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Tag: write
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Tea with Old Friends By Jonathan Ferrini
It was a weekly treat for me to attend an elegant, afternoon, “High Tea” at the beautiful “Mark Hopkins Hotel” after church services across the street. The “Mark” held a commanding view of San Francisco from its location atop Nob Hill and provided a beautiful view of the iconic bridge,…
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Shouts and Breathes
Doomed to die,I learned to enjoy the sound of explosives.My tears are fireworks,my sorrow’s a guide.The streets are the war scenes andI won’t put up a fight.My thoughts in slow motion,buildings falling apart,your face on the banners,but someone’s tearing it down.And so, it starts,I become the dispassionate observer of your…
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Torrents of me
I’m a peaceful hurricane and the safest nuclear weapon,a drought in the desert,and a flood in the ocean.I’m the sun that shines but never burns your skin,A drunk driver – who comes out at nightAnd pretends she had lost the keys.I’m a love junkie,living with constant need to give loveand…
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Chrysalis By Matt Maraynes
Caterpillar sleeps,wakes up a butterfly. New look, new senses, new reality, no less true. Everything remains, andeverything is changed. Perhaps the butterfly wonders, too, what it feels like each dayto sit up and yawn,and wake up as you. Matt is a writer and filmmaker from New York. His favorite plants are African Violets, his favorite shark…
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Songs for Pretty Girls By Nic Nichols
In each home, each city, and each ending, she had a post. But now that she’d settled in the Deep South, the nights had heart and soul. Though the thick glass windows were to be always shut and locked, the midnight hum carried through. She sometimes wondered if the music…
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Dried Out Baby By Will Musgrove
Baby skinned the coyote’s mate. Good riddance, he thought as he tossed the bloody gray pelt onto the dry brush. A dozen feet away, his fellow brewers—out of necessity—waited for him around a fire, where they sampled each other’s moonshine recipes and their stomachs rumbled like the missing thunder. Baby, who…
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A Short, Unreceived, Love Letter
My mother always knows when I’m in love. Whenever she sees that I’m slowly drowning in the waves of infatuation, she stops talking, letting me decide whether I want to sink or swim. This time, I choose to sink because you’re too beautiful, I must get lost. Others can tell…
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My Father’s Jamun Tree By Sufia Khatoon
My gardener exerts that I uprootmy father’s jamun* tree.It has failed to yield fruits this year—It has failed to conform. My father finds it hardto feel anything at all. I should part with it—without the promise ofjamuni* flowers.Without a purposeit is futile to love it. In the heated afternoonI hold…
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Death Witch by Leon Clifford
Once upon a time, there was a magnificent five bedroom, tastefully refurbished, inter-war, detached home with two ensuites, and double garage situated within bullseye of the Tudor Grange catchment. The house was equidistant from the train station and Solihull Town Center, short enough for a latte cooling stroll. One half…