Inkling To A Stranger

by Heather Bellinger

Light curves like a question mark
as it enters a stranger’s mouth.

It dives, like a confident downstroke,
and commas to kiss the tongue.

It soothes the throat with assonance,
alliteration, drops ellipses of rhyme,
reminding him he’s more than a forlorn epithet.


Heather Bellinger is a recent Corban University graduate with a Bachelor’s of Science in English. She enjoys writing poetry of all sorts, flash fiction, and plays, and can be found roaming around in bookstores, theatres, or her kitchen pantry as she attempts another British dessert. She plans to continue writing as she pursues teaching, graduate school, and theatre.

My Ticking Clock

by Salma A. Razak

It ticks, then talks. Reaps then sow.
Breathes when borrowed. And lives at the batteries he offers.
Counts the twelve hours as twenty four.
Allows him to see it glow. Wonders when it will grow.
But then again, it’s just a clock.
Always doing its tricks and then talks.
Living in batteries and hopes.
Waiting for the touch from his soul. And I fix it when it stops.
Watch it leak when it develops a hole.
It may be old but it’s strong.
It must be worn out but it’s proud to survive this long.
He gave me suggestions though. When he saw it in its cracked form.
Ideas that makes it whole.
Encouraging me to create for it a voice.
“Trick then talk,” whispers this old worn clock.
“Give me a voice, to speak to this boy. Make this hope grow and allow me to glow. For I want to roar even when my voice is small. Allow me to talk. Allow him to know.”

Tick and tock. That is the sound it spoke once the boy saw it in its new form.
It clicked and then spoke, when he focused on its voice. My eyes fixed on his, waiting for his respond. Knowing that my clock has chosen him to be its eternal hope.


Salma A. Razak is a day job customer service agent and an owl writer during her free time. A book reviewer and a writer of romance genre that enjoys combing other genres along her stories. She enjoys reading books, Manga and listening to musics that has meaning to it. Although she’s the shy type, she loves to communicate.

Before

by Sarah Bigham

Before
he was mine
sunshine boy
and running free
he lived
in surf
and sand
and pools
on skis
and boards
and towers
that glow

Before
he was mine
he burned their
eyes in Adonis
glory and ached
their throats
from laughing
and twitched
their lips in
effortless beaming
at the magic
he wrought

Before
he was mine
he was someone
else’s others’
centers and
the friends’
friend a blaze
for moths and
butterflies dowsed
out on a train
on the tarmac
on the ground

Now
he is mine
among the
stars and
clouds and
birds flying
across drenched
sheets on reddened
lazy mornings
as he lies
softly next
to me


Sarah Bigham writes from Maryland where she lives with her kind chemist wife, three independent cats, an unwieldy herb garden, several chronic pain conditions, and near-constant outrage at the general state of the world tempered with love for those doing their best to make a difference. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, Sarah’s poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have appeared in a variety of great places for readers, writers, and listeners. Find her at www.sgbigham.com

Time For Reaping

by Tianna G. Hansen

You spend time planting each seed delicately. Cup the earth around each pearl so it flourishes. Nourish and take care until you feel them blossom and burst forth blooms of brilliant color. Saplings respond to the way the moon moves, just as your body sways with tides of dappled waves. Stars drip from the sky like icicles. You are not destroyed; it is time to harvest. Reap what you have taken time to sow. Healing is a solo act. No one can witness the seed spread beneath the ground, only the moment it presses its softness through the surface toward the sun.

Open your mouth wide, consume rays which reach down to touch; feel the curl of grasping fingers. Roots have grown deep in the pit of your belly. Feel them sink deeper, embrace your bones. Climb through your ribcage like ivy in a warm, constricting hug. When it comes time, devour your harvest whole. Weep the juices, flush your system, and cleanse your body’s deepest grottos. Daybreak radiates each eclipse, soil moist and ready for the next planting — your newest cultivation.


Tianna G. Hansen has been writing her whole life. Her fiction, poetry, and creative non-fiction have found homes in numerous mags, and she releasing her debut poetry collection ‘undone, still whole’ with APEP Publications this Beltane. She founded and is Editor-in-Chief of Rhythm & Bones Press/Lit Mag. Follow her work on Twitter @tiannag92 / IG @tgghansen24 / FB @tiannaghansen. More at CreativeTianna.com.

A Word

by Chelon Sabree

A dialogue fluent in flesh
We recite scorching sonnets
Our voices bared until a desert of inarticulate
Vibrations, rendered hoarse, mouth parched
Your skin drips with syllables
Offered an oasis
Poetry upon my tongue
Breaths whispering desires
Passion echoing through sated hair
We lie on dunes of verse


Chelon Sabree is a mother, a wife, an avid reader and lover of coffee who has decided to try and share her writing.