She played in the shade digging little holes in the dirt with a stick.
She had work to do. But she didn't do it.
We had to gather sticks for the fire and chase the cattle.
She was small and chubby and her tiny fingers soft and round.
Her eyes were the palest blue and her hair so fine and fair.
Her crooked little smile charmed everyone.
She was four years old.
She was my sister.
It was the last day of her life and she didn't know it.
She paid the price for disobedience twice that day.
She felt the sting of the strap across her little legs.
He hit her four times.
I saw the tears on her dusty little cheeks.
It was the last hour of her life and I did not know it.
I tried to put things right.
I lit the fire for her.
I worked as fast as my little hands would.
The work was done. I was left in the dairy alone.
It was the last minutes of her life and no one knew it.
They swam in the creek. My older sisters playing and laughing.
She wanted to play too but they didn't want her.
She could not swim without her costumes they told her and sent
her away.
She did not go.
She swam in the creek that last time alone.
Her fine fair hair floated like a halo around her.
The sun glistened on her back.
They rolled her on her side. Her tiny teeth so brilliant white against
her purple lips,
Her pale blue eyes looking nowhere.
It was the last day of her life and we all knew it.
My name is Valmai Hansen. I am an Australian school teacher. I grew up on an isolated farm in a very isolated part of the country. I have only just started writing although I have always wanted to and have written several short stories about life in rural Australia and currently I am working on a childrens fantasy novel. Contact Valmai
I BELIEVE IN GREEN
By Floriana Hall
I know I'm not really Irish
But I love wearin' o' the green,
On St. Patrick's Day I cherish
All the shamrocks that I've seen.
St. Patrick drove the snakes away
And followed all God's plans
So Irish folks could safely play
At home and in other lands.
I've never been to Ireland
But lived as if I belonged,
Ate potatoes boiled and bland,
Staple of the Irish throng.
I believe that there are mystic fairies
And I know I'm not alone
Looking for the pot o' gold that carries
All to kiss the blarney stone.
I have never even sipped green beer
Nor have I seen a leprechaun,
But on St. Paddy's Day, it's very clear
My green dancing shoes I'll don.
I'll listen to songs, "Oh, Danny Boy,"
And "I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen,"
I'll marvel at the Riverdance ploy,
The precise stepping of every colleen.
I'll cook corned beef and cabbage,
I'll watch the mammoth parade,
And for one day, I'll be Irish --
Won't you join in my charade?
Through the Eyes of A Child
By Julie A Strickland
Embraced by life's everyday trials
I conceded to give in
My heart was weighing heavy
Alone, the battle, I could not win
Searching deep within my soul
That was being led astray
I felt a hope still nestled there
And I silently began to pray
It was then a voice approached me
That so deeply touched my heart
"I saw the opening of Heaven today
When the clouds began to part
"I was at school on the playground
And I looked way up in the sky
The big white clouds separated
And I just couldn't believe my eyes
"A great bright light came shining down
Oh, Mom, I wish you could have seen
I knew right away by the warmth I felt
That God was watching over me"
The innocence of his story
Overflowed my heart with joy
This day I was the student
The teacher, my six-year-old boy
Now, when Earthly trials wear me down
And my thoughts start turning wild
I simply pause for a silent moment
And see the world through
The Eyes of A Child
Julie is a SAHM of three boys, ages 3, 6, & 13, and step mom to another son, age 11. She baby sits her young niece, age 3, and nephew, age 4 months, and also teaches Sunday school and does volunteer work for the church office. When children aren't occupying her time, she enjoys writing short stories and the occasional poem. She has been a member of 'Your Writing Friend' for 1 1/2 years, and has strengthened her writing skills greatly in that time. She loves creating new web pages for her website, and has even dabbled in making her own websets. She lives in Columbus, Ohio with her boys and her wonderful husband of seven years, Edward. And of course, her home is not complete without her cats, Cheyenne and Seminole, her dog, Rowdie, and her guinea pig, Bubba.
Rolly delos Santos is a twenty-year veteran Art teacher at De La Salle Zobel School in one of the suburbs of Manila, Philippines. He is presently the Prefect of Discipline of the same school. A father to two girls and two boys, Rolly started to write poetry in his attempt to leave a legacy to his family knowing that he does not have much in material wealth. He also paints with watercolor, oil and acrylic. He is currently a member of Writers Village University and Pinoy Poets, a group of young Filipino poets and
I look through my shrouded window of mist and fog,
making a decision hard to declare.
I chose the pond over the man.
Because the man slaps back and pounds
his fists,
into my stomach and head.
I have no place to escape and not be found,
but with the pond, the only slaps that I receive
are the rippling waters blown by a storm,
and not by a man,
who is a perpetual storm of human emotions.
A scorning of a
woman's frailties,
and
a man's steroid strength
taken in weakness and
ends in silence
dying from an overdose.
Ms. Lillian Cauldwell is an author and poet. Her first nonfiction book, published in 1996, was "Teenagers! A Bewildered Parent's Guide". In 2003, Ms. Cauldwell's second book was alternate history, Sacred Honor. Between 1996 and 2005, Lillian Cauldwell was involved in several seminars at Lakeland Community College, Polaris Vocational School and The Beachwood Library, in Cleveland, OH. She wrote articles for "The Plain Dealer", Cleveland, OH, and an article about A Temporary's First Day appeared in TempDigest, a Temporary magazine targeting temporary agencies. Ms. Cauldwell was invited to several science fiction and fantasy conventions to speak. Since May, 2003, Ms. Cauldwell became a webradio live talk Host on Thru-the-Cracks-of-Time for published beginning authors or writers and require additional help in getting themselves and their book(s) promoted and marketed to the reading buying public.
Tina says, "I am 54, single and live in Brooklyn, NY. I work in Manhattan as a full time office manager. My writing is a newly found passionate hobby. I get my ideas from personal experiences and the adventures of family and friends. I have never taken a writing class, but three years ago I started practicing meditation. I attribute my newfound passion of writing to that practice, meditation gave me a clear and open mind. No better friend than the soul of my pen." Contact Tina
A LOVER'S PRAYER
by Marie Delgado Travis
The gods have been unkind to us.
We fell into their mischief well.
No doubt they reveled
parting us with senseless slights
and pyrrhic fights.
Now, after years of pain,
our paths, by chance,
cross, once again.
Perhaps it's not too late
to redirect our fate.
Oh, tell us, gods,
the words to pray
to soothe your wrath
and -- finally --
get it right.
ARDOR
by Marie Delgado Travis
My lips searched for his,
But they seemed distant.
"So," I ached, "he
doesn't love me in the
sober light of day."
We tumbled half-dazed
from our hotel room,
each muted in thought.
In the lobby, suddenly
sordid and opaque,
we braced for our
goodbyes.
Then, softly
- unexpectedly -
he asked,
"Do you regret what
we did last night?"
Stunned,
I murmured,
"No ... do you?"
Dark eyes flashing,
and body trembling
almost imperceptively,
his lips whispered an
ardent "NO!"
And I understood
that, sometimes, the
best proof of love
is the kiss denied.
MARIE DELGADO TRAVIS is very proud of her Nuyorican roots. She writes poetry and prose in Spanish and English. She worked in Marketing /Advertising on behalf of top international companies for over twenty years. Marie is married to Edmunds, a retired attorney. They divide their time between homes in Houston, TX and Isla Verde, PR.
Pronghorn antelope snap leg bones caught in the rock.
What hides here is most obvious.
If you watch with your ears,
Hear with your breath.
You might recognize those white bones of defeat.
People here harden like the surrounding stone.
Yet, soften to the sunset masterpiece.
A daywhite palette washes magenta,
Violet, orange, windswept mares tails
And sheepish clouds bunch in the sky.
Smell the fragrance of water on the air.
The skin of the mesa beseeches the sky,
And all sentient beings join the choir,
Waver in the twilight pulse,
And cool under a whisper of mist.
Mesa winds dispense sage and Apache Plume perfume.
The apple orchards below ache for fruity nubbins.
Mule deer and hungry bears sniff the breeze,
And wait for ripe apples under the Black Mesa,
Bones stacked among the wheated grass.
Kate builds her poetic images from the landscape of the southwest and innumerable experiences on the trails. She gave up teaching to pursue the fashionable life of a dirt- poor writer. She and her husband, Dick lives on Carnero Creek in the San Luis Valley of Colorado.
Inspired in church to write LOVE NEVER DIES, first published poem which won Editor's Choice Award in The National Library of Poetry's Anthology 'Sea of Treasures.' Has had about 400 poems published in NLP's anthologies, and in various books and magazines in the United States, Great Britain and India, winning many 1st, 2nd, 3rd prizes, many Editor's Choice Awards and Honorable Mentions. Writes poems on request. She has published books which you can learn about by going to the homepage. Floriana is a Distinguished Member of ISP-NLP, Honored Writer of Cleveland Poets and Writers League, The Famous Poet's Society, WHO'S WHO IN INTERNATIONAL POETRY, WHO'S WHO IN US WRITERS, EDITORS AND POETS, AND MARQUIS WHO'S WHO IN AMERICA. Her poetry and short stories have been compared to Poe and Hawthorne by Taj Mahal Review, India, June 2003.
of sixtyish who'd seen me awake for only a few minutes.
It felt like an arranged marriage of old.
This surgeon and his
entourage
of dumpy nurses,
who chided me for leaving my panties on
and then took them away.
I was introduced to his polite minority anesthesiologist
who explained that a burning sensation in my arm was normal.
I lay and burned,
the first slim young girl
on their table
in how many days, weeks, months?
And it was nothing like going to sleep
and nothing like a swoon.
I am sure my gown, a retard's smock,
my wedding gown,
did not stay on for long at all.
I am sure they slid it off before
they'd even taped my stunned lids shut
and wedged my wet lips open
and fed me
whatever it was they fed me.
I can't prove anything.
But I am sure he loved my veins,
which are easy to find.
I am sure he loved my weight,
which any man can handle.
I was his
in every way.
I was convenient,
I knew nothing,
and I never saw him again.
It was exactly like how I imagine bad, first-time, non-consensual sex to be,
except that they were actually just fixing my kidney
and the scar proves that.
Paul Greulich. I recently graduated from Long Island University at Southampton College and my primary interest is in writing short fiction and poetry. Contact Paul
