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Nomi stood a few feet from the curb, watching her breath in the November Seattle rain, waiting for her mother. She hated asking for money. The feeling of dread almost compelled her to flee as she saw the silver Mercedes approaching. If only she didn’t need another fix.

“So, what is it that you need this time, Nom?” Gillian asked as her daughter climbed into the car, slamming the door. “Wait, lemme guess.”

“I just need a little bit of money. I ran out and I can’t -”

“Can’t what? Never mind. I won’t have this conversation again. So pointless. I do have something else to say though.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear this.”

Taking a moment and trying to soften her tone, Gillian continued, “I can’t keep supporting you like this. I’ve been talking to people, to your dad -”

“Dad?”

“Yes. Dad.”

“Well, by all means, what did he have to say?”

“It’s not just him, Nom. It’s everyone. I need to cut you off. I’m going to give you some money today, but that’s the last of it. I hope you can use it to get back on your feet and not shoot it up your arm. But, I’m done, Nom. If I continue to enable you, then aren’t I partly to blame?”

“Ooh, enable. Someone’s been to therapy.”

“What do you want from me? I mean, realistically, what do you expect me to do? Just keep giving you money, knowing what you’re doing with it?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t end up a stockbroker like Sam. Or a realtor, or -”

“It isn’t about that. It never was. I just -”

“Oh, for god’s sake, can you spare me the speech and just give me the money?”

Gillian reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope thick with bills. “I’m serious this time, Nom. Until you’re ready to clean up, I’m done with this. I mean it, don’t -”

Nomi grabbed the envelope and jumped from the car as Gillian slowed for a red light.

“Nom!” But she was already gone, disappearing into the slanted rain. “I’m always here for you and I’ll always love you,” she whispered to the indent in the seat as she leaned over to pull the door closed.

*

Ringing the buzzer on the decrepit stoop, Nomi glanced at the surroundings she so often failed to acknowledge in her quest to relieve the jones. If she didn’t know the neighborhood so well, it would be frightening.

“What.”

“Hey, it’s Nom. Can I come up?”

“Come back in an hour.”

“Dude, c’mon, just real quick -”

“Come back in an hour!”

“Well fuck”, she muttered to herself. At least the rain had slowed to a drizzle she thought as she made her way down the street to the local dive bar.

*

Sliding into a stool, she caught the bartender’s eye. Carefully pulling a twenty from the envelope so that no one could see it, she ordered a beer and looked at her watch. 50 minutes. She wasn’t hurting yet, but she wasn’t sure that she could stave off dope sickness for another hour. Trying not to let her mom’s voice get into her head, she grabbed the Heineken and took a long drag. The skunky flavor burned her nostrils and stung her throat; she felt the cold liquid hit her empty stomach. It was uncomfortable for a moment, but she seemed to like uncomfortable.

Nomi recognized the smell of stale menthols and rancid mop water which had, in all likelihood, barely made a once over the floor earlier that day. She hardly noticed when the stranger in a damp hoodie sidled up to the bar into the stool next to hers. He raised his hand to the bartender and, without a word, a short glass was placed in front of him and filled generously with cheap whiskey.

After drinking in silence for a bit, the stranger side-eyed Nomi and gave her a nod. After a cursory glance, she noticed that he was shaking slightly and looked drawn with his pale, unshaven face and red-rimmed eyes. He emptied his glass and signaled for a refill. The bartender complied.
“You remind me of my sister”, he said without looking at her again. “ ‘Bout the same age.”

“Yeah, okay. So what?”

“Heh. Yeah, just like her.” Surprisingly, his eyes welled, although he managed to withhold tears. Nomi hadn’t expected this emotion and just sat there, stony and silent.

“Just come from identifying her body. Fuckin’ junkie. She never did know when enough was enough. Can’t wait to tell mom.” He sighed and looked her up and down, “I hope you’re smarter than she was. Although judging from that look, you’re headin’ the same damn place.” The stranger finished his drink in one gulp and threw a few crumpled bills on the bar as he stood to leave. He pulled his hood as far over his face as it would go and seemed like he was going to say something else. Instead, he just shrugged and shook his head. And then he walked out of her life as inexplicably as he had walked into it.
For the first time in her life, Nomi felt the true weight of her addiction. The stranger’s face hung in the air, especially that look in his eyes. Is that how her family felt? Was she so busy resenting them for their successes and blaming them for her own failures that she was never really able to get past her bitterness and see the reality? This had never really occurred to her before, at least not to the extent it was at that moment.

*

Nomi felt somewhat altered as she stepped outside. The rain had stopped and the sun was even trying to make an appearance. She checked her watch and turned to head back to her dealer, but she found herself vacillating and, for the first time in as long as she could remember, wondered if that’s where she really wanted to go.

Reaching an intersection, she hesitated, deciding whether or not to cross. She leaned up against an old brick building, hands in her pockets, and considered her options. She could feel the dawning of withdrawal and questioned whether she could withstand the pain.

Seeing a disheveled young man shuffling past her, Nomi gestured slightly to catch his attention. “Hey man, you got a smoke?”

The kid rolled his eyes slightly, but presented his wrinkled pack of generics, jerking his hand slightly so that one emerged, peeking from the foil. As she pulled her hand from her pocket to reach for it, the envelope her mother had given her fell onto the sidewalk. They both just looked at it for a moment before Nomi bent to retrieve it, downplaying its significance. But the boy was too quick and he stomped his beleaguered converse on top of it.

Nomi stood and moved forward to confront him. Before she even got a word out, the boy glanced quickly around, the cigarette pack disappearing in favor of a switchblade. He pushed into her with his shoulder, sending her backward into the brick. Before she was able to regain her balance, he had already lifted the envelope and was running, his feet quietly beating the pavement.

She started after him, but suddenly felt weakened and grabbed at the stitch in her side. In doing so, she realized that she was bleeding profusely from a stab wound. Feeling like she may vomit, she went to her knees and then lay down and curled into a ball. She was dizzy and wanted to call for help, but couldn’t find her voice. Then she was choking and sputtering, and noticed that she was spraying blood with each cough.

And then, there was her mother. She kept moving closer and reaching for Nomi, but couldn’t quite get close enough to touch her. “Mommy,” Nomi tried to call out. Her mother faded and the world became darker and blurred. She cried in anguish, but not from the pain. It was because her mother would never know how much she loved her; because she would never get a chance to make it up to her; because she would die a worthless junkie.

“I’m so sorry, mommy,” Nomi whispered in her mind, hoping that somehow her mother would sense her dying daughter’s message. And then Nomi Beckenridge died. A small crowd began to gather, curious, no one moving to help. It would have been too late anyway.

A stranger in a damp hoodie pushed through the crowd and knelt beside her. He held his head in his hands and a tear rolled down his face onto hers. He removed his sweatshirt and he covered her best he could. The sound of sirens dispersed the crowd. The stranger stood and, without glancing back, disappeared with the rest of them.


Allyssa is the winner of the 2017 F2k Short Story Contest


Road Trip

by

David Snyder

  The eight-year-old 1958 Chevy was purring along through rural Kansas with ease. Don smiled with pride. When it hit 180,000 miles he planned to celebrate with a smoke and an ice-cold Mountain Dew from the cooler.  It was a beautiful late April day with the sunny...

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Why I’m Failing My Innovative Fiction Course

by

Ed Kratz

   

This is from an assignment in the Innovative Fiction Course taught by Karen

I'm just not making it in my innovative fiction course.
What is innovative fiction you might ask? Well, if you have to ask, I'd say you're one of those rubes...

Read more: Why I’m Failing My Innovative Fiction Course

 

 

 

Dear Don...

by

Ed Kratz

   

The Don, whose real name you do not want to know, ever, has vast experience solving problems. Our organization, Don’t Try to Find Us Press, never advocates violence. We take no responsibility for violent acts committed by those misinterpreting the Don’s recommendations.
Now for...

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Todd’s Miracle

by

Leslie

Todd shivered in the dark, seated cross-legged on the linoleum. Coats and dresses draped gently over his five-year-old shoulders. He flinched as a slit of bright light flashed through the space at the bottom of the door. Seconds later the deep, rolling rumble followed. “Mommy?”

Silence.

“Mommy?” ...

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Mad Hatter Town Planners

by

Margaret Fieland

   

I fell down the rabbit hole straight into the town planning committee meeting. A large basin of Sangria sat in the middle of the scratched wood table in the center of the room, and a keg rested against the back wall. Al, Stan, and Art...

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Dinner at Grandma's

by

Lolla Bryant

You’re at Grandma’s house again for dinner.  As always, the family is gathered together and everybody’s trying to out-talk everybody else.   You ask yourself why you continue to go through this ordeal every week, but you know why; it’s Grandma.  Also, it’s a family tradition that brings you...

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Mommy’s Little Secret

by

Leslie

At age five, Amy told her mother that the thought of swimming scared her. Not surprisingly, her mother poo-pooed the idea, and said that fear showed weakness and stupidity. From then on, Amy said she hated swimming and never admitted any fear to her mother again. I don’t...

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New Age Centre

by

Natalie Knight

I had been in Oz for a few months when I received an emergency call to come back to South Africa. Every émigré who leaves elderly parents dreads this call.

 

But this was worse than death. Our family lawyer called me to attend a meeting...

Read more: New Age Centre

 

 

 

"I’ve Been With Willy All Day"

by

Brigitte Whiting

   

The late August sun hung hot in a bare blue sky. Matilda picked up a tattered straw bushel basket and trudged into the garden with it. The rows of beans were dusty green, the corn stalks tall, their leaves edged with yellow. She settled on...

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50 Minutes

by

Allyssa


Nomi stood a few feet from the curb, watching her breath in the November Seattle rain, waiting for her mother. She hated asking for money. The feeling of dread almost compelled her to flee as she saw the silver Mercedes approaching. If only she didn’t need another fix.

“So, ...

Read more: 50 Minutes

 

 

 

Her Fortune is the Future in the Past

by

Albert Orjuela

The toe drags umber, the pressure of holding paint forces the belly to bulge, and the canvas texture causes tired bristles to bend and stretch, casting tinted shadows in their wake. The resulting undertones bring life to the painting. The vitalizing paint bled from the brush is drawn from the...

Read more: Her Fortune is the Future in the Past

 

 

 

The Compulsion of Water Lilies

by

Gevera Bert Piedmont



She was buzzing in his ear again, the world’s largest and most annoying fly.

“This isn’t the beach you promised me. Can’t we go into town at least?”

He flicked a hand over his shoulder at her, go away, and stared into the waves. His eyes sought and...

Read more: The Compulsion of Water Lilies

 

 

 

Lessons In Plot: From Setup To Payoff

by

By Joy Manné (the student) with Help and Encouragement from Karen Barr (the teacher)



From ‘The Road from Setup to Payoff’ by Karen Barr, (Writers Village University, MFA 250-261 Story Focus series based on the book by Lisa Cron)

One of our most hardwired expectations is that anything that reads like the beginning of a new pattern—that is a setup—will in fact, be a...

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Meatloaf and Mashed Taters

by

Art Subklew


Art Subklew is a 55-year-old Paramedic residing and working in The Southern Berkshires, Massachusetts. He began creative writing as a teenager, mostly focusing on fictional short stories grounded in his experiences as a teenager growing up on a small farm. He has attended numerous classes in Creative Writing...

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Found: A $20 Bill

by

Brigitte Whiting


Brigitte lives in Maine and often uses settings and experiences from her yard in her writing. She earned Fiction Writing Certificates from Gotham Writers Workshop and UCLA-Ext and is working on her WVU-MFA Certificate. In addition to facilitating WVU classes, she meets weekly with two local writers' groups

Read more: Found: A $20 Bill

 

 

 

Jesus is Lord

by

Eviano George



“Esu, Esu”, the aged priest in the white skullcap screams, flecks of spittle flying out of his mouth. His Adam’s apple stretches against his reedy, leathery neck as incantations burst forth in a torrent. As if on cue, a monstrous, heavily tattooed novice runs out of the shadows. In...

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The Bus Station

by

Joyce Hertzoff


Joyce Hertzoff retired after over 45 years in the scientific information field. Since then she has published three YA novels. There of her short stories were included in anthologies. She is a facilitator and mentor for the MFA program at WVU.

Read more: The Bus Station

 

 

 

He Looked Like Quiet

by

Kathryn Pollard


An alarm sounded in the distance. I paid it no mind. Instead, I focused on the peculiar man sitting on the park bench. He looked like quiet—the epitome of it. When he breathed, the slight rise and fall of his shoulders did not compromise his placid composure. His hair, ...

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The Curious Case of Solomon Gbajabiamila

by

Eviano George

Deep in the cavernous belly of the hospital, the frail old man was dying. Inch by inch, he contorted his body to rest on the side that did not hurt. He also wanted to avoid looking at the empty space where the other man had been; the only companion he...

Read more: The Curious Case of Solomon Gbajabiamila

 

 

 

Portrait of the Artist at a Hideous Moment

by

Frank Richards

The man sits at a desk, in a garage, under a single light, a stack of white eight by eleven sheets of paper before him. The man sits at a desk, in a garage, under a good old neon light, a stack of neatly typed eight by eleven pages on...

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Zephyr

by

Linda Murray

The winding dirt road abandons the highway five miles south of town. But perhaps road is too grand a term for what meanders lazily into the otherwise untouched coastal forest. Maybe trail would be a better description. Alder and cedar boughs mesh in a green canopy that nearly blocks the...

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The Five-Hundred-Foot Ladder

by

Rob Samborn

“Come on, Dad,” Savannah said. “Whatever happened to relaxing in your golden years? Sipping mint juleps on the porch, listening to U2, or whatever you old folk like?”

“Mint juleps?”

“I don’t know. What do you old folk drink?”

“You’re not funny, sweetheart. And fifty-eight’s not old. ...

Read more: The Five-Hundred-Foot Ladder

 

 

 

Empty Box

by

Albert Orjuela

I’ve lived my whole life and people are still always trying to change me. Especially more so because I am empty. I don’t understand what the problem is, is it my fault? I am not a storage box, a moving box, a shipping box, or even a jewelry box. I...

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Stasis

by

Jeffrey M. Keenan

We hold hands, our palms sweat but we don't let go to wipe them off. Under my right hand is the switch. Once I close it, well...

It was supposed to be a simple rescue. Pull the freighter out of its decaying orbit around the small star, and...

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The Fisherman

by

Brigitte Whiting

I shuffle down the path from our house to the dock. I've been on the water for so long, my wife Molly tells me, that I've gotten permanent sea legs. I step down into my seine-net fishing boat, the one I bought from my father forty years ago, slide my...

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The Weight of Emotions

by

Angela Hess

  I can hear my parents’ raised voices upstairs. They are fighting again. I turn on the sink faucet, letting the sound of the running water drown out their voices. I thrust my hands in the nearly scalding hot water and methodically scrub each dish in the sink...

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An Apology

by

Brigitte Whiting

   I'm sorry that I hadn't thought of how I would take care of a puppy. It had seemed like a good idea, accept the gift of a puppy from acquaintances. She had the coloring of a coyote and was named Brindle for those tawny markings. I'd...

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Baby Precious

by

Louise E. Sawyer

It was Christmas Day 1950 and my sixth birthday. Under the tree was an unusually long, large box with my name on it. I was excited to open it. I couldn’t wait. When I finally did, I was amazed to look upon the most gorgeous doll I’d...

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Downsizing

by

M Clare Paris

 
I think about death quite a bit. Not morbidly, nor do I worry about what happens when one dies. Although I enjoy a spiritual life, I am also philosophical about the end of my life. If there is something else, it will be darned interesting. If there isn’t, ...

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Absent But Present

by

Louise E. Sawyer


My father, Thomas George Sawyer, was absent at my birth and absent the first seven months of my life.

It was Christmas Eve 1944 at the two-story white house on Beechwood Drive-my Grannie’s house in Victoria, the capital city of British Colombia on Vancouver Island. Grannie Price, my...

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Gathering: A Contemplative Essay

by

Brigitte Whiting

I'm always looking for ideas to use in writing: for that prompt at which I first gulp and then slowly retrieve some thread of an idea, for the poem I need for the Monday morning poetry group, for an essay that's due in two days.

I've heeded...

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Seasons in a Wild Turkey Hen's Life

by

Brigitte Whiting

Last spring, a wild turkey hen incubated her eggs for twenty-eight days. When they hatched, she scrambled to keep up with them. Poults to scientific literature. Babies to her. She didn't need to teach them to scratch for bugs—they came with that instinct. Nighttimes during their first four weeks, ...

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Lesson in Subtext

by

Joy Manné and Karen Barr

Roles

Teacher – Karen Barr

Student – Joy Manné

Teacher

WELCOME TO WEEK 8 OF SUBTEXT.

There is no word count, but the challenge is to get all ten types of subtext in as few words as possible. Here they are:

Show don’t...

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Teenage Escape Plan

by

Danielle Dayney

I woke to warm, gooey air smothering me even though the ceiling fan was spinning on high. Dangling lightpulls smacked and banged the glass globe with each rotation of the blades. The base of the fan swayed and groaned, ready to jump from its screws in the drywall any second.

...

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Miracle Baby

by

Harry C. Hobbs

The mother and father watched as the sun rose on a cold morning in February 1945, wondering if their four-month-old son had lived through the night. Could miracles really happen? Perhaps this child they had wanted so badly wanted wasn’t meant to survive. His mother was a month past her...

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Ylva the Úlfr

by

Cynthia Reed

When I flew to California in September, the golden archipelago summer, verdant below and mazarine above, still held sway. Twenty-three days and eleven thousand two hundred and forty miles later, if you’d sat here with me on the back deck this afternoon--you’d know, too--autumn now envelopes Sweden in...

Read more: Ylva the Úlfr

 

 

 

Stargazer

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

 A Poem in Free Verse

Stargazer, Rhode Island Red

So much like me,

Always...

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Eagles in Winter Storm "Stella"

by

Brigitte Whiting

A poem in free verse

Before the nor'easter "Stella" arrives here—

weather warnings have...

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Heads I Win

by

Joy Manné

A Chant in Free Verse

Bathed and blessed, in fine white cotton clad,

to...

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Do you wear shoes? Do they make a sound?

by

Gerardine Baugh

I looked up and saw it.  I would have missed it if I hadn’t looked up when I...

Read more: Do you wear shoes? Do they make a sound?

 

 

 

Wakeful Nights

by

Catherine McArdle

A Sonnet

These midnight doubts have power to kill your peace

and numbing...

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Dragons

by

Judy Beaston

A Cinquain poem

 

 dragons

dance on night walls

swift runners, fire breathers

...

Read more: Dragons

 

 

 

Disquiet - Winner of our April 2018 Poetry Contest!

by

Judy Beaston

   

 A Poem in Free Verse

 

Waves crash, tumble, rumble

upon...

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Shellina, Part 2 ~ A Fairy Tale

by

Louise E. Sawyer

It’s winter morning at Bullrush Cove 

Where dawn paints with pink.
Shellina opens up her eyes. Last night
...

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Rest In Peace My Canine Daughter

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

 

I don't want a zombie dog,

No pet to rise from the dead,

Up from...

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Ode To A Pair Of Faithful Boots

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

                                        ...

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Sins of Forefathers

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

Sinners

Blood stained hands

Must wash hands

Of my sins and sins of our forefathers.

...

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Conversation At The Checkout

by

Gerardine Baugh

 

“I love black cats with golden-green eyes”

She said, moving the cat treats over the scanner


...

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Night is a Swim

by

Gerardine Baugh

Night is a swim of soundless scribbles, clicking keys

A thrum, thrum, thrumming of deep sensations

...

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Dark And Stormy Month   

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

 

Over cast skies,

  Darkened unrested raccoon eyes,

Now more like those of a hungry night...

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Days of Fall

by

Brigitte Whiting

 

In these first days of fall, I water

my wildflowers. A shadow flutters

past my hat. ...

Read more: Days of Fall

 

 

 

Whiskey Half-Barrel

by

Brigitte Whiting

 

 

Through my back window overlooking the yard

sits the whiskey barrel, shaded by oaks and...

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Mid Seasons

by

Brigitte Whiting

 

I've left the last brown-eyed Susans,

their yellow petals drooped around

dark brown seed-filled cones,

...

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Fruit of Betrayal

by

Katelyn Thomas

 

I am disturbed by the inconsistency of yellow apples -

the way they invite you in...

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Roadkill

by

Katelyn Thomas

 

Asphalt sprouts wings -

all that remains.

Unfortunate crow.


Katelyn Thomas is...

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When Did You Last See Her?

by

Katelyn Thomas

 

 

The visitor pours out the moon,

watches the top crater,

before he realizes one...

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Serenity Prayer, Long Beach, 1956...a #MeToo recollection

by

Cynthia Reed

 

‘Whiskey,’ said my Nana, ‘too much whiskey in that man.’

he was big and his...

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Recipe for Writing a Poem

by

Glennis Walker Hobbs

After reading How to Write a Poem by Billy Collins

Gather the ingredients:

1 bushel of...

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Queen Elizabeth Gardens - Haiban

by

Glennis Walker Hobbs

The Queen Elizabeth Gardens, hidden in the geographic centre of Vancouver, British Columbia,

come as a complete...

Read more: Queen Elizabeth Gardens - Haiban

 

 

 

Bees

by

Gerardine Baugh


Gerardine Gail Baugh is a native Chicagoan who moved into the Northwest burbs of Illinois. Where she...

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9/11 – A Kyrielle

by

Glennis Walker Hobbs

They were days of desperation

and anxious anticipation,

planes hijacked, Bin Laden’s command,

and winds of...

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Farm Field

by

Gerardine Baugh

black dirt in hot sun
pieces of the past calling
seeds sown in straight rows

Sprouting green soft...

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Change Is

by

Albert Orjuela

Change is a boundless mechanism. It is not subject to time,and never seems to have a particular sense of...

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Ragdoll

by

Gerardine Baugh

Ragdoll flopping

Up and running fur flying

Walls, ceilings- my coffee


Gerardine Gail...

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To the Bottle Blonde in the White Car

by

Katelyn Thomas

I thought it was snowing in August until
one of the flakes swirling from your red
tipped fingers as...

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There Isn't Any Narcan In My Purse

by

Katelyn Thomas

She is
another
woman's
daughter.
She gives
her body,
would give
her soul -
funds
for one
more
hit.
...

Read more: There Isn't Any Narcan In My Purse

 

 

 

Losing You

by

Brigitte Whiting

They said there'd be a new normal
to which others nodded in agreement.
A cliché that implies losses are...

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Twilight

by

Brigitte Whiting

The last hour of dusk, while pine shadows
stretch and lengthen along the rocky shoreline,
and water laps and flows...

Read more: Twilight

 

 

 

Writing Excuses

by

Brigitte Whiting

I listen to the excuses, all of them finely honed.

He says, I'm reaching for a package of hamburger,
...

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First and Third Person

by

Andrew Dabar

She entered through one door
As he by another
Did cross a crowded floor
Strangers to each other

...

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Halloween Costume

by

Andrew Dabar

Another wolf in disguise
A pair of glowing eyes
Oh, cute little boy
Small as a toy
Let go...

Read more: Halloween Costume

 

 

 

Why Poetry?

by

Luann Lewis

To capture a moment.
The moment a cool breeze lifts your hair.
The moment the scent of lilacs delights your...

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Why Flash?

by

Luann Lewis

Each story is like stepping through a door to an alternate dimension where time is out of proportion. Intellectually, I...

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Autumn Wind

by

Andrew Dabar

Late autumn wind
Whispering friend
You speak to my heart
Again and again
At times with the strongest of...

Read more: Autumn Wind

 

 

 

Shellina ~ a Fairy Tale

by

Louise Saywer

Part I Bullrush Cove

The Bullrush Cove is a seaside nook,
Asleep in fairyland.
This summer eve...

Read more: Shellina ~ a Fairy Tale

 

 

 

Knitting on the Corner in Winslow Arizona

by

Joyce Hertzoff

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Who Me?

by

Albert Orjuela

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Do They Make a Sound?

by

Gerardine Baugh

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Do you see what I see?

by

Albert Orjuela

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Frosty Morning

by

Gerardine Baugh

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Evening at the Beach

by

Kathryn Pollard

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March Nor'Easter #2

by

Brigitte Whiting

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First Morning Light

by

Albert Orjuela

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A View For All Faiths

by

Luann Lewis

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Feed Me

by

Gerardine Baugh

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A Mid-Winter's Summer Dream

by

Albert Orjuela

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Hitchcock Presbyterian Church at Night

by

Albert Orjuela

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Bodie Lighthouse at Sunset

by

RJ Hembree

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Croton Dam Waterfall

by

Albert Orjuela

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Itching for Your Love

by

Karen Barr

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Winter Tree

by

Hugo Janke

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Not So Fast...

by

Donna Sundblad

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First Encounters

by

Karen Barr

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Time To Shovel

by

Gerardine (Gail) Baugh

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Natural Thoughts

by

Ann Butts

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Super Moon

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

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Get Your Own Flower

by

Albert Orjuela

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Frozen Puddle

by

Gerardine (Gail) Baugh

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Brickfields, Kuala Lumpur

by

Cynthia Reed

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In Flight

by

Karen Barr

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This Guy Cracks Me Up

by

Albert Orjuela

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Cardinal in the Snow

by

RJ Hembree

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White Tailed Deer

by

Bert Piedmont

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Truck in a Field

by

RJ Hembree

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The Nose that Knows

by

Albert Orjuela

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All Roads Lead to Autumn

by

Albert Orjuela

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