A Tiny And Colorful Literary Journal

Archive for October, 2016

October, 2016

Three pieces by Joanna M. Weston

 

Alpine Snow

schuss me down frozen gullies
let me leap moguls higher than myself
powder me with glittering crystals
pour iced wine in tall glasses
every evening

Sweet Memories

éclair au chocolate with latte
tiramisu with white wine
crème brûlée and champagne
Greek almond torte and ouzo
how could I forget
your candlelit eyes?

Pretty in Papaya

she can dance, she can sing
her ankle bells can ring
she can sway, she can spring
she can do anything
for she is ravishing

JOANNA M. WESTON. Married; has two cats, multiple spiders,
a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader,
‘Frame and The McGuire’, published by Tradewind Books; and poetry,
‘A Bedroom of Searchlights’, published by Inanna Publications.
Her eBooks found at her blog:  http://www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com/

 

 

 

Two pieces by Gemma Bristow

I’m Not Really a Waitress

Perform perfectly, and I’m invisible. Circulate canapés. Rescue empty glasses. ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Yes, ma’am.’ ‘Goodnight, my lord.’ They won’t remember me from the evidence tapes.

 

 

 

Artificial Sweetener

Our last meeting. She made the usual charges: emotional distance, narcissism. ‘You never knew me,’ she said. Untrue. I knew how she liked her coffee.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gemma Bristow is a technical writer and writer-writer. She survives on a diet of fingernails while submitting her first YA novel.

 

 

Three pieces by Evert Asberg

 

Essence

 

She managed to get divorced just before he was executed. Despite all the misery, she wanted to live, to save money for a separate grave.

 

Match Maker

 

The ground hostess found a lost boarding pass. “I’ll take it to him,” she said, hurrying to the gate. “Otherwise, Mr. Atta won’t get far.”

 

Moonlight

 

Metaphorically, he lived in the West, but physically he was still in Syria, underground, with only his head six feet up, frozen, for propaganda purposes.

 

Evert Asberg (@EvertAsberg) lives and works in Europe.

 

 

Four pieces by Hilde Kiernan

 

No stopping me now

 

I became too old for dreams.  So I adorned my crepe paper neck with strings of pearls,

 

the armour of middle age.

 

And I awoke.

 

 

 

BFFs

 

The smug madness never came between me and my mirror-self.

 

Instead, it wrapped us in a shimmering velvet cloak. Sometimes its tendrils hurt my wrists.

 

 

 

Darkness Seeps

 

My hands claw onto the cliff-face, fingertips raw. I envisage the yellow lights of home.

 

Self.

 

Tormented.

 

Hush, the sea whispers.  Join me.

 

I surrender.

 

 

 

Hide and Seek

 

Liam hides under water.

 

A single bubble leaks from his mouth and pops on the surface.

 

Soon he will run out of air. And lose.

 

 

 

 

Hilde Kiernan is Norwegian, and came to Ireland 1200 years after the first Vikings made landfall.  Like a lot of them, she stayed.

 

 

Three pieces by Megha Bajaj

 

Muave Musings

 

She desired only him.

And he, her.

If only this was a story

of two,

not three,

How perfectly coloured,

lust would be.

 

Drake’s Neck

 

And who would have

thought

the colour of betrayal

was bluish green.

Note to self:

Ask him her lipstick shade,

before it burns.

The white shirt.

 

 

Sang-De-Boeuf (oxblood)

 

For you, my darling

He said;

I would write love letters in blood.

I looked at him,

with eyes that kill.

For now,

credit card would do.

 

 

Show Me the Ring by Tyrean Martinson

At age seven, he put a quarter in the vending machine.

After three tries, he had the heart ring.

Then, he went looking for love.

 

Three pieces by L.L. Madrid

Lacey Lilac

 

Lotion. Casseroles. Slippers.

The fruit basket, I left rotting on the porch.

Gifts for a former mother to be.

In lieu of flowers, send vodka.

 

One Time Lime

 

Saliva, salt, shot, lime.

Repeat.

I warned him. Told him tequila makes me crazy.

He said I was cute.

Cute just stole your car, honey.

 

Bewitched

 

We worked at opposite drive-thru windows.

I could’ve gotten a job without fries.

But didn’t, because sometimes she’d wave.

Enchanted, I stayed. She didn’t.

 

 

L.L. Madrid lives in Tucson where she can smell the rain before it falls. She resides with her four-year-old daughter, an antisocial cat, and on occasion, a scorpion or two. Her work can be found lurking in various internet crannies and at clippings.me/llmad.

 

 

Don’t Make Me Wine by Sean Daly

 

I didn’t mean to profile you.

Ain’t that what salesman do?

Don’t we all?

I suppose.

Then lets start over.

Ha! Wouldn’t that be nice.

 

 

 

Sean Daly lives in Ojai California with his wife and children. His work has appeared in several literary journals and newspapers. When he’s not writing fiction, He tutors at Todd Road Jail in Ventura CA.

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