Featured Writing

Gray dreary rainclouds

silver linings

by Fleurellette the skies of June are tied to my heart with a dainty silver stringeach grey cloud misty on her owngrieving the loss of the earth as it was knownwhile silver linings flourish like flowers deep in sorrowso goes my gloom, in a promise:may the hopes yesterday guide tomorrow…

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SNHU Creative Writing Posts

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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Sun breaking through the dark clouds over a city.

A Letter to George Floyd in the Face of the Black Lives Matter Trauma

by Daria Smith Giraud You See, this trauma is branded, #BlackLivesMatter— co-opted, a corporation with corporate donations. Ablack girl like me, will never spend or touch.You do, however see and feel its binding residue  its Black Magic Matter surging the well of tears frommy mothers’ mothers’ mothers’ injustice.  Blood-borne lipsof little white…

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Cereal and Fire

By Holli Harms “Cereal and Fire” placed first in Southern New Hampshire University’s 2020 Fall Fiction Contest. My sister wakes up in a room. She wakes and finds that when she tries to move she can’t. Her arms and legs are held down. Strapped down. She is strapped to a…

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An analog clock at 8:10.

8:29 a.m.

by Katie Stavick 8:05 a.m. I shut off the alarm and lay in my bed, contemplating calling in sick. I mean, seriously, what’s the point? I already submitted my notice, which sucked. “It’s not that we don’t like you or think you could handle the job. We know you could. But the person we…

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A dining room table set for company.

The Dining Room

by Sarah Ockershausen Delp The table is set for company. The florescent shine off the faucet is deafening.  She’ll teeter in, whisking the tiles in tiny steps. Click clacking in her vintage heels as soon as the bell ting-tings on the oven. I’m cooking inside. It smells of rosemary and thyme, roasted…

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Two horses standing in a field.

Earth and Bones

by Amanda Lightner My mother called one gray February morning. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?” Pinching the phone between my ear and shoulder, I scraped cereal from my son’s bib. “Mom? You there?” She cleared her throat. “Yes. Yes, I’m here. Sorry to call so early, but I have a favor…

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