By Diane Walters Those younger years filled with teenaged days, borne of bittersweet emotions . . . everything is brighter, life wrapped in energy that bounces and zings with boundless possibilities. Until something happens to bring it crashing down, down, down. Those lows can reach as far down as those…
By Cynthia Roby When your lust is done with me I’m gonna need a hearse. I’m tired, dry. You have twisted and turned my hips pushed and pulled and stretched my thighs planted snatches of hair in my pillow loved me in every which way a woman can be put…
By Alex Scarelli I drew in the dirt of our yard with a stick, watching the late summer sun fall from the sky and my Dad coming up the driveway in his pickup. When he parked, he got out and grabbed his lunchbox and a six-pack of Budweiser from the…
By Dawn Goodwin I hate it when people owe me money and act like they don’t know it. This kind of thing makes it easy for me to hold a grudge against them. I bet the first grudge ever held by mankind was between Adam and Eve. I’m sure Adam…
By Jennifer Kopec Turn my back Just to please you Whap! I scream Whap! A sound I’ve grown to love Stockholm syndrome at its finest The love for the whip The love I live for The time passes by The clock ticks on Tick Tock Tick Tock The sound grows…
By Christy Bailes My walls have seen forty years, with each layer more concealed than the last, and I wash, scrubbing nicotine-stained body, so full of memory that I measure time by yellow, once white smoke, swirling elegantly about the room, looking visually pleasing until I smell burnt tar. I…
By Frank Scozzari The door swung open and the silhouette that appeared was undoubtedly that of a ballerina. The figure was sublime and had the fanning outline of a tutu about the waist. “Can I use your phone?” the silhouette cried out. Marge, the fifty-something waitress-proprietor looked over at the…
By Mary Kendig I’ve been an editor now for more years than I’d like to admit, and I believe I’m pretty good at it. I’m pretty good at it, I feel, because I am detail oriented by nature. Some people, especially those who don’t really comprehend how important it is…
By Meryl Healy My wavy red curls lie in a pile on the floor; my bloody gold crown lies in a small wooden bowl, and my new brown loafers were ripped from me—in the same way that the bastard Nazis took Mama and Papa. My forearm is crimson and throbbing…
By Debra Hanley We arrived before the hearse. Heads turned as the deafening sound of twenty motorcycles rolled through the cemetery. Dressed in jeans and t-shirts layered beneath our vests, many were decorated with military insignia. We parked with precision dismounted, and gathered our flags. Solemnly we took up positions…