Contributor: Isabella Vasquez

- -
Her hair is hazel wisps of wind
splayed across her cheek.
Her last attempt to wear shoes forgotten
sitting on the curb with bare feet
bare souls, no words needed.
Between the lines we drew
there were collected moments of wonder.
Our smiles cracked liked thunder
The sky rumbled and poured,
we spun in harmony.
Our laughter mixed into the rain's melody
a secret language between us.
I stared into her brown, golden eyes
like a face-up lucky penny.
That day only returns to us
In our dreams.


- - -
Isabella Vasquez lives with her three dogs in Los Angeles, who she writes short stories for. She likes to surf and explore the world on her free time.

Contributor: Monica M. Reed

- -
Willingly, stepping foot
onto new territories.
Breathing in
unfamiliar air.
Falling in love
with the non-negotiable
climate.
Attracted to
every crack
on the sidewalk
that I don’t dare to
step on.
Adoring the
candles, lanterns,
and light posts.
Every form
of stars
that’s there.
Devouring
the sight
of the single
tiny crevices
that lie
in all the
rooms.
Wanting to leave my
imprint
on what I
can’t keep
with me.
Wanting to
remember
how I felt.
To be reminded
again and again.
My sanctuaries
aren’t merely
a soul.
They are
the combination
of many living
organisms intertwined.
Managing to
touch me
without having
a single dust
lay on
my exterior.


- - -
Monica M. Reed is a germaphobe who is living with anxiety. So far, she has fainted in two countries. In her leisure, she enjoys having teatime with her beloved goldfish, Mr. Bubbles

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
The silver coal bucket reflects your beer
as you sit there cocained off your tits.
In a friends house in the countryside
next to a log fire spitting amber bits.
Your left elbow rests in a full ashtray
and your right foot looks too far away.
As you contemplate the coming morning
you stop and let your mind elsewhere stray.
The Damned are playing on the stereo again,
there’s a brass gong hanging on the wall.
The fireplace is a granite Stonehenge
not waiting for a magical druid to call.
Slowly the dawn seeps through the windows,
your friends they rise up from their rest.
A coffee and cooked breakfast for everyone
then again a search for that drunken nest.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Contributor: Richard Hartwell

- -
Waking each morning, still-life, still asleep.

Slowly, agonizingly, massaging it,
drawing blood of day back to the surface.

Tingles of self-satisfaction indicate
the Big Sleep has not yet arrived.

Creeping pain waxes throughout
emotional nerve endings as ebbs the
intoxicating numbness of night.


Dead leaves swim across the surface of the pond
obscuring red, gold and cream flashes;
flecks radiate from unseen mossy depths,
break cover, snatch insect mouthfuls, then sink
beneath the safety of parti-colored leaf flotsam, patiently.


Ahoy! Decadent Rimbaud’s drunken boat sails again,
joy comes to those on the quay who salute adieu,
but you, lunatic-tocking away, still wait for sun.

Steep waters heaped high above,
deep thoughts beckon from far below,
fair wind lost and family mates cast asunder,
only prey now for the family few left lashed tight,
daring piratical advisors let go their night moorings.


- - -
Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school teacher (remember the hormonally-challenged?) living in Southern California. He believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large; and, like the Transcendentalists and William Blake, that the instant contains eternity.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
When a man’s young,
this work is hard
but it pays well
and he can feed
the wife and kids.
In the morning
he throws crates off trucks,
and after lunch
throws crates again
till five or six o’clock.
But as he grows older,
and some say
ready to retire,
he has to stop
in the late afternoon,
mount his throne of skids,
let his legs drip over the side,
toss his head, inhale,
whinny and spit.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Contributor: Alyssa Jackson

- -
Before every meet,
Nauseous feelings of nervousness
Flush through his stomach quick.

He wins every race
Yet, he still gets nervous.
I admire that.

My poster in hand
Kissing him before he runs
Ready to cheer.

Always so humble
First place as I run screaming,
I'm so proud of you!


- - -
Black and Filipino descendent but has been a Polynesian dancer for over 10 years. Currently involved in the dance group named Nonosina which has a dance focus of ori Tahiti.

Contributor: Michelle Tolentino

- -
It began in spring
When branches began blooming
Purple and yellow

Then along came fall
Another leaf on the street
Stepped on and beaten

The end of winter
Frozen and in shock at who
This boy had become

Finally summer
Free and on break from him and
his abusive bonds

The cycle restarts
Comes spring, fall, winter, summer
And we stayed over


- - -
Cerritos High School.

Contributor: Jonathan Kim

- -
You taught me that I shouldn't hide.
That I shouldn't be ashamed,
that I need to be proud.

When I am with you
all I can do is smile,
because your presence is enough for me.
When it's just the two of us,
the world disappears.
When you talk,
nothing else matters.

You tell me your troubles and worries
and I tell you mine.
Your laugh is all I need to hear
to know the day will be fine.

I tell you everything, except one thing.
I love you.
I'm too scared to tell you,
Scared of what you'll say.
If I told you how I felt, how would you react?
I hate not knowing but I love wondering.

Some day I will have the courage to confess
But until then, I will love in silence and wait.


- - -
After his fight with cancer, Jonathan Kim looks for new hobbies to enjoy life. He has been writing short stories and poems for almost a year now.

Contributor: Lydia Law

- -
I want to know if you prefer coffee or tea,
beach or forest,
rain or shine,
or what your favorite color is.
You ask these questions to show your interest

So I start with the simple stuff ,
"Do you understand the homework assignment" ?
It’s all I can mutter.
I know I'm not going anywhere with you,
if I can't ask you these simple things.

When I strike the nerve to ask your favorite color,
you say blue.
Blue is so you,
never bland.

You asked why I asked this question,
and I couldn't reply, because
when I think of colors I think about your lips
and how they are like the perfect arch of a rainbow.
I imagine your rainbow arched lips colliding with mine
sending shivers and shades down my blank body.

You haven't asked me what my favorite color is
but I know what my answer would be.


- - -
Lydia Law was left on a park bench in China as a baby and adopted so she now lives in Southern California. She enjoys real strawberry lemonade and colored skies.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
In this house
even the bathroom’s
a place of no peace.

I huddle there Sundays
enthroned with whatever
they’ve left of the paper.

Off the door, the great blitz:
rubber balls, little fists,
soles of bare feet.

Unamused, still perusing,
I sit there refusing
to vacate my sanctum.

Blitz your bare feet!


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.