Far-Flung, Heart in hand, the broken promise by Courtney Nicholson


In slips
In sighs,
Those petty cries
From near, to dear, to far-flung
Not me.
I know
I’d never go
Past ‘DO,’
To ‘DON’T’
For that, I’ve flung the farthest.

Heart in Hand

Here I stand,
Heart in hand
A crook’d smile on my face
And Water plays
Drip-Drop Drip
The Broken Promise
Continue reading Far-Flung, Heart in hand, the broken promise by Courtney Nicholson

Thanksgiving by: Brett Williams

Unfortunately, all of this stuff really happened.

I woke up at 9:04 that morning with the typical “nothing can possibly go wrong” attitude I like to adopt on holiday weekends. Slightly bloated from the feast of leftovers from Thanksgiving two nights ago, I rolled out of bed. My sister was washing her face in the bathroom to the great dismay of her face, which was suffering from premenstrual syndrome. She asked me if I wanted to go to the gym with her. My brain said, “Eh,” but my wobbly gut said, “It really would be in your best interest,” and so my mouth (the only one that could truly be understood) said, “Sure”. Well her mouth, which seemed to have already adopted a slight downward curvature with the weight of the PMS plaguing the more northerly regions of her face, said “Alright. You’ve got two minutes to get ready.” Well, it was a little less than I had anticipated but no big deal.

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On finding a man again in Kenya by Fredessa Hamilton

We still suffer, the downtrodden, in dust
Scraped away and analyzed in layers
People who, being first, gain nothing,
Until they find man in Kenya again.
Some homo sapiens still won’t admit
That they found man in Kenya again.

African, first-man, chained and beaten and bitten
By snakes and dogs in ships and cells,
Still in cells, children of men found in Kenya,
Man who made tools became tools to
Ease the fright of those who found man
in Kenya.
And they found men in Kenya, not slaves for America.

Continue reading On finding a man again in Kenya by Fredessa Hamilton

KrB by Kristi Burchfield

Your bond energy crackles

From across the lab

You approach me

With your protective eyewear

As an electron transfer would.

Would you like to

Balance my equation?

My activation energy is rising

We make our way toward

The restricted area

Authorized personnel only

You examine my mass

Your proton size increases

Giving it a positive charge

Your atomic number does the same

Forming an ionic bond

With our opposite charges

Your metal qualities

Mix with my nonmetal

Becoming one

Our molecules join

Translate, rotate, vibrate

As a single unit

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Keeping Bright Eyes by Ariel Fugate

I sit on the warm curb of a sticky sidewalk. It is Saturday night, 9 o’clock. In a small farming village in Southeast China, there is an unexpected liveliness. The locals are having a block party. Women twirl in synchronized motion – Chinese pop guiding old-time,traditional moves. Elders huddle – gossiping. Old men have their shirts rolled up to vent bellies, cigarettes streaming in hand. Children run – scattering, little butts visible through convenient slits in their trousers. Town dogs scan the ground for scraps from the day’s markets. Soon, our quiet presence is noticed. One of the elderly women breaks from the circle. Rushing over, she ushers us off the curb and into a vacant storefront. She offers little benches to the four of us. “Xie, xie,” we thank her. Mistaking the extent of our language skills, she begins speaking to us in rapid Mandarin. We smile, shrug and hope it is the universal sign for I don’t understand. After a few more attempts, she laughs wildly –understanding our lack thereof.As she reconvenes with her group, another woman, baby on hip, joins our overlook.She points to our bare arms and shorts, gesturing that we must be cold. We laugh, shrug. Others join her and us – marveling, talking and laughing. We share in the laughter – no room for self-consciousness. As the night goes on, the elderly lady invites us to dance, an invitation on which we politely pass. Later, the woman with the baby reaches out to me,motioning for me to take her little boy. I hold out my arms, welcoming his wrinkled handsand grinning face.

Continue reading Keeping Bright Eyes by Ariel Fugate