Contributor: J.K.Durick

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A storm is coming, they say
been predicting, talking about it
for over a week, setting the stage
showing us maps of its approach
various colors to show the varying
severity of things to come, to come
to us, unprecedented they say and
point, our homes, our lives in the way.
A storm is coming, they say, as if
we didn’t know, as if we weren’t
spending our time anticipating its
arrival, as if we weren’t always
ready for the next thing thrown
at us by the five mad gods who rule
our lives, cruelly bouncing us on
on their scrawny knees, like today
they say a storm is coming, they say
unprecedented, and yet the precedent
is set, has been set, and this god damn
storm is always coming, is always here.


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J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Social Justice Poetry, 1947, Poetry Superhighway, Synchronized Chaos, and Algebra of Owls.

Contributor: Ann Christine Tabaka
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The storm had passed, after raging for hours.
A deluge of major proportions. Last evening
the main road was a swift moving river. Now
it was up to the ankles in slimy brown mud.

Everyone scratched their heads. What was
to be done now? Even the dog from across
the way stood frozen with concern, like some
comical statue. He seemed determined that
muddy paws were not to be part of his day.
Mud baths being for swine, and not canine.

Shattered tree corpses caught up in the
flooding, their branches emerging from the
mud like a scorched forest. Reminiscent of
a bizarre miniature landscape from an old
science fiction film, barren and colorless.

Old folks tell of similar storms. They
happened decades ago, or so it is said,
memories being such as the are. Stories
cannot be relied upon from their retelling.

Looking up, the sky hangs heavy and
dark. More rain will come, adding to the
already distressing situation. Even the
birds are silent. No echoing songs from
the woodlands. The dead quiet, an omen.

We all walked away knowing more mud
is coming, and for the moment, nothing
more could be done. And then once again,
The rains came as if there was no end.
And, perhaps, there wasn’t.


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Ann Christine Tabaka was born and lives in Delaware. She is a published poet, an artist, a chemist, and a personal trainer. She loves gardening, cooking, and the ocean. Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her poems have been published in numerous national and international poetry journals, reviews, and anthologies. Chris has been selected as the resident Haiku poet for Stanzaic Stylings.

Contributor: Dave Ludford

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I have tattooed a grain of sand
It took a hundred years and so much blood ink
I'll carry on until I have an entire beach,
Throw each particle to wherever it should land
Then watch as waves wash my work away
Start again. Time isn't important to me.
So take a handful of sand, let it slip between your fingers
And read: 'Look towards the cliffs
Watch me point to where the land meets the sky, Dazzling horizon
Beware the coming storm
Thunder will boom with words you should hear
Lightning will herald a revelation.'
Take each grain and write a book of wisdom.


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Dave Ludford is a poet and short story writer from Nuneaton, England. His works have appeared at a variety of locations in the US, UK & India. He is currently working on his first play.