By Tremaine L. Loadholt
She doesn’t know what today will bring. She awakened to a cold, rainy morning. The dust is beginning to settle around her. Her dog barks. She signals a neighbor or the post. Whoever it is, it’s far too early for smiling. Coffee percolates, wafts through the air. She wraps her cold fingers around the base of the mug and gently sips. Rain catches her windows—taps at them hesitantly.
Should she get dressed?
She looks outside, views the slow and steady cars driving by, and thinks to herself, “Get dressed for what?”
Tremaine L. Loadholt lives in Southeast U.S. Her work has appeared in several literary journals, anthologies, and print magazines. She has also published three poetry books: Pinwheels and Hula Hoops, Dusting for Fingerprints, and A New Kind of Down.
By Carolyn Black
Freud may have been a fraud
But his theory of penis envy
Now we WASPI women
View older friends
With pension envy
How come they have whoppers
And we do not?
Carolyn writes “because it allows me to let off steam, politely.”
By Ry Yelcho
Things that used to stimulate and inspire
now just buoy me above
the dread sinking of spirit
that comes with knowing that
your accomplishments are all behind you
Ry Yelcho writes “to fend off the fog of lassitude.”
By Jim Bates
“It’s a damn coyote,” the man exclaimed, looking out the window of his mansion. He yelled to his wife, “Ellen, call animal control. Hurry!”
Oblivious, the sleek animal trotted on. He knew he’d ranged too far from his den and into the Neighborhoods, but he was hunting for his mate and their pups. The rabbit he’d killed was his reward and he hurried to get home. The smell of humans frightened him. He trotted faster planning to never return.
Ellen ignored her shouting husband. Instead she watched the coyote lope away, envying it’s freedom, wished she could join him .
Jim Bates is fascinated by the interaction between humans and the natural world, and he hopes his writing reflects that interest.
By Deanna Salser
It was the quarter that caused the trouble in the first place. It was so shiny, with its small but solid weight, warming in my hand as I held it tightly on the way to church. We conspired to keep it instead of putting it in the collection plate.
Caught, I took the blame and the switch as quietly as I could.
I glanced in as I passed the boy’s room on my way to cry in private, and my brother ran to hug me quickly, pulling away before we were seen, and just like that, my hurts were mended.
“I write because I must. There’s nothing in the world quite like being able to entertain with your imagination.” – the writer
It did not feel right when he touched me but I said nothing because I trusted him.
He meant the world to me. I craved attention from him so I accepted everything.
One day Mum came home early and he was in my room, when we had our ‘special time.’
Mum went ballistic and a part of me did not understand. In my eyes he could do no wrong.
My life was changed forever, I would never see him again.
Part of me still missed him dearly, secretly I blamed Mum.
I loved him dearly.
But did he love me?
The writer lives with her family in London and has decided to make more time for writing.
By E. B. Bradley
“I plan of dying before I turn 35,” she said as she balanced on a chair, trying to get her panties from the ceiling fan.
“Why’s that?” I ask, muffled from lying face down on the bed.
“Because nothing good could possibly happen after that,” she answered pulling them back on.
I haven’t seen that girl in years, I hope she’s doing well. Still as beautiful and wild as ever, like a human firework. I hope her plan fails. I’d love to see her ride life with the same vigor at 60 as she did at 19.
“I write because words can show the romanticism of everyday life.” – the writer