Widow’s Rock- Allie Nelson

The waters are like a widow’s hair, black and lustrous

with lost foam of tears salted to rime, the ocean weeps

for her husband sky, now blackened with the rot of

night, for it is only when his sun is a coin in the sky

that mourning waters light with warmth, each day

the seas cry for sky’s death, and hang the moon up

as a gravestone resplendent for his yellow eye.

Allie is a rather bubbly blonde that currently attends grad school for science communication, has a rather useless degree in biology, and works in the environmental field. She can usually be found hugging trees, eating green curry with tofu, or exploring the wilds of D.C.. Allie is an avid poet, aspiring author, meme queen, speculative fiction enthusiast, and alien centaur aficionado. She also has about 600 lipsticks.

You can find her at Dances With Tricksters

Captive Freckles – Sarah Doughty and Aurora Phoenix

Aurora Phoenix and Sarah Doughty/Whisper and the Roar

Whisper and the Roar

Captive Freckles

There was something about the way her freckled cheeks turned red that caught my attention. I wondered what made her blush. If it was something I said, or something that crossed her mind. It made the green of her eyes brighten like dew tickling grass on a warm summer morning.

suffused with roses
her emerald gaze
drew inward
coppery lashes lowered
demure veils
obscuring the windows
into her inner fracas.
her cheeks scrawl a chapter
in a language
I studied once –
long since forgot.
I scrabble
the freckled pattern –
cues to the lost tongue.

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Writing “Burnin’ Down The Box”

Nathan McCool/Mist of Melancholia

Mist of Melancholia

I’m real sick of all the normal talk in this town.

So dig this:

I stroll into a convenience store wild-eyed

as any nightmare; and I trade

a satchel of moirai eyes and could-be prophecies

for the cheapest, darkest beer I can pry

from the cooler’s scary fingers

at this late hour.
By the time I get home my heart’s bluebird

is already drowning.

-Just a damn lightweight these days. Or so my fates say.

As usual, the violin and the guitar have been into

another tuning fork fight over why the

power for the amp won’t come on.

And one of em popped a string before

cracking the other’s head.

It’ll get nursed with apologies splattered on

a pill-shaped pillow tonight while I

find the loneliest room in the house

to write a very long metaphor in story form

on the ethics and morality

of the mass acceptance of…

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David Lohrey/Writings, Musings, Poetry


New Orleans Review

Saturday, the 19th or the 20th

Surgery is scheduled. I got the green light.
They’ll slice me open next Friday.
He says it will be dangerous.
I could die. The main worry
will be post-op blood clots.
One of those and I’d be a goner.

Are you ready?
Ready? Ready for what?
Ready for surgery? Ready for death?
The doctor enters, holds my hand,
and asks if I’d like a little something
to relieve the pain. I’ll be dead in a few hours.

Are you ready to go?
What an absurdity to say you’re
in your prime. You’re not in good
shape, even if you can hit the ball.
The Golden Years are over. When
her mother died at 93, Andrea
took steps to sue the hospital. She thought
her mother was good for another ten.

By ninety, it’s time. You take a…

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Daffni Gingerich/Daffniblog


Turned around with my arms crossed. I’m mad and all I can think about is telling him I’m never reading his stuff again. He and I both know that won’t happen. But even so I’m not responding when I do. I leave and buy the entire collection of Roald Dahl’s children’s books at a used book store. My plan is to avoid thoughts of him and when I do think of him, I’ll send some text restating that I’m mad and he needs to do something about it. If he doesn’t respond I’ll just flush my phone and that will show him for sure. I don’t need to explain my actions, it’s art, and art needs no sense. Right? Laying in bed I stare into the night. I watch the angels dance and the demons tap shoulders to cut in. I sigh, a little jealous, a little wonder struck. The…

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Black Dog

Mick Hugh/Mick’s Neon Fog

Mick's Neon Fog

I kept the blackout shades drawn tight, dim room. Dim city sounds through the walls, barely audible. Drowsy yellow light from my bedside lamp — it was a small room, filled with yellow uterine warmth. I had a bed, and a desk, I was very fortunate, I had a mini-fridge and a carpet and a TV. I had a roommate who had disappeared into the city, bingeing, and a rent check I couldn’t afford. The store I worked for was shutting down, a job I didn’t like, so I stayed home. I stayed home and let the lead weight of ending days creep closer unannounced. I bought a bag of pot, a case of beer, ordered fast-food to my door, and masturbated frequently. Everything I could ever want to watch was available for download illegally. I watched sci-fi space travels and sitcoms, teen dramas, found nostalgia in the old colors…

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