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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SNHU Creative Writing Posts

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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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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Clanging bells

Belles Behest

by Antonio Eramo I wake to clanging bells behestand rush to places I detestI pour my roaring youth awayentrapped in “no” from yesterday to know thyself is just a conI knew her once and now she’s gonethe same paths as the day beforeI walk today and feel unsure

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Vinyl record playing over and over and over

Hotter Than July

by daria smith giraud My beaded bob clang like percussive clear quartz crystalsagainst the humming of taxi hornsair lifting my body on small brick fencesLeaping from curbed sidewalks into the air I loved New York in the summerTimes of music, drums in the park,rays pizza, papaya dogs and orange juliusNighttime…

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Neighbors US Postal mailbox

Midwestern Nice

by Khristy Knudtson The Midwest region of the United States garners a reputation that is unlike any other. Wisconsin, where I have lived all of my life, embodies airs of apologetic pleasantries in almost every interaction. This concept of “Midwestern nice” is a pervasive descriptor of the Midwestern people—it defines…

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A spider web with rain drops.

Saint Francis

by Brian Reickert On an August afternoon, on the fringe of a riotous wildflower garden, I crouched to observe the mortal struggle of a tiny green spider and a yellow/black hornet on the chest of Saint Francis draped in plaster robes, arms outstretched as if to embrace the world in…

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Red, purple and black abstract art

Permanent Ink (Ars Poetica)

by Kerri Vasilakos Words turn diamonds in these volcanic bones. I wait for the eruption. My throat has been hollow for so long, that my blood began carving letters in my veins, bruising voice into my flesh. My body rebelled against my fear, took matters into its own hands, seduced…

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An ocean wave crashing at sunset.

The Goddess of the Sea

by Kerri Vasilakos I felt the oceans rhythms and listened to the waves crash against the shore like a heartbeat, you didn’t know my body was part of the sand. I would hear your footsteps approaching and pray that you’d walk all over me. I was there for all your…

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A dark hospital hallway with a door propped open.

Absence

by Brian Reickert When I was thirty-one I learned the difference between casket dead and hospital dead. There was no composure, only a profusion of absence and that which accompanies it. My father’s eyes were wide and yellow, his face whiskered and sallow, lips cracked, swollen tongue, mouth agape. The…

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