by Norman Klein Rita had been visiting her best friend, Jody, in New Hampshire, and two days into the visit Jody called Bill from the hospital. “When she arrived last night she didn’t look right, so I gave her some soup and put her to bed. But she was worse this morning,…
by Amy Southard Sing to me, Your song alluring The melody that calls Lost sailors to their deaths. Entice me With sweet music My eyes to your body Like moths to a flame Hypnotized, Heartbeat unsteady I’ve found euphoria In a lullaby. Your tune begging me As our bodies entwine,…
by Amy Covel The future isn’t built On empty words Or broken promises Nor even the mistakes of the past But on the actions of the present It’s what you do today That will change the future Mend the present And put to rest The past I’ve heard it said…
by K. M. Frantz On the eve of your fortieth birthday, I sat and glanced at the chalkboard hanging on the wall adjacent to my chair. On its surface were colorful reminders I’ve left for my family—usually things pertaining to our day-to-day. Occasionally, I’d give a welcoming shout-out to a visiting…
by Robert Kirk Scott Under the bed, in the dark, he remembered what it had taken to get him here. He remembered leaning back into the scratchy upholstery of the train seat, looking out the window at them, as the train lurched forward, ready to roll south. He didn’t believe…
by Elizabeth Penn Liz tapped her foot, checking the clasp again on her seatbelt which was pulled tightly across her gray pencil skirt. She tucked a few stray hairs behind her ear and smoothed down the lines on her floral blouse, trying to relax. Everyone had just finished loading the…
by Chelle Royal The sounds of the ocean rush through the opening of a seashell, capturing the memories of a seaside village within its soul. Infinite sunsets witnessed, lives reincarnated, countless Atlantic baptisms, sandcastle turrets, precious keepsake of a summer spent in the sand. A shell blasts from the barrel…
by Elaine Granados I am escaping into the hallway, letting #401’s door thud behind, closing on heavy heat open windows could never lift and the constant smell of black beans cooking, on sirens and horns of Koreatown (before Starbucks and Target on the corner), on the buzzing in my head,…
by Bonnie E. Carlson She dreaded having to make the amends, but it ate away at her. “It’s time,” her sponsor said. “Put on your big girl pants. You’ll feel better when it’s done.” In previous attempts at sobriety, Laurel had never gotten to AA’s steps eight and nine—make a…
by Amy Covel I’ve become accustomed To eating alone Out of little glass jars While I stare out the window And count the stars The heavens know That one lonely soul’s Not a constellation Of a crowded table All alone.