My Mama Says...

by

Rie Sheridan Rose

My Ma says Pa has gone to war...

He kissed her as he closed the door.

I saw the soldiers marching by,

Marching off to fight and die...

My brother John went off last week

Ma cried so hard, she couldn't speak.

I'm all that's left now here at home,

To tend the fields and till the loam.

My Uncle Ted lives up in Maine

Ma says we won't see him again.

I don't know why we have to fight...

But Ma is crying every night.

And now I have to be the man,

So I'll pretend as best I can

That I ain't scared by blood and guns

And mothers burying their sons.

Rie Sheridan Rose multitasks. Her short stories appear in numerous anthologies, including On Fire, Hides the Dark Tower,  and Killing It Softly Vol. 1 and 2. She has authored ten novels, six poetry chapbooks, and lyrics for dozens of songs. More info on www.riewriter.com. She tweets as @RieSheridanRose.

Mama, Come Back

by

Suzana Sjenicic

Two black eyes crying a river,

I don’t know whether you’re further or nearer.

Swelling of eyes, swelling of heart,

Favorite breakfast - your apple tart.

Cold bars, tall gate.

Is this a punishment, is it fate?

You’ve been away for a year and a day,

Come out mama, it’s almost May.

Stay with us for at least a day, 

Don’t you miss us mama?

Come out and play.

We’re your treasure,

You’re our vault;

Come out mama, it’s not your fault.

You don’t belong,

You’re not a needle in a sack of hay,

It’s been too long, mama,

Come out and play. 

Suzana Sjenicic is a psychotherapist in private practice, and in her free time, she enjoys writing. She published short fiction stories, one of which being a part of an anthology entitled CEA Greatest Anthology Written, which is in the running towards the Guinness’ World Record as an anthology with most short stories written by different authors. Along with fiction, she has published psychology-related articles in magazines and online publications. 

Amazing Mother's Struggles

by

Ndaba Sibanda

Mother, you embody love,

You define noble nourishment of a child.

You bestow a child with amazing queenly care.

Mother, you saw beyond what l was,

To what l could be in this competitive world.

You helped me build my destiny and chart out my way.  

You struggled in London with a high measure of selflessness.

For all the wonderful sacrifices no countless words are enough honour.

May our Creator`s love continue to reign and radiate through your life.

Some of Ndaba`s works are found or forthcoming in  Page & Spine, Winning Writers,Peeking Cat ,Piker Press , The Ofi Press Magazine ,SCARLET LEAF REVIEW ,Hawaii Pacific Review , panoply, a literary zine, Saraba Magazine, Poetry Potion, Unlikely Stories Mark V, Outside In Literary & Travel , storySouth, Deltona Howl, RAMINGO! ITCH, Josh McBee's NonDoc articles.

A Heart Of Love

by
Ndaba Sibanda

How does she manage to extend
a hand of love and peace to the
forces of  her torment and loss?
Is she not orphaned and mocked?
Maybe her patient heart utters:
Please be patient with patients.

Bitterness resides not in her head.
How does she meet all that hate
with humanity? All that pretense
with a high measure of honesty?
Thando --hailing  from Gwatemba--
indeed lives up to her name: Love.

The big question though is: Will
the patients in their wise foolery
not stretch her human patience thin?
Will it not snap off like a rubber band
and run riot on their faces and façade?
Only time will be the storyteller of this.

Some of Ndaba`s works are found or forthcoming in  Page & Spine, Winning Writers,Peeking Cat ,Piker Press , The Ofi Press Magazine ,SCARLET LEAF REVIEW ,Hawaii Pacific Review , panoply, a literary zine, Saraba Magazine, Poetry Potion, Unlikely Stories Mark V, Outside In Literary & Travel , storySouth, Deltona Howl, RAMINGO! ITCH, Josh McBee's NonDoc articles.

His Name Was Javier

by
Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh


It’s not your problem.
You’re not responsible.
It’s not your fault.
You’re not liable.

my son is dead.

Everyone makes their own choices of action.

It is not systemic.
There is no pattern.

my son is dead.

he never told me about the constant messages of hate.
he never told me how alone he must have felt.
he never told me how i could help.

where did my happy little boy go?
where is the man he was supposed to become?

my son is dead.

And, the rest is deafening silence.

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh earned her BA in English Literature from the University of Virginia but is more proud of the friendships she earned through her social justice work in Charlottesville, Virginia.  She has been in several anthologies online and in print.  Her main blog is Charlottesville Winter at cvillewinter.wordpress.org.

Another Story

by
Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh

Electrifying bullets fly–fatal and fast.
A veiled woman falls.
Footsteps do not slow
even as the baby squirms in her arms
trying to breathe free from her
tightening, dying clutches.

They both lie in the mid-morning heat.
Overturned carts and abandoned bicycles
litter the lifeless street.

The square is silent and smells of a red brown
trickle rust across the ground.

Her name meant Grace.
His name was Noah.

They fly to the pearly gates only to find further cages.

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh earned her BA in English Literature from the University of Virginia but is more proud of the friendships she earned through her social justice work in Charlottesville, Virginia.  She has been in several anthologies online and in print.  Her main blog is Charlottesville Winter at cvillewinter.wordpress.org.

Points Of Origin

by

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh

“Where the hell did you come from?” he demanded holding my documents with just his fingertips fearing contamination.

“From your blind spot.”

“From your complacency.”

“From your Other.”

“I have been here all the time waking, warbling, waiting for you to see all of me.”

“I burst forth swaddled in my Daddy’s disappointments and dry humor.”

“A small tobacco plantation in Spotsylvania County, Virginia where the Fitz and the Hugh slaves became Fitzhugh slaves.”

“My Momma and her Momma and her Momma.”

“Africa, Germany, Philippines, Hawaii, New Jersey, Virginia, Florida, then Virginia again.”

“The Navy, the Army, the National Guard, the US Federal Government, Walmart, and Kmart.”

“Soul gardens where the sweetest fruits are still bitter skinned.”

“Mouths of rivers still running muddy and dangerous.”

“From the time when I slammed on the brake instead of the gas choosing to no longer kill myself.”

“From a November naked dance around a park bonfire, cameras, lovers, strangers, and police.”

“From that startling moment when you realize the dream is about to be a nightmare.”

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh earned her BA in English Literature from the University of Virginia but is more proud of the friendships she earned through her social justice work in Charlottesville, Virginia.  She has been in several anthologies online and in print.  Her main blog is Charlottesville Winter at cvillewinter.wordpress.org.

On Dying Slowly

by
Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh

The desolate room misses babe and me.
Her gloved palm of flower and fruit held mine.
His masked face frowned as my womb then empty
grew garnet and crimson, not a safe sign.
Alone, I sadly come to her unplanned.
Her kind brown eyes try to smile confidently,
calmly. I see truth behind the ocean’s sand.
I remove my hand and cry silently.
The salty sadness of numbness not pain.
At eighteen, my choice convenience blushing.
Vacuumed out clean, I try to remain sane,
hearing nothing but the cool air rushing.
Once swollen with rose and morning glory.
Hurt too fresh for touching allegory.

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh earned her BA in English Literature from the University of Virginia but is more proud of the friendships she earned through her social justice work in Charlottesville, Virginia.  She has been in several anthologies online and in print.  Her main blog is Charlottesville Winter at cvillewinter.wordpress.org. 

This Continent Had To Be Won

by
Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh

I.

The furious whirling rainbows of dance end with the first shot but are incomplete.

Mama. Mama!

She does not hear the booms of what she cannot know as gun fire.

She yelps thrusting her arms out and away hoping to grab hold. She finds nothing and no one.

Her new being splits her bud lips into soundless, mouthed wailing.

Her new lessons stretch her taut.

As she is about to tear, she is lifted and held close to a new back.

She lays her fevered cheek against the rough, pink shawls of another.

A stranger, an elder from another tribe.

Her dark, long hair smells of the smoke of an unknown fire, of another stripped bare.

She closes her eyes with brown fingers laced in her new woman.

II.

Mama. Mama!

Who are they?

They are the end.

Mama. Mama!

What are you doing?

Making marriage soup to save...

What is save?

Allowing your tomorrows to come and go.

What are these?

Tears, my love, tears.

When will they end?

As you open your mouth and sip the soup.

They barge in, again breaking her bowl. The blood earns title to the soil. No purpose left.

The dry land drinks the mixing soup of sobs and veins and dies in its thirst for more.

III.

Their ghosts shadow a scar across the cheeks of a new people.

Creating other bowls filled with broth where bitter meets sweet.

Moving but are not lost.

Stopping pipelines.

Mama. Mama!

What is that?

The dance continues.

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh earned her BA in English Literature from the University of Virginia but is more proud of the friendships she earned through her social justice work in Charlottesville, Virginia.  She has been in several anthologies online and in print.  Her main blog is Charlottesville Winter at cvillewinter.wordpress.org.