Featured Writing

Flowers in vase on table

Sod

by Maggie Swofford We watchedthe flowersfold underthe summersun—105°windchill—we lookedout my bed-room window. I baked andcaked mymakeup on bythe windowsillonly to haveit drip off. The flowervase toreoff itsstandduring aviolentstorm,and wethrew ourlaundryat eachother asnights grewdim andhot. The nextday, everyday, we’dcross ourlegs andfoldthe wrinkledfabric backinto somethingwe couldwear.

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Featured Posts

Flowers in vase on table

Sod

by Maggie Swofford We watchedthe flowersfold underthe summersun—105°windchill—we lookedout my bed-room window. I baked andcaked mymakeup on bythe windowsillonly to haveit drip off. The flowervase toreoff itsstandduring aviolentstorm,and wethrew ourlaundryat eachother asnights grewdim andhot. The nextday, everyday, we’dcross ourlegs andfoldthe wrinkledfabric backinto somethingwe couldwear.

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Hands writing on typewriter

Between Commas

by Brandy Christiansen Place commas on both sides of meso that I may be omittedI am just a minor detailand to me you need not be committed.Do I truly fit in your life story?Or would I just be out of place?Would you leave me out of your memoir?Or put me…

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Flowers growing at cemetery

Inventing Angels

by Maria Wickens (This story contains suicide.) “It would be absurd if we did not understand both angels and devils, since we invented them.” ― John Steinbeck, East of Eden The weeds sprout fast around Finn’s gravestone. “We should put in a permanent planting to keep it tidier,” Dad muses….

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Brown box on table

Somewhere on Sycamore Street

by Darcie Raridon Need for a fatherfelt like a pox.So, I buried minein a box-top-box.It’s stuffedfull of lessons,he never taught,wrapped in clotheshe never bought,and I scribbledhis obituaryon the first, andonly postcardI ever got.

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Flowing stream in forest

The Stream, The Soul and The Immersion

by Eric Obezo The cool rushing water                                               splashes and swirls,                                                     playfully dancing                                            around my skin.                                                 All of the dirt                                                                          I carry flushes away,                                                                                                               dribbling downstream,                                                                                                            revitalizing my body.                                     This pure elixir showers                         my matted hair, releasing the             clumps of grime…

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White Cadillac

Chandelier Earrings

by Dwight R. Hilson Oh, you will love it here; everyone is so nice and friendly, and the nurses on the full-care wing can handle all but the most severe cases—God forbid. There’s almost no reason to leave. I heard you’re in the Dayton Wing. You know, they’re all named…

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Smoking floating in the air

My Decoration (The Janitor’s Monologue)

by Ron Dowell (This story contains drugs/addiction.) Agent Orange tainted weed fucked me up in Nam.Back in the world, drugs retarded me. Ihallucinated and failed a four-way stop sign.My road dog crashed the windshield.           I’d go back and changeif I could.                               Please help me, Jesus.          Nobody had told me shit. Lies…

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Hillside stream in the winter

Smart’s Brook in Winter

by Russell Rowland Dressed in layers much like us, exceptwith lengthier robes of ice and snow,the stream is concealed, though there.Cold day, yet it means to keep moving. It has swept away an autumn of leaves,cleared out jammed tree trunks, evenstripped a moose carcass—year’s workwell done, by nature’s John the…

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Path leading into the woods

Marks

by Kelly Cofske (This story contains domestic violence.) As Timmy headed down the drive toward home, he smelled fresh-baked gingerbread in the air. He felt warm inside that Mom made his favorite after-school snack on such a day. Rounding the corner of the house, he headed for the back garden…

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Trees branching skyward

Psalm of Mere Being

by Ray Corvi The funeral parlor opened its front doorOut flew a dandelion’s wind-borne seeds Mourn the way the trees have thrownLimbs branching skyward into leaves

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