A butterfly floats across
the balcony. A bird flies
over the roof. Someone walks
a dog. Generators roar the pain
of darkness and loss.
The hurricane has died,
the sky is blue again.
The scars are deep and long;
nature has put us in our place.

Diane Elayne Dees lives in Covington, Louisiana, just across Lake Pontchartrain from New Orleans. Though known as a poet, she has also written her share of fiction and creative nonfiction. Diane also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women’s professional tennis throughout the world.

2021 was a tough year all around, but we made it through. Still, Covid caught up with us at the very end and, as a result, we lost most of the month of January. It is amazing how unproductive you are when not feeling well.

But we are stoking the fires and building up steam once more and should be back on track and reading, editing, publishing (and sometimes writing) this month of February.

Also, we have moved (albeit slowly) into filmmaking. Our first venture is a short film called “Because I Could Not Stop for Death.” The title comes from a poem by Emily Dickinson.

Take a look at our Indiegogo page: Because I Could Not Stop for Death

The campaign on Indiegogo only runs for 60 days. If you’re feeling generous, toss in a few bucks. We would be ever appreciative.

He wouldn’t give up now; there was no point. The smoke wound, blue and delicate, through the warm air. The bottle of rosé wasn’t quite finished. After the first sips of coffee, he knew it would taste bitter. Crumbs of fig cake stuck to the little dessert fork on the uncleared plate. He didn’t want the meal to end. He ordered a brandy; he’d sleep later.

The sun flared from the dust jacket of the book lying on the table in front of him, obscuring most of the title, though he could still read the black words ‘…of Pain’. He’d nearly finished it. The descriptions of the author’s worsening condition were becoming more graphic, more terrible. He hadn’t known the disease existed in that particular form, the evolution of its crippling agony a new and yet, strangely, not unwelcome discovery. There seemed no reason now not to immerse himself in it, like a guidebook to an unfamiliar, impending destination. He felt more and more a creature of unchosen movement, surrendered to ancient currents.

The restaurant occupied the ground floor of a building at the end of a row jutting between the start of two streets. One disappeared back into the town, winding among tourist shops, dropping in steps and slopes down towards the river. The other shortly became one side of the main square, opposite the colossal old Holy Palace. At the far end the square terminated in a bluff overlooking the bend in the river half-spanned by the famous ruined bridge. Between the Palace’s river-facing flank and the first tumbling rocks of the bluff was the small park where he’d walked that morning, stunned by the white gold heat and the blueness of the sky and the pale bright Palace rising vastly behind him as he looked at the green and glittering river below.

Standing there, it had seemed so simple to him. Each of these things, each component of the day, bold and exact, combined around him with architectural sureness, its edges hard against the others’, its qualities unarguably displayed. These few expressions of place and quality and moment buttressed him with their certainty. Among them he felt calmer and reassured, something restored that had begun to drain from him in that surprisingly small office, two months ago and hundreds of miles away, as soon as the thin, immaculate, matter-of-fact specialist had begun speaking. Here, where a handful of elements supported the world with such beautiful authority, he breathed more easily, blessing every sight.

He blew smoke upwards; it drifted slowly, fragile and weakening. Above it, arcing like dark formulae against the lapis brilliance beyond, swifts screamed. He’d always thought them lucky. Soon he would pay and leave, tipping this happy day extravagantly. He would walk the short distance to the hotel, the alcohol thickening his senses as he moved between deep shadows. In his room he would lie on the sunlit bed, staring out at the crowding, red-tiled roofs. Vainly, he would try to read his book but, in the stillness, he’d drift off to the noises of the town and to the sound of the swifts overhead, increasingly high and far.

Craig Dobson lives in the UK and works for the local council library service, watching the books dwindle in number year after year but still pleased about how many people turn to them when it’s important. Aside from that, he ages and fattens spending much time staring into the middle distance, where he is sure that some revelation lies, waiting.

From here I watch a caravan of clouds pass by
Here in my familiar bed of dreams,
Fever spent, bereft,
Tucked inside fate’s ambivalent grasp.
I am quarantined,
Trapped within a version of me.

Within this burning version,
I am euphoric.
I divine the wisdom of the ages,
Trace a path across shifting pillowed gray skies.

And deep within, a glowing heat rises,
Expands inside my head, electric.
Thoughts ablaze. Senses scorching.
All the while this dusty world buzzes and spins
Leaving me breathless, and oh so empty.

And it is here that I realize that
Everything exists inside my head
From the rising clouds
To the wisdom of ages
To fevered epiphanies
To the great Empty.

And so I fall silent at the mercy of it all
Lost in an illness that elevates me
Beyond the lines of time and space
And leaves me vacant
As a cloud floating through
The boundless space
Of an entire universe.

Christen Lee is a certified family nurse practitioner in the Northeast Ohio, Cleveland area. Outside of health care, Christen enjoys immersing herself in words.

Everyone lies: he, her, they, them, you and I. We lie for our benefit, and that is it… They say that lying can provide you the best life or it can ruin it forever. It’s quite a great weapon for the good and the bad, it’s always great to have it on your side. But lying is also addicting, I am addicted to lying because I’ve been lied to all my life, I grew up with walking lies and soon enough I became one too. The lies I tell are prepared to my advantage and hurt or bless who I chose. Just the way others are vulnerable to my lies I am as vulnerable too. Lying is bad; they say, lying is a sin; they say, lying is pain and death; they say… but yet they are the lie; I say. But lying is key to survival, key to happiness too, it has become the new love and satisfaction. It is found in every ear, mouth, word, sound, and every corner. A lie is terribly amazing and beautifully flawed.

Samantha Edith is inspired by her life experiences as a young adult and which is what she bases her poems/ short narratives on. ¨They Lie¨ contains feelings about liars and lies in general.

I laughed bitterly
When she told me
What she was about to do to me

And as the years passed
Everything she was about to do to me
Has painstakingly been done.

I wince at the incisions,
The wounds ever raw.
I try to laugh but no sound comes.

I think about that,
Blinded by my innocence and tears.
It’s her turn to laugh now

And she does.

John Tustin is currently suffering in exile on the island of Elba but hopes to return to you soon. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

I can’t resist a wind
that opens its arms to me,
swooping down to play
ruffles my hair and creates
starry music.
  This
    crisp
      giggle breeze,
her voice clearly singing
notes of “Pachelbel’s Canon”
seemed to be struck with
      fever
        bliss

Caitlin Gemmell is a writer and artist living on top of a hill in upstate New York. When not writing or creating, she spends her days: drinking tea, foraging for wild edibles, tending her garden, and wrangling her child, chickens, and a pig (who wandered here one summer night and never left).

My backpack contains all that I have lost, and never can recover.

The sheer volume of the contents is only surpassed by the weight each provided in the metaphoric instability of my life.

I should carry the contents for the entire world to see, and one special person to realize I do believe the non-tangibles of life indeed have value greater than the price at which I sold them.

In order of discovery, my backpack contains:

How I lost my way. Whether it was through life or a single day, my decisions have not amounted to anything one would recognize as successful.

How I lost my virginity. Offered at a discount, combined with underage beer goggles, the entire experience was not worth the effort given or the notoriety acquired.

How and when I lost my dignity. Another fiasco predicated on a dare, tequila, and the advent of VHS tape. Greatness thrives in the memory of the impressed. Stupidity lurks forever beneath a thin veneer of respectability.

How I lost my childhood. No one should eagerly accept the yoke of service for the pittance it remits to 9 year olds.

How I lost my hope. Twelve years old and still laboring at the same position.

How I lost time. I went to sleep last night at the age of 10. I awoke this morning nearly 50 years old. I have the memories of my history. However, I no longer have the memories of the time I spent collecting each.

How I lost my place while reading. Bookmarks are cheap and worth the price.

How I lost my nerve. I could have balked. I should have interrupted and spoke my mind when Elizabeth stood at the altar and took another as her husband.

How I lost my will. I had the chance to propose first. I had the opportunity to make her happy before she met him. I could have worked. If only . . .

How I lost my cookies (vomited). The anniversary of the last two events. Beats sour grapes, but tastes worse.

How I lost my heart when she broke it. Elizabeth cared for all hearts. My rebound to Elizabeth, her sister, Audrey, feasted on all hearts. Just because the last name is the same, does not insure the first feelings are.

How I lost my patience. I let 27 years elapse waiting for the perfect woman. None with these prerequisite credentials exists.

How I lost my cool. One bar, one bottle of tequila, and one too many sorrows told to one too many people who didn’t want to listen resulting in one too many punches and one too many police arriving.

How I lost my soul. The last refuge of a desperate man is to claim possession of that which he knows he lost first. Only in retrospect does one realize the true cost of a life poorly lived.

I now intend to keep my backpack closed forever.  It has served its purpose well.

Andy Betz has tutored and taught in excess of 40 years. He lives in 1974, and has been married for 29 years. His works are found everywhere a search engine operates.

We’ve been on hiatus for a couple of weeks. Summer heat just slows me down and this year was no exception. But we should be back to normal in a few days. Hope you enjoy the stories and poems.