Of Clouds by Liz Haigh

Being Frank Elliot by Beth Crossley

Lake Tranquillity by Andrew Stancek

Sunrise on the Wing

Fishing by Lark Beltram

The past is dead fish
stinking, and rainbow trout
still roseate in review.
The present daily fry
in oil of routine, while nourishing,
leaves hunger for that elusive catch
a-swim in deep blue future's crinkled span.

Of Clouds by Liz Haigh

I wander lonely as a cloud. But how can clouds define loneliness? If you look up at the sky, clouds are rarely alone. They usually float in small groups. Sometimes they fill up the sky entirely. How can clouds be lonely when there are so many of them? I should wander lonelyas a sun. When you look up in the sky, you only ever see one sun.

Fire Porkers are an Excellent Way of Winning Debates by Peter Kiernan

There is no freedom to decide whether one is involved in humanity or not, one simply is. That is to say that our being amongst one another is an indisputable feature of our existence, unavoidable in every way. We share the same bewilderment, the same problems, the same world of significances and not by co-incidence, or perhaps rather by a kind of necessary coincidence of the same phenomena in the one space. We are at a basic level the same kind of phenomenon, the same kind of consciousness suddenly awake, anew amidst a world that does not explain itself nor relinquish readily its secrets -

Wills by Brian McMillan


It was dinnertime, and it was dark. A loon was starting its low song over the lake. He’ d eaten some berries for lunch and did a mental inventory of the cans of soup back at the log cabin. It was a 20- minute hike through the scrub oaks, but he preferred working out here because he felt like he was going to work, even though he just as easily could have moved his woodworking to the living room at the cabin -- no one else had set foot in the cabin in decades. He was finishing an intricate birdhouse, which was worth hundreds of dollars, but which he would sell at a flea market for just enough to sustain himself. Once he traded one for a new set of drill bits.

Caroline Phones her Mother by Cezarija Abartis

Fledging Flight by Eira Needham

Wait by James Owens

All night the ambulances screamed in
with the dead or dying.
It was easy to see the hospital as a station
for the departures.
We were always half awake.

It rained often. Afternoons
at a window, I imagined the edges of things--
glass dividing warm air from cold,
the millions of raindrops,
their separate splashes in the yard.

Dancing in Water by Anne Whitehouse

After Dinner with Ted at the High Noon Café
by Nonnie Augustinet

Mam's Best Brooch by Eira Needham