The rasp of coffee, followed by the hiss of whipped cream;

Pocket change singing after the ding of another sale;

A clatter of ice accenting the hum of the cooler;

 

And in the corner, a keyboard clicks.

 

 

The door thumps open at the rattle of the bar;

A woosh, then the slap of it closing;

Alarm beeps send annoyed footsteps back to the library desk;

 

And in the corner, a baby laughs.

 

 

That familiar voice, the slide of a chair;

A backpack slumps to the floor, the laugh of a close friend;

Timeless ringtone, the click of a phone;

 

And in the corner, a woman sighs.

 

 

“Hello”  ”How are you?”  “When’s your next class?” ;

“Nice shoes”  “Nice phone” “Did you see last night’s episode?” ;

“I love you” “Goodbye” “I need to get going.” ;

 

And in the corner, a young mother juggles life and dreams.

 

Bryan Haiser

In a woodland forest of my mind

There are oak trees with

Bark warped into faces,

They whisper on the wind

Of remembrance—stories

Once lost but now found,

They tell me these stories,

I listen.

And write their rustling rumbles

In a journal

Of leather bound parchment.

 

The oaks blend in

With the forest surrounding

Of grey green

The air always holding a hazy drizzle

Of mossy wetted earth

A panther is known to

Roam their forest

I mustn’t talk to her

They say—She has yet to become what

She was created to be—what I was to make of her;

A beautiful creation trapped in

The lucid bars of thought

Where I reside most

Of my unearthed days,

Lost in an eternal

Agitation until

Pencil meets paper once again.

I hear her sharpen

Her claws on the backs

Of the oaks.

Searching for her

Story to be written,

To find purpose in this

Forest of grey green drizzle.

Her eyes flashing green

Like the rustling leaves rooted

In the firm mudded ground

While I hide within the oak’s hollows

Like a wise owl

With a journal

Of leather bound parchment,

Writing stories for this

Creature of my creation.

 

This forest to me

Is home—forged out of necessity

Of an endangered imagination.

The forces of evil lurking in

The real world threatening to lumber

My oaks that hold the stories

That I’ve long forgotten.

I hide them

In the forest.

A home where the real world

Is a forgotten thought

That does not disturb me

While I write the story of

The panther that lies in wait

In the woodland forest of my mind,

Ready to become everything

She was meant to be.

 

Hayley Durham

He comes home with a bundle of clay.
Both he and his wife move clean hands
over it and already it begins
to mold and shape in their design.

Each touch of their nurturing hands makes
the form a little clearer, just a
bit more human. Soon they must leave this
beauty in a foreign public place.

Other hands touch this angelic artwork,
and in time pieces and fragments are lost
in the clutch of misguided palms,
storage ideas, and warped beliefs.

In time this sculpture forms fangs and claws,
the owners try and save what they can,
but end up crying, bitten
by their own creation of good intent.

Evan Zeitler

I’ll be trading barbs with you
until one finally sticks —
heavy to your ribs —
making each breath you take
sharp and painful.

I won’t feel guilty
as I watch you labor
to forget my words —
but they are attached
to each of your muscles,
making every move a struggle,
until you have no choice
but to still.

I will lift my upper hand —
raised so high you cannot reach it,
let it reign,
angry and hot,
let it scorch your sharp tongue,
until finally,
you fall silent.

Mandy Whyte

Sometimes, late at night,
you sneak up on me,
when I am lying next to the man
cleaning up the mess you made.

Your memory comes out
of the shadows, the boxes,
the depths I pushed them in.

It still hits me,
hard,
right in the chest —
and all I can think of
is the way you laughed,
your crooked teeth
and the clumsy smile
that hid your sharp tongue
and all the words you battered me with.

I look at him,
hard,
focus until his form blurs —
and you retreat
back into darkness,
where you can’t hurt me anymore.

Mandy Whyte

Rain falls,
steady on the tin roof,
and rolls down, down, the side
of this old house.

Thunder rolls,
sending critters deep into
the woods, seeking safety
and a place to stay dry.

Water flows,
with no place to call home,
causing destruction and
devastation to happen quickly

The river recedes,
silent and alone,
and the flood is forgotten
like it never came at all.

Kassie Hill