Friday, October 4, 2024: Beverly M. Collins's "Cost of Knowing" (with accompanying art)

 

“You can’t take on everyone’s confusion and wear it. Don’t ask so many questions. The answers may surprise you in a bad way,” Sylvia’s grandfather barked down at her, as he held her hand on a walk home from school when she was six years old.

“They may indeed,” She whispered softly to herself, at age 43.

On this New Jersey cool early-autumn day, she remembered that childhood moment while seated, like a cat ready to pounce, on the edge of the bed in her bra and panties, with a tan- colored bed sheet loosely tangled around her. The sound of water assured that her husband

Aaron was still in the shower. Finally, a moment to spy at the call history in his phone. To look was to question. She wished she had not looked and didn’t know he was, once again, calling “that woman” almost every day. Sylvia ached so bad that her hands trembled and let go of the phone. It slipped down the side of the covers and into the floor.

She didn’t know which part was worst, the bitter taste or the texture of betrayal. This was her second attempt at happily-ever-after. Her first marriage of 4 years had ended over, (you guessed it) infidelity.

Does anyone marry and not cheat? After all of the talks and promises. She once hoped their couple’s therapy had worked wonders and ended his tryst. But, knew what this information meant for their 14-year union.

Gripped by fear at the idea of another divorce, her heart pounded as she suddenly jumped up, raced to put on her oversized sweater, sneakers, and blue jeans. She wanted to run, stomp, kick, and scream. but for now, would settle for a run. A chance to pull herself together, flee the anguish momentarily and dash through nature; old trees, life that had planted itself, pushed down

deep roots and was happy in their spot.

Many times, she had leisurely strolled this path. This time, along with the quick pounding sound of her steps, Sylvia noticed the sharp movement of birds from one spot to another, dust and seeds that sailed in need of a new place to take hold, they were like her. Everything in her felt jittery and uprooted. The “knowing” was already doing a number on her chronic twitch in her cheek.

The Broken-hearted-first-things-first. Sob hard where no one can listen. Everything else; the confrontation, the heated arguments, the packing, uncertainty, loneliness, the expressed concern from relatives, the lawyers, the reshuffle of who-gets-to-keep-who of their longtime friends, hurtful division of assets, the giving-back-of-each-other’s-family members, rumors of what happened, and the long road to healing, would begin later. Just for now, she ran as hard as she could and let a rivers-flow-of-tears dry from open wind.

© 2024 Beverly M. Collins

Bio: Beverly M. Collins, author of the books, Quiet Observations: Diary thought, Whimsy and Rhyme, and Mud in Magic. Her poems and short stories have appeared in publications based in USA, England, Ireland, Australia, India, Berlin, Mauritius, and Canada both in print and online.

Winner of a Naji Naaman Literary Prize in Creativity (Lebanon). Collins, three times nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and a prize winner for the California State Poetry Society; One of three winners of the June 2021 Wilda Morris Poetry Challenge (Chicago). Her photography can be found on the cover of Peeking Cat 40 (UK), California Quarterly, on Fine Art America products, iStock/Getty images, and more at beverlym-collins.pixels.com. 

Wednesday, October 2, 2024: Best of the Net Nominations (2025)

Best of the Net Nominations (2025) 

 POETRY 

Patricia Walsh “Conversations in the Foyer” 

Barbara Anna Gaiardoni “Flower Moon” 

Natalie Itzhaki “Perhaps a Bird” 

Jan Steckel “Indivisible” 

Carole Mertz “Ashes”

Ellen Cantor “Joy” 

FICTION 

Lynne Bronstein “The Road” 

ART

Ellen Cantor “Seeking” and “Seeking 2” 

Marie C Lecrivain “Crone 3” 

Good luck, and congratulations to all the nominees.:)

 

Thursday, September 19, 2024: Jennifer M Philips's "What Rises?"

What Rises?

Over us hangs the savior sans serif,

no longer watching us, all broken curve and slump

into what flesh was, into what flesh could be,

the soul's encumbrance but not its devisor.

When light enters, darkness solidifies,

moves up out of the margins. That old stain

lifts from the cloth to run, lurid again

in the gutters, the great tergiversator.

Terror's imp and impulse fortifies

the weak against all council or compromise,

plies damage, but knows no collateral,

and keeps uneasy company with ghosts.

The ancient malevolence prompts the dogs to run wild,

jabs a knee in the back that forfeits a man his life,

prods a leader to deny people their livelihood,

and re-labels chaos as just our neighborhood.

The ignorant armies are not those bearing swords

but those wielding words to dissemble, trip, and steal

meaning and kindness from language itself, and boast

messiah-like of their power to crush and to rule.

Grief watches at the tomb for an undefiled

light to emerge, a squaring to come later,

a risen body of real and common good.

© 2024 Jennifer M Phillips

A much-published bi-national immigrant, gardener, Bonsai-grower, painter, Jennifer M Phillips has lived in five states, two countries, and now, with gratitude, in Wampanoag ancestral land on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Her chapbooks: Sitting Safe In the Theatre of Electricity (i-blurb.com, 2020) and A Song of Ascents (Orchard Street Press, 2022). Two of Phillips' poems are nominated for this year's Pushcart Prize.

Thursday, September 5, 2024: Christal Ann Rice Cooper's " Eve’s Poem of Renewal"

 Eve’s Poem of Renewal

“I Know Everything”

As we walk in the morning dew

My Father activates something within me

lightning, visions, dreams

of Noah’s Rainbow, Abraham’s vision

of who Isaac was symbolizing,

Moses’s flame in the blooming bush

While the men work in the fields

I sculpt my children, grandchildren,

and great grandchildren

male and female

I sculpt them

At night as they lay in their beds

I tell stories to my children, grandchildren,

and great grandchildren

female and male

I tell them stories.

I teach my sons how to make baskets

and collect corn

I teach my daughters how to took for rainbows

and pour oil over heads

When no one is looking

I dance for Him

on my knees I face Him

my 70 x 7 Grandson

who calls me sister.

I am not like Thomas

I don’t need to look at His hands, feet or side

for proof.

I know it is His Him,

and finally, I know everything.

© 2024 Christal Ann Rice Cooper 

Christal Ann Rice Cooper is a newspaper writer, feature stories writer, poet, fiction

writer, photographer, and painter. She has a Bachelor’s in Criminal Justice and completed all

of her poetry and fiction workshops required for her Master’s in Creative Writing with a focus

on poetry. She maintains a blog at www.christalannricecooper.org She, her husband Wayne,

sons Nicholas and Caleb, cat Nation reside in the St. Louis area. She can be reached at

email caccoop@aol.com and Facebook https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7

Friday, August 15, 2024: Jackie Chou's "The Mother I Never Became"

 

If I were a mother

I would not be cool at all

I'd talk way too loud

even for dim sum

drop the shrimp dumpling

between my chopsticks

I'd not know new songs to sing

to the car radio 

belt out too much Green Day

not enough Olivia Rodrigo

I'd wear odd prints and sequins

from the Ross clearance racks

and have no job for my kids 

to tell their friends about 

I'd be the kind of mom

that makes her children say

"Why can't you be 

like other moms?"

© 2024 Jackie Chou

Jackie Chou holds a BA degree in Creative Writing from the University of Southern California, where she studied and held the position of vice president in a cultural organization, an experience she looks upon with nostalgia which still influences her poetry today. She has published two collections of poetry, The Sorceress, and Finding My Heart in Love and Loss.

Thursday, August 1, 2024: Elizabeth Jaeger's "The Mini Mart"

Recently, my son, G3, called me to pick him up after school. We live only a half a mile away, close enough for him to walk, and most days he does walk because when I work, he has no other option. But I was off, and he felt like being lazy. I just missed the way things used to be, before I returned to teaching, and so I happily dropped what I was doing in order to get him. A block away from the school, as I saw him crossing the street, I pulled over to wait for him. The moment he yanked open the door, he asked me if we could detour to the Mini-Mart for him to get an Arizona Iced Tea. The kid eats enough sweets–he’s still got a bag full of candy from Halloween–so he certainly didn’t need more.Without giving it much thought,  I shook my head “No.” A shadow of disappointment fell across his face, but surprisingly, he didn’t complain. He didn’t beg. Since he didn’t throw his usual snit, by the time I pulled into the driveway I started to reconsider. However, if I was going to get him an iced tea, he was going to have to walk. With me.

G3 is twelve, nearly thirteen, and he’s reached that stage where I’ve become an embarrassment to him. Okay, that might be a bit harsh and not completely true. I’m not an embarrassment, but being seen with me in public causes him a great deal of embarrassment. He’s too cool to go anywhere or do anything with his mother. I get it. I never went through that stage with my parents, at least I don’t think I did. I was always happy to have them show-up or be anywhere with me. But that was me. G3 is different. He has started to pull away, wanting more space and less time to interact and do mother and son activities. As for me, I’ve started to miss all the time we used to spend together, especially back in the days when I was a stay-at-home mom and all my free time was poured into him. Now, I’ve been reduced to scheming in order to find ways to get him to spend even five minutes with me. A walk to the mini-mart wasn’t much, but it was something. A few minutes during which we could talk and I could possibly find out about his day and what might be new in his life.

As I pulled the key out the ignition I turned to G3 and suggested, “If you’re up for a walk, we can go to the mini-mart and I’ll get you that iced tea.”

He started to grumble. His shoulders sagged, and I prepared myself for rejection. Instead, he bit down on his lower lip and slowly let out a lung full of air. “Fine,” he agreed, “but we can’t go now. All the kids from school will still be there. We’ll go in a half an hour.”

Trying not to smirk and let my excitement peek through, I opened my door and got out of the car. Back in the house, I resumed revising an essay while my son sat down to do his homework. At half past three, exactly a half hour after we had gotten home, I asked him if he still wanted the Arizona Iced Tea. He closed the screen of his Chromebook, smiled up at me, and headed out the front door. 

We walked together, a good foot or two between us, but still close enough that we were able to match our strides. As we walked, I thought back to when he was just learning to walk, before he had complete command of his own legs. Every day that fall, regardless of how cold it was, I would take him outside to play. His tiny little hand would reach up and grab hold of my finger so that he didn’t fall. I walked slowly, letting him set the pace and he stopped constantly, examining everything. We never went far, just around the condo complex. Every time he came across a new treasure–a pebble, a feather, a flower–he called my attention to it. Pinecones were his favorite and he would pause to collect them, gathering up as many as his little arms could hold. They were like priceless gifts and he carried them as gingerly as if they were made of glass. Sometimes, he would hand them to me one at a time and I would count out loud, “One, two, three…” Oh how he loved the counting game. We’d pass the pinecones back and forth until he got tired of it. Back then, he was too little to talk so our conversations were often one-sided with me narrating the world–numbers, colors, names. Sometimes, I’d tell stories, enjoying the interested look on his little face.

Now he could talk just fine, but coaxing him into a conversation was getting harder and harder. I asked questions, “How was your day?” “What did you do?” “Did you learn anything interesting?” He answered in single syllables or shoulder shrugs.  

About halfway to the store, he began frantically turning around to look up and down the street, as if he were a wanted criminal trying to evade capture. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“If you see any kids, they’re probably from my school, so you’ll have to walk three feet in front of me or let me get in front of you. Okay?”

No, that was not okay, not okay at all. He was totally tossing me aside, ready to pretend that I didn’t exist. But I didn’t complain. I didn’t object. These were his new rules, his new guidelines, that dictated our relationship in public. I could accept them or not, but if I didn’t, it would mean less time with him. 

Not much further along, we turned a corner which brought us to the main road. There is always a great deal of traffic and a fair amount of foot traffic, especially during rush hour. No sooner did we cross the first street than my son noticed a group of six kids walking out of Dunkin Donuts. The second G3 spotted them, he sped up–really fast. My clue to drop back and play dead. 

“Hey G3,” a voice called out and several hands raised in a wave. Even from an increasingly wide distance, I saw his shoulders stiffen. He’d give anything, at that moment, for me to disappear. This young man who once upon a time used to cry and throw temper tantrums in stores, this boy who used to say the most inappropriate things in front of company because children have absolutely no filter, this kid who as a toddler loved to pull his clothes off at the beach and run around naked, was embarrassed because I happened to be walking on the same street.

It hurt. I won’t pretend it didn’t, although I think I put on a good act. I dropped back far enough and walked on even when he turned into the Mini-Mart. I didn’t stop until I came to a store lawn-sign that was big enough for me to hide behind. From the safety of my perch, I looked back. The crowd of kids had turned up the block and were headed in the direction of the school. I circled back, pulled open the door to the Mini-Mart, and stealthily slipped some money to my son. I was gone before he even had time to open the refrigerator.

I walked alone until I could turn up off the main street. There, out of the way and in the shadows, I waited for my son. 

“Thank you,” he said when he caught up to me, keeping his voice low and glancing over his shoulder to see if any of his other schoolmates were around. They were. Two older boys loomed ahead, their backs to us, but their presence was too much. “I’ll meet you at home,” my son declared, taking off at a rapid pace and leaving me to follow in his wake. I didn’t even know he could walk that fast.

© 2024 Elizabeth Jaeger

“My work has been published in various print and online journals, including Margate Bookie, The Blue Nib, Capsule Stories, Watchung Review, Peacock Journal, Boston Accent Lit, and Italian Americana. My memoir Stolen: Love and Loss in the Time of COVID is forthcoming with Unsolicited Press. I can be found at: https://jaegerwrites13.wordpress.com and on TikTok @papajaegertheowl”

Thursday, July 25, 2024: Susan Evans's "Memory of Red"

 walking home from school

on graveled Hopson Street,

past little white clapboards,

a memory of red

blood like a rivulet down my bare leg, and big sister

urged me off the ground,

her tiny frown and blond cocker spaniel

ponytails looking down at me.

and the blood was thick like warm paint,

like salty seawater,

and stopped and spurted on my white socks

for all the world like serious mistakes.

and I wailed over a galvanized wash tub,

as my mother poured a trickle of alcohol,

scorching my pale and trembling leg.

and the hot blood screeched into the tub,

like a red scarf of fear,

awakening my first doubt

that I’d have safe outcomes,

It was an early confirmation

that I’d better get tough

for the rocky road ahead.

and I remember the night

trains in Chester

uprooting, clattering and scooting

my Beautyrest across the room,

like coiled springs running

on bedrails.

and Don, after trying to hush

my moans, sang, “Like a freight train

running through the middle of my head,

woo woo,” in the dim blue afterglow.

but I don’t want to remember anything sad.

like Lonesome Bob and Willie’s stardust

on the blanket, his heart like a chunk of space rock

2

and hard as a meteor.

and I don't want to write about that picture

of the orange Van Gogh,

and his madness and night journey

and Granny and her vermillion roses,

putting her little shoes away.

Or how Great-Grandma, tiny as a matchstick,

said “Yes, lots of birds, and they shit all over my porch.”

I, too, clean up the nasty spills

of romantic droppings,

like bird shit.

I am an experienced victim,

and see through disguises,

see beyond my vanishing troubadour,

bard Marc of birds,

running from love

like an unarmed man being shot at,

wetting the tip of his magic pencil,

with a great flourish

offering his girl with the turquoise toenails

100,000 poetic words,

not one the one I wanted to hear.

but I no longer scarf down table scraps

leftover from of all the black knights,

the yesterdicks, that rode hard

in the direction of chilled wind,

that stole major energy and gave minor rewards,

leaving a bitter taste of rotten fruit in my mouth.

Now I make my own bread.

All I want is just one small plate of heaven,

I take heart.

Some nights, as silence like apple blossoms fall

from the sky of my ceiling

and evenings pink sunsets

trickle down like promises.

If I look into myself,

3

I see I’m a scarlet firebird,

and my burning body rises,

smoldering, but always new from its pyre.

© 2024 Susan Evans

Susan H. Evans lives in Baltimore, Maryland, and is a writer and former English professor. She enjoys writing poetry, creative nonfiction, and memoir, and is published in many print and online journals and magazines.