An online journal for small literature
In the autumn light
poplars line the boulevard
they stand
crisp as apples
in their leafy shimmer
the sky glows
electric blue
amid the dancing
white clouds
the blue
continues blazing
over trees
crisp as apples
Heather Sager grew up in rural Minnesota and lives in Illinois. Her poetry has most recently appeared in Sandpiper, The Wild Word, Remington Review, Third Wednesday, CircleShow, Cacti Fur, Ariel Chart, and Northwest Indiana Literary Journal. Heather also writes short fiction.
“Frank, Brian is moving more of them.” Arlo stopped mid-chew when he heard the familiar sound. He abandoned lunch and moved closer to the ridgeline.
“Where do you think he’s taking them?” Barry asked, though it was barely coherent through his mouthful of food.
Frank said nothing, chewing his lunch slowly. The entire crew turned to him—it was the habitual response—but nothing in Frank’s expression told them what he was thinking. Arlo was the first to look away from him and back to Brian.
“Don’t know,” Bob chimed in. “Don’t care. I say farewell and ado and see ya later!” His large lips smacked obnoxiously after he took another bite.
“But we won’t see them later.” Arlo raised his head a little higher to see over the ridge to the bottom of the hill turning golden with the onset of the cooler weather. He especially liked the smell of it up on this ridge. Arlo watched for a few minutes as Brian loaded the trailer. The smell of the grass turned rancid in his large nostrils. “That’s why we care.” Arlo’s voice languished but it made Saul jump. Silence had taken over the group and Arlo’s voice, regardless of its hushed tone, had broken it abruptly.
“Okay, boys,” Frank said, walking over to join Arlo. The cooler air made his breath visible as it rushed from his nostrils. Frank felt the responsibility heavily some days. He surveyed the land from their lunch spot. He always enjoyed this view. “I think it’s time. Brian’s got to go.” His voice was steady and calm, just like it always was.
Arlo swung his head to look at him, his eyes even bigger than usual. Frank met them with his own dark brown eyes. The pair were a mirror image of each other except for Frank’s larger, more muscular stature. It commanded respect. Frank held Arlo’s gaze, only interrupting it with a slow blink.
Arlo backed away from the edge no longer able to watch the scene below. “Moo,” he acquiesced. He tore the grass nearest to his feet and chewed, but he didn’t taste it.
Another moo rose up from the herd. Then another rose to join it, again and again, until all of them melded into a chorus.
Brian looked over his shoulder. It wasn’t like the cows to carry on that way. The rancher shook his shoulders to get rid of the chill that had settled in, somehow piercing his rugged work coat. Their song stopped all at once. Brian looked up. The sky was blue, but a storm was rolling in from the west over the hill. His biggest bull stared at him from the top of it. A chill ran down Brian’s spine. He laughed it off as he shoved the last cow into the trailer. He needed to get to the slaughterhouse before the weather came in.
L.C. Hill spends every waking minute writing, thinking about writing, reading about writing, writing in her car via voice memo, writing in her head and forgetting the brilliant thing she just wrote in her head because she didn’t write it down, and writing down brilliant things that she later can’t read because her handwriting is terrible. She lives in Denver, Colorado with her American Bulldog, Ernest Hemingway.
She is a board member for the Literacy Coalition of Colorado and the content editor for their newsletter and social media.
At the edge of childhood
and edge of wood,
I have not found God
in his usual place.
In spired cathedrals
with their waxed benches and bound hymns,
the Irish priest casts heavy lines
that boom from the pulpit and fall
on my heart
without a hint of song.
He says, “be with you”
I hear “bewitch you.”
God is gone from here.
Lying on a mossy bed
dreaming of ancestral voices,
I mistake the old caretaker’s steps
for those of my father’s.
“It’s only me,” he reassures.
“They’ve all gone off to the pub.”
I am too young to slip there unnoticed
to hear the tales and melodies
of those battered by drink
but delivered from sin,
dancing the jig of grace.
The caretaker hands me
a child-sized spade
and points to the yard
at the back of the house.
“There’s treasure in there,
cross my old heart,
but you’ll be wantin’ to dig real deep.”
Ellen Rowland writes poetry and creative non-fiction and is the author of Everything I Thought I Knew, a collection of essays about living, learning, and parenting outside the status quo. She and her family live off the grid on a tiny island in Greece.
UTC (GMT/Zulu)-time: Wednesday, February 5, 2020 at 19:04:44
Pittsburgh Wed 2:04:44 pm New York Wed 2:04:44 p.m. London Wed 7:04:44 pm Tokyo Thu 4:04:44 a.m.
This place filled with wind—
Begin here dear traveler.
Your true heart awaits.
Kate Bowers is a writer based out of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in the United States. During the day she works as a technical writer/grants coordinator for private philanthropy in the second largest urban school district in Pennsylvania where there is plenty of poetry to be found.
Her favorite flavor is peppermint. Kate drinks both coffee and tea, but without cream in the latter and definitely with cream in the former. No sugar in either, thank you for asking though.
All the family came—even Declan who’d treated his eighteenth birthday as a family holiday emancipation—and, despite advance grumbling about Bev’s vegan holiday meal, all ate well. Properly sated, they took possession of every sofa and loveseat cushion, the recliner, and the mixed chairs around the penny table. Lights were dimmed. The tradition film was started. Moved by the increasing rareness of these congregations, Bev took a moment of private appreciation: all whom she loved joined in the cozy dark of her living room, the television playing unwatched, every head down as if in prayer, each face lit by the mysterious glow of their own private screen.
M.C. Schmidt holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University. He is the author of two novels and his recent short fiction has appeared in Litro, Every Day Fiction, Rumble Fish Quarterly, Dime Show Review, Cleaning Up Glitter, and The Books Smuggler’s Den. He has work forthcoming from Abstract Magazine.
I woke up this morning wanting
to write a poem,
but nothing came.
Just the restless on and off tap
of thoughts.
I searched for something telling
in the dregs of my coffee,
but carelessly drained the last of its grit.
I watched Sun get higher, striding into day.
She wrapped herself in deepest rose, draped in a shawl of amber.
I put on faded jeans and a billowy blouse to greet her.
Still no bright ideas.
I did last night’s dishes
and thanked them for the meal.
Breaking bread with those seated,
drifts of conversation dearly departed,
Just hearsay in an empty chair.
Should I sign up for a poetry prompt?
Find Insight in my inbox?
Could I beg, steal, or borrow?
I searched along the shore
just like Anne Morrow Lindbergh.
Shells, salty lips, a solitary walk,
a rusty spigot to wash it all off.
I sat down at the table,
and spread out the tome.
There, I found Inspiration
defined as both insight and inhalation.
So I filled my lungs and picked up my pen
and found it filled with jet-black ordinary.
Ellen Rowland writes poetry and creative non-fiction and is the author of Everything I Thought I Knew, a collection of essays about living, learning, and parenting outside the status quo. She and her family live off the grid on a tiny island in Greece.
“a gift of jewels”
draped in cloth of red silk,
she is the jewel of the dawn;
her eyes match the morning mist.
ancient words were chanted rapidly,
their hum a chaotic comforting.
gold rice matches gold thread—
and suddenly two becomes one.
“turned out to be rocks”
red tinted hands fade,
their colour a whisper
of perhaps better times.
soft words are spoken;
a tragic attempt at
gluing back a vase.
the hum is no longer,
filled instead with spite.
an undone gold thread—
and one becomes two.
Maanasa Epuri is a senior in high school who writes in her (rare) spare time. Born and raised in America, she tries to include her Indian heritage in her writing. When she’s not writing, she can be found watching crime shows or eating chocolate.
Female shoppers
bounce past greeters.
They wear clothes
made by Chinese.
Obama came here once;
no one believed it.
Men have shorts,
tank tops and tattoos.
Briefs flash when
their jeans ride down.
They bring pets held
by leashes. A guy with
a turtle doesn’t hurry.
Dogs don’t bite.
A parrot clutches
a male shoulder.
It could be fake.
Walmart calls itself,
“The safest place
to take your child.”
Meanwhile, siblings
fight in the aisles.
Anything goes.
Otherwise,
people of Walmart
can buy online;
America won’t see
them in their glory,
shopping at superstores.
Sarah Henry is retired from a newspaper. She lives and writes in small Pennsylvania town without distractions. She does not own a cat.
clusters of john’s-wort,
toadflax and wild teasel –
names uninviting
but the colors
ask me in
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dalhousie Review and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Qwerty, Chronogram and failbetter.
(After Su Dongpo)
I know that we live
in a world of chance.
When the sun sleeps,
the stars dance.
The moon arrives at night.
Is it surprised by the
lack of light?
But such foolish speculation
demeans my imagination.
Here below, leaves shiver
along the ground.
Will-less in death, they’re
dressed in appropriate brown.
In summer, they thought
life was gay,
but it only seemed that way.
Geoge Freek is a poet/playwright living in Belvidere, IL. Although these poems are inspired by ancient Chinese poetry, they are entrely original comositions. George’s poetry has recently appeared in Gray Sparrow Journal; The Adelaide Quarterly; The Chiron Rview; and Green Light . His plays are published by Playscripts, Inc. and Lazy Bee Scripts.