LONG STORY SHORT
a Women Writers' Showcase
SOMETIMES I DRIFT
By David McCoy

Sometimes I drift,
as if someone
untied the rope
securing me
to land, until
I find again
the cove and safety
of your love.

Sometimes I drift,
like some seed tuft
flying every which-
way, until
I find again
the cove and safety
of your love.

Sometimes I drift,
as an autumn
leaf pulled loose
and shuffled
about, until
I find again
the cove and safety
of your love.

Sometimes I drift,
for no reason
at all beyond
pure selfishness,
I guess, until
I find again
the cove and safety
of your love.


MIGRATION
By Jean C. Fisher

Like spring and fall,
The smell of arctic wind,
Biting into what once
Were warm breezes. . .
Must Love's kisses
Like daylight hours,
Become shorter
As Summer fades
Into Fall?

Must Love fly away,
With the last swallow,
Searching further south
For better climes --
Warmed and secure
In new places --
Forever following
The Sun?

Is lost love as sure
As the passage of time?
Minutes into hours. . .
Hours into eons. . .
Lingered over, treasured,
Tightly to the breast.
Unwrapped like a gift,
Slowly and joyfully,
But never recaptured. . .

Discarded, instead,
Love lies crushed. . .
Anticipation of its contents,
Forever more exciting,
Than the certainty,
Of that concealed within. . .

Why must familiarity,
Always breed apathy?


Jean resides in her native Northern California. She is the co-president of her local historical society and a freelance writer whose works have appeared in the "Haunted Encounters" series, 2003 & 2004, ATriad Press; Angela Hoy's "Spirit Communications", 2004, Booklocker.com;
ApollsLyre.com and previously on this site.


Little Victories
By Amber Hall

The smell of damp soil
Mingles with apple pie steam
As I lay with eyes closed
Under the ancient oak tree.
The perfect place for
Laughing, singing, sleeping.
My little victories over sadness.

Bright sun on my face
Warms my skin and my soul.
A meadowlark sings
From the wide, dry hayfield.
The perfect place for
Dancing, running, skipping.
My little victories over pain.

The baking timer buzzes
Humming a wholesome tune
Calling me inside
To a kitchen full of memories.
The perfect place for
Crying, healing, remembering.
My little victories over death.




Amber grew up in Texas and still lives and works there.  In her spare time, she writes, paints and reads what she can.  She has been writing for several years and has recently started submitting pieces for publication. Amber Hall


Children Today Don't Have
Enough Leisure Time
By Carolyn Howard-Johnson

I was only nine. Summer sun.
August's tedium. I searched
for four leaves among the clover,
imagined them lucky shamrocks,
scooped pollen from the stamens
of holly hocks that grew wild
along the barbed wire fences,
collected four-o-clock seeds
the shape of the hand grenades
I saw in duffle bags when my uncle
returned from Iwo Jima, listened
to the deep buzz of bees caught,
lid to lip, in a Kerr canning jar,
sometimes I let them go
when the sides were dim
with condensation,
                       sometimes not.

With time left over
from these lazy pursuits
I pinched the legs
from grasshoppers,
watched them spit
tobacco, their mandibles
working like fingers
massaging sour dough.
Then I pulled off the parts
that whirred, spread the pale
yellow filaments I found
out to the sun, admired the veins
pretended they were
                       the wings of butterflies.


Carolyn Howard-Johnson, Author
THE FRUGAL BOOK PROMOTER:
HOW TO DO WHAT YOUR PUBLISHER WON'T
is a best-selling e-book at http://ebookad.com/.
Purchase the paperback at http://www.amazon.com/. Learn more at:
http://carolynhowardjohnson.com/ .
Read a recent review by Jenna Glatzer at:
http://www.absolutewrite.com/novels/frugal_book.htm
Crayons
by Beverly Forehand


Red-blue-yellow-green. I found them in that order.

One under the battered sofa, another two fallen between cracks in the warped
floorboards, the fourth in my cardboard school box along with Elmer's glue.

With them I had created my own world of bright blue castles and dragons as
red as clowns' rubber noses.

I had drawn and dreamed of all the great things I would do and see in a
world I envisioned as Crayola-vivid.


Beverly Forehand is a freelance writer and reviewer working in Nashville,
Tennessee. Her hobbies include cultivating her medieval herb garden and
telling her cats (unsuccessfully) to stay off the sofa.Beverlyforehand@hotmail.com

A Rumor Climbed a Mountain
By Wendy Lynn Decker

There once was a rumor that whipped its spike deep into a mountain.
It climbed one rock at a time, spread dirty water like a fountain.
On its way it left behind some remnants of its actions;
petals torn from roses gave the rumor satisfaction.
Diligent in its quest to reach its destination,
it persevered with no respect for all of God's creation.
As it traveled spawning sprigs hatching from its hip
the rumor gathered many weeds that sprouted from its lips.
Big and strong it took up speed and continued on its way,
adding more and more destruction with all it had to say.
No one thought to ask the mountain if the rumor had been true.
Instead they clung to it like leeches with lack of better things to do.
The rumor finally reached the top and stood alone on high.
The truth came up behind it and knocked it on its side.

Wendy Lynn Decker


Wendy Lynn Decker has been published in "Cross Times" and The JBC Chronicle."She is also a contributing writer for "Sisters in the Lord" (a web magazine) and has recently been hired to write for a monthly devotional entitled, "The Quiet Hour." Her work will also appear in "A Spiritual Voice" this October.

She has recently obtained and agent and is seeking publication for her children's chapter book series for 8-12 year olds. You can learn more about her by visiting her website at http://www.wendylynndecker.com.

HAIKU
By Lanie Shanzyra Rebancos

Sylvan
Guarded by willow and yew-
Kingdom.

Chiseled in my heart
Forever burning-
Pain.

Fresh as new-mown hay
Cool breeze against my skin
After the rain.

Faded portrait
Captured
In black and white.

Like waterfall
She combed her
Flowing tresses.

He held me
In his arms-
Angel wings.

Moonless sky
I wandered alone-
Winter night.

Bedroom window
I wiped with my shirt sleeve-
Misty.

Her mind soared
Sudden outburst-
Insane.

Her tears shone
under the pale moonlight
crystal-like.

She shivered
her knuckles white and numb
chilled to the bone.

Heaven cries
a shower of blessings--
raindrops.

Dust in the sunlight
pranced around
like tiny fairies.

Ice-encrusted wind
smell of chestnut and pines--
holiday.

Lovely butterflies
danced around my garden
enchanting.

Her perfume stayed
in my bedroom it lingered
that red rose.


OUR POEM OF THE MONTH!

Saturday In September
--for Jill
By David McCoy

There is only a slight breeze today;
the leaves move but seldom rustle.

The overcast sky gives the impression
the day could last forever.

Sharing this bottle of wine while reading
would be a grand way to spend eternity.


David B. McCoy is a Social Studies teacher in a township school near Massillon, Ohio and holds a graduate degree in Socialization and Personality Development from Kent State University.

David is the author of Ohio Wineries Guidebook; the Internet book, Buffalo Time; The Geometry of Blue: Prose and Selected Poetry and Voices from Behind the Mask.
Contact David.



Lanie Shanzyra P. Rebancos is a poet
and writer. Most of her haikus were
published in Canadian_Zen_Haiku, Sigla
magazine, Ancient Heart magazine,
Rose & Thorn ezine, Full Moon magazine
and LitDotOrg. She is now working on
her first book, a collection of short stories
and haikus. Lanie is living with her family
in the country of Philippines.
Lanie Shanzyra p. Rebancos

My Treasured Friend
By Gloria Pimentel

Faithful friend, feared teacher
of embarrassing moments, my companion.

You're the essence of forever,
teacher of acceptance, judge of my behavior.
Without you, intelligence is vanity,
compassion, wasted vessel of emotion.

Through life you shaped my outlook,
influenced my thoughts and resolutions.
Student of your teachings, I've learned
Stanford, Harvard can't replace you.

I've learned to love, treasure and share you
as the elders in their wisdom,
learned to appreciate you.

You walk with me, hand in hand whether
happy, successful, or beaten by the weather.

Experience, you shall remain my friend forever.


Read all about Gloria on our "Meet the Editors' page.