do take their money
And we do hurt them in the place that has the most impact
Their wallets
We match
We chat
They book the hotel
I show up
We collect
And we eat the rich

Jeff Hill writes stories and helps others write their stories.