Flash Fiction By David Margolin

Shower Therapy

Carla blindly stumbled into her morning shower, eyes gunked shut, thoughts encrusted in the residue of sleep, limbs weak and wobbly. Hair in dense knots and tangles, mixed with deadly-looking daggers shooting out in all directions. Yesterday’s tensions, regrets, and fears washed away as the healing spray of hot transformative water, temperature adjusted to perfection, caressed her body, restored order to her hair, cleared her mind, and steadied her balance. Rejuvenated, Carla alighted, prepared for the day’s battles.

Poetry By Arron Hickman

The Ivy Hour

I witnessed it there,

not quite abandoned—

a chair in the hallway,

still warm from her leaving.

Should I expect a look of longing,

or just the echo of her heels

dragging something invisible behind them?

She is off for a formal meeting—

clipboard, collarbones, composure.

Should I give her a flower-scented perfume,

one that lingers after her,

like the breath of an orchid

gasping behind a locked door?

Creeping cotton-filled ivy plants

rise like theatre curtains across the brick,

invasive, yet pretending not to strangle.

Drama is always welcome here.

Especially when the actress forgets her lines

and we improvise her desire

with wine and broken pencils.

We frowned upon a sunny day—

too cheerful, too obvious.

Dark clouds are kinder,

they carry secrets like sailors

who know not to speak

of those buried at sea.

Drawing pencil marks and saying farewell—

her lipstick on the rim, my fingerprints on her wrist.

We rewrite the ending each time we breathe.

This is the price of seeing too clearly:

the moment you name it,

it slips away like a lie.

Poetry By Isaac Sweeney

The Thread and the Chip

Silvery shimmer,
taut and strong.
This is
the thread by which
I’m hanging on.

Through each day it
keeps me away from where
I want to be and
almost to where
I want to go.

As I sway, its
grip strangles and
slices through skin,
muscle, every lig-a-
ment and nerve but
never to bone,
so as to give
me hope.

This thread is
mine and can never
break unless, of course, it
rubs against the coarse, rigid,
scales of this
hardened chip
upon my shoulder

Poetry By Hana Rubinstejnova

The Cup

gallop through a prairie
horse white mane
soft morning light
the sun rose up again

without a saddle
free as a bird
bolting wildly
away from the herd
where is he running
what awaits there
devoid of direction
he may not care

joyous movement
through time and space
on his own terms
far from the race

never mind the trophies
now all given up
new sense of freedom
forget Melbourne cup

Poetry By Per Norrgren

Being Here – Poem Day 3
When everything feels too much — Noticing

There are times when the pace of life leaves little room between moments.
Days fill themselves quickly.
Transitions blur into one another.

Messages arrive faster than they can be answered.
News, opinions, expectations, information —
all moving at once,
all asking to be taken in.

Even ordinary routines can begin to stack up.
Work, care, responsibility, decisions —
each reasonable on its own,
but relentless when combined.

This isn’t unique to one kind of person.
It happens in busy lives and quiet ones,
in times of change and in periods that look stable from the outside.

The world has learned to move quickly.
To fill silence.
To reward availability.

In that context, feeling overwhelmed is not surprising.
It is often a natural response to living without much space.
Noticing this doesn’t explain everything.
It doesn’t offer solutions.

It simply places the experience where it belongs —
not as a personal flaw,
but as something shaped by how life is lived.
Seeing that clearly can change the way the moment is held.

Poetry By Drew Martin

The Creative Spirit on a Cold Night

Beneath a sea of frozen stars
The village goes to sleep
Save for a few souls still awake
Who dream a bit more deep

Poets write their words so sweet
Musicians craft a melody
Painters look to capture beauty
For all the world to see

The moon hangs overhead
An icy orb of light
To guide the spirits of those
Creating in the night

An artist pays no heed
To the day or time
For once they find a muse
There’s reason to the rhyme.

Poetry By Timothy J. Maynard

The Catch

I kicked the flank and heard the gravel spin,

The panic rising in the dust and din,

I ran to lose yet prayed that she would win.

The heavy air was sticking to my skin,

I felt the weight of grace begin,

I kicked the flank and heard the gravel spin.

I knew exactly where my heart had been,

A coward fleeing from his only kin,

I ran to lose yet prayed that she would win.

The distance closed, I heard the gap grow thin,

I felt her shadow like a safety pin,

I kicked the flank and heard the gravel spin.

She rode me down to where the trees begin,

To end the race that I was fearful in,

I ran to lose yet prayed that she would win.

* * *

She grabbed the rein and pulled the leather in,

I stopped the horse and touched her lifted chin;

I squeezed the flank and reined the stallion in,

I ran to lose so she could have the win.

* * *

Poetry By J. B. Hogan

Every Man

Thought he was different,

thought he was special,

appreciated her more

than ordinary, regular men.

Believed he was different,

believed he was bright,

knew her on levels

no one else dared to explore.

Believed he was different,

believed he was deep

loved her in a way

most others could not understand.

Thought he was different,

thought he was special,

but he only loved her for her beauty

like every man before.

Poetry By Andreea

Yearning

When I looked at you, I saw myself less,
I wish I had what you had, but was it best?
What made me think that I’m not good?
I may have felt misunderstood.
It was by me, and not by you,
I just tried to fit a role untrue.
I felt the yearning for the trait in you,
And seem to think it’s hard to get.
But little did I stop to think,
That what I have is just as good.
To match my flair with yours was silly,
It made my being seem unreal.
Instead, I focused on my assets,
Smoothing them out, until they’re clear.
I still have moments when I’m yearning,
Whenever I see other people shine.
It’s just that now the veil is lifted,
And I can see me just as bright.

Poetry By Stavros Makridis

Immortal soul

When I lost my love, I realized that at some point I will die.
And then, I thought that stars go out.
As our sun, the flowers, the animals, human beings, the earth will stop existing…
And then, I thought that everything is lost once and for all.
And maybe something else comes to their place.
Till it’s lost, too.
Maybe till, a timeless moment, nothing exists, nowhere.
And, at that point,
I started laughing like crazy because I realized that I have the opportunity to live the way I was given.
Without rules.
Without laws.
Only because I was an immortal soul.

Poetry By Alexander Lothian Wilson

Carwash

I watch men from foreign lands
with ragged beards and dark eyes.
Wraiths, moving in a sparkling mist
Wield sponge and cloth
In energetic arcs, turning
Dull metal to bright colour,
Glass to reflective mirrors.
Cars stop.
Move forward.
Hesitate.
Move forward.
Stop.
A new-age production line
under the gaze of extinct
mills and factories.

Cocooned in warm trophy cars.
Mercs, Jags, Beemers.
Drivers gaze through
pellucid windows watching
the gangly youth cross
the yard to my dog.
He ruffles her hair, tweaks her ears.
Her warm tongue licks his chilled hand.
I see the shadow of a memory
pass across his pinched face.
At home I had dog, he says.
Where is home? I ask.
Far away.
The wary reply
of a stranger in a foreign land