Bobbie Troy

Invisible Threads

By Bobbie Troy

invisible threads

hold us together

self to self

self to others

invisible threads

carry love and hate

and other emotions

that keep us going

throughout this life

invisible threads

can be real and not real

physical and metaphysical

but who is to question

their power?

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Harris Tobias

Windy

The wind is shaking down the trees

It is a mugging plain and simple

The outraged trees wave wildly for help

But no one comes to aid them

On the ground the leaves fly in circles

Like Keystone cops

Not knowing where to run

The wind drives them

First one way then another

Just for fun

The ground is littered with sticks

And branches

Dropped by the frightened trees

Like skinny kids yielding their

Lunch money to the school yard bully

The wind laughs at their temerity 

 

Prize Fight

I went a couple of rounds with old Block today. He had me on the ropes until I managed to poke a haiku in his eye. “Take that you old scoundrel.” How he hollered when I slapped him a good one with a song lyric right across the mouth. Man that felt good. But it takes more than a bit of doggerel to get that gorilla to behave, so I gave him the old one two with a flowery metaphor followed by a sparkling simile. The bell rang and we went to our respective corners. We were both bloodied but still in the fight.

Round two was much the same. I hit him with a string of adjectives which he batted aside like so much fluff. He hit me hard with a bad critique and a negative posting on FaceBook. I could feel the black curtain of despair descending. In desperation I tossed him a hail Mary, I gave him a dynamite book title and a pretty good opening sentence. But I couldn’t follow up. Block shook it off and moved in for the knockout. I was saved from total humiliation by the bell signaling the end of round two.

“Come on kid, you can do it. All you need is one good story idea. There’s gotta be something. C’mon kid, think!” That was the coach in my head. He was always on my side. I reached deep down in my imagination for an idea. It felt like groping in an empty barrel. I gave an anguished cry and could hear the echo from that dark emptiness that was my soul.

The Block came on like a freight train. I hurled a shitty screen play idea at him. He flicked it aside and smote me with a triple whammy—lack of confidence, self doubt and low self esteem. I ducked under his haymaker of ridicule and, miraculously, came up with a solid short story idea. And that did it, Block was down for the count. Take that you bully. I might have won that match but I knew it wouldn’t be long before we fought again. 

Some stories

My books 

My Blog

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Nancy Scott-Mcbride

SISTERS

We shared a room as little girls.

Tucked in bed with hot milk and honey,

we’d discuss our favorite queens of the silver screen,

weaving romances for them that were just like the fairy tales we loved.

After we were grown and on our own,

we’d meet at parties, light a cigarette,

grab a glass of wine and stand in a corner all night,

talking about the latest Hollywood scandal and the best of the anti-hero movies.

But then something was said or not said,

and something was done or not done,

and there was hurt and anger and betrayal all around.

I moved south and she moved west and

there was no more talking between us.

We’re old ladies now and thinking of getting together.

“But what if there’s nothing to say?” I ask my husband. 

He reminds me that we’re still the same people,

reminds me that when she visited, we’d be yakking before she was through the door. “And if you run into a silence, you can always make a pot of tea and watch your favorite rom-com.”

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Christine Tabaka

The Final Mile  

Brittle bones and broken smiles,

the pathway stretched and worn.

Trodden dreams dissipate and

fade into the past. Seeking solace,

repentance lost, seasons turn again.

Staring out through fading eyes,

the years march swiftly by. The

juxtaposition of fate and fact.

Timetables made. Days spent

planning, the mantle clock loudly

chimes the hour. The mundane

routine of daily life yawns again.

Twisted bodies and aching limbs.

Porcupine quills and serrated

knives, mind numbing sensations

linger on. Burnt toast and sour

milk, the daily fare of late. Clouds

across the moon, another night

goes by, all the while we lumber

forth until we reach that final mile.

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Pawel Markiewicz

May

 

the May has come

with it the green

and the birds

and I am sitting

in the midst of charming meadows

listening to sounds

as well as a nice twittering

 

I think –

about different May flowers

and about the sun

and about the rain

and abour the smile

and about the sadness

about yearning

about myself

and I write

just write poetries

 

those which smell

and that shine

raging streams

the words of the springtide

 

May!

how can one understand you?

how can one recognize your thought? –

banned in the

yellow butterfly

in the green frog

in the red flower

in the middle – in You

oh my may

 

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Harris Tobias (A short story)

Joy

     Once there was a man who had no joy. One day he said to himself, “I have no joy.” So he set out on a journey to find some. He traveled for a day and a night before he came to a small village. He stopped the first person he saw. It was an old woman. The man asked her, “where can I find joy?”

     The old woman shook her head and sighed, “I have been looking for joy ever since I was a young girl but have never found any.”

     The man continued on his way until he came upon an inn. He asked the innkeeper where he might find joy. “She’s upstairs,” said the innkeeper, “It will cost you a silver coin to see her.” So the man dug into his purse and gave the innkeeper a silver coin and the innkeeper showed him up the stairs to a door and left. The man knocked gently on the door. “Come in,” said a voice. The man was about to turn the door knob and enter when he thought, “what if I find joy and am disappointed?” And so he hesitated and then he thought, “what if joy doesn’t care for me?”

     So he left the door unopened and went back downstairs. “Well,” said the innkeeper, “did you find joy?” The man had to confess that he didn’t and asked the innkeeper for his coin back. The innkeeper shook his head and pointed to a sign behind the bar. The sign said, “No refunds. Life is your responsibility.” The man had to agree that was so. He turned and continued on his way.

Some stories

My books 

My Blog

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Harris Tobias

Crave the Star

There are those who say

that man is god with smaller hands

our cities but inept mountain ranges

and our dreams the shoddy sweepings from god’s floor

I am one of those

I crave the stars and the spaces between

I have never seen a plastic flower I liked

Sunset and television set are in no way the same 

 

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