Smile

by

Kelli J Gavin

I love your smile.

No, not your smile.

That moment before you smile.

That moment when your eyes light up.

When your eyes shine.

When your eyes glint as if at a moments notice, they will fill with tears.

When the small lines by your eyes squint ever so slightly.

That knowing look.

That look of amusement.

That look of recognition of what is yet to come.

Your lip twitches as if preparing to ask me something.

Maybe ask why it has been so long since you have felt the joy sweep over you.

When your shoulders relax.

When the corners of your mouth turn upwards.

When you make real eye contact.

When you look at me.

When you look into me.

Your lips begin to part and you take a slight breath.

Not a full breath, just enough to fuel your response.  

You enjoy this.

Me watching you.

I smile because of that moment before you smile.

Kelli J Gavin lives in Carver, Minnesota with Josh, her husband of 22 years and two crazy kids. She is a Writer, a Professional Organizer and owns two companies. She enjoys writing, reading, swimming, and spending time with family and friends. She abhors walks on the beach (sand in places no one wishes sand to be), candle lit dinners, (can’t see) and the idea of cooking two nights in a row (no thank you).Check out Kelli J Gavin on Facebook and on Twitter and Instagram: @KelliJGavin and her blog: http://kellijgavin.blogspot.com/

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.

Judith's Last Song

by

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh

“My Ma’s dead.”

He waits to hear more.

“She’s a vet. And, they gave me her–”
And, all of a sudden I am there. I am sitting in the folding chair borrowed from the V.A. in my borrowed, ill-fitting suit smelling of trash bags. Every time someone squeezed me in a hug a waft of Hefty would make me want to itch and throw up.

The chaplain kneels, tells me the flag is on behalf of a grateful nation, and holds up the red and white triangle for me to take.

I just want to punch the flag out of his hand and run away.

Just run till I get to a place where my Ma is alive frying Spam and eggs with too much soy sauce.

Just run till the pain moves from my heart to my lungs.

Instead, I just sit there, and he places her on my lap.

First Featured at http://blognostics.net/blognostics-an-innovative-experience-in-literature-poetry-and-art/2014/05/24/judiths-last-song-by-veronica-haunani-fitzhugh/

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.

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.