I searched the corridors
I looked everywhere
The empty house
Dark and abandoned
On top of the hilltop
Haunted by the looks of it
Vacant for who knows how long
Part of me tells me this was my home
A feeling I can't seem to shake off
Vague yet familiar, I can't truly explain it
Trying to find what I missed
Finding parts of me I didn't know to exist
Spider webs fill the window panes
Dust covers all the furniture
Books fill a shelf in the study
Snooping an old snapbook catches my eye
Flipping through the pictures
They were taken decades ago
One catches my eye as I look at it closely
Memories begin to come back suddenly
Another life; Another time


Author Bio:
Mayra Garibo is a young writer from Arizona. 

When one is unexpectedly
Out from work
Due to illness or other circumstance
He falls into one of 2 kinds of people

First type
Without a care in the world
Does not give his colleagues' labor- burden
A second thought

He listens to music
Eats Strudel
Kicks his feet up
And has a grand ole time

He does not feel
The responsibility of being missed
Because he has no feeling for others
So there is nothing to miss

He catches up with friends
And other things
He has been meaning to get to
Because why shouldn't he?

The other type
Regrets having even phoned in absent
He feels the weight of the world
On his broad shoulders

He pines away
For his poor unfortunate colleagues
Who have to make up the work
Without him

He is too serious minded
To occupy his time with frivolities
When others who depend on him
Can't do so today

He laments
The vagaries of life
And in general simply
Laments

Which of these are you?


Author Bio:
David I. Mayerhoff is an emerging writer, an established scientific author, and a Clinical Professor of Psychiatry. His areas of specialty are in Graduate Medical Education, the chronic mentally ill, and academic research with a focus on the heterogeneity of schizophrenia disorders.

Selected poetry of his can be found at drsyke.wordpress.com, allpoetry.com, as well as published selections at PoetryBay/ Long Island Quarterly, the Paragon Journal, GNU, Page & Spine, Scarlet Leaf Review, Literary Yard, in various anthologies and elsewhere. His first book of poetry, Into The Shadows, was recently released on Amazon.

My grandmother is a handsome woman
with rosy cheeks, silver hair shined by a steel
blue rinse, and a "these are my own teeth"
half smile. But her looks belie an iron will.
Stella snaps at everyone at Sunnyside Care.
She shrouds herself pretending deafness
and keeps her hearing aid on low.

My mom cries and forces me to view
a scrapbook with black and white photos
veined like stone.
There's a montage of Stella circa 1949,
tribute to a skater dedicated to the sport.
Mom recounts a shining hour:
Stella in sequined chiffon skating to
"Moonlight Sonata," her fancy footwork
and flip jump besting the competition,
the layback spin amid wild applause;
the pop of the flash as spirals
into the spotlight to accept a trophy cup
that ten years hence,
will inexplicably serve as a doorstop.
A yellowed clipping contains the caption:
"Hometown Skater Triumphs,"
but it crumbles like an autumn leaf.

Stella is wheeled into music therapy,
gliding on a polished floor.
The first movement of a melody blares,
mournful and hypnotic...
A young skater waltzes, gains speed,
and spins in the storm of a sonata...
until the hard crunch of her toe pick
and the dimming of the spot.


Author Bio:
Ellen teaches literature in a public high school. She is a professional folksinger and lyricist, whose love of folk music has influenced her poetic style. She especially enjoys reading fiction and recording her lyrics. Her most recent publications (2017) include Red Flag Poetry (Poetry Express), Madness Muse Magazine, and issue 48 of The Paterson Literary Review (April 2020). 

Artist’s brush creates
a colorless canvas.
A youthful imagination
void of vision,
trapped ruthlessly
in a realm no child
should remain.

Fingers touch
to broken shards,
vulnerability reaps
it's ruthless rewards.
Pigment of scarlet
illustrates infinite
injured implications.

I am eternally veiled
by vile viciousness.
Longing for shades
of saffrons Grace,
and vibrant visions
of shimmering stars
to enchant my eyes.

Defiled and brutalized,
not speaking of that
which is unspeakable.
Paint me a portrait
of pure innocence.
Of daffodil dreams,
and daisies delight.

I shall contrive
colors only a child
on canvas creates.
Imagine my cries
from coffins crux,
and you shall burnish
my broken being.


Author Bio:
A.C. Fernandez is an author, artist, photographer, and advocate. She uses her mediums to bring awareness to the public regarding abuse of any kind, particularly sexual abuse. Having been diagnosed with PTSD, she prefers to live a safe, peaceful life with her protector Spirit, Gracie Mae.

Years have passed
No word about her husband.
All the letter said,

“Missing in Action”

Her heart tells her he is alive.
But everything else says he has died
As she looks at his picture-taking her wedding ring off and placing them together.
With tears running down her face

In a soft voice, you could hear her talking to him.

My Darling,
I waited for you for such a long time,
Every night I prayed for you to come back to me,
It was not to be.
For now, I will say Good-bye
The day will come when we will see each other again.

Laying the picture and the ring in a drawer
She knew it was forever.
But would it be?


Author Bio:
Tammy started writing in 2001. Since then she has published three poetry books and one children's book. Her next book "Life's Journeys" will be out soon. Tammy resides in Galax, VA.

​She tucked the seeds into the cool dirt,
covering them like a secret.
Later she watered them, feeling hopeful.
 
She watched over them each day, still hoping.
When she thought she could wait no more,
tiny shoots pushed from the dirt,
new and bright green like obvious metaphors.
 
They grew, reaching toward the sun
until they flowered.
She praised them, and rejoiced.
 
She did her best to keep them from drying out,
or choked by weeds.
She hoped no pests could destroy them,
and she watched for signs of disease.
 
They grew tall and full of color, the brightest red,
and richest purple she had ever seen.
She celebrated like a pep band trumpet,
bleating proud.
 
And when they began to wither, and brown, 
scattering their leaves in the wind,
the knowledge sank in that she could do nothing more
but wait, and wish for their return.

That's all she could do.


Author Bio:
Colleen Wells writes from Bloomington, Indiana, and is a past contributor to The Voices Project. She is a writer, activist, mother, and crafter. She works as a Life Enrichment Associate with the elderly population. Her work has appeared most recently in The Gyroscope Review, The Ryder Magazine, and Workzine. She values poetry because she finds freedom in it as well as structure. Wells believes writing has the power to heal both self, and to assist others in their own healing journeys through providing a platform to share traumatic events and subsequent growth with one another. 

She is the author of Dinner With Doppelgangers - A True Story of Madness and Recovery. Wells earned her MFA in Creative Nonfiction from Spalding University. She frequently writes essays and enjoys journalism as well. To borrow a cliche, Wells believes writing about the truth is often stranger than writing fiction.

I hate car rides.

I avoid my dear mother
But there’s no hiding in a car
In which I have no escape from 
ceaseless chastisements, and small abuses.
No door to slam, no walls to shield me

Because I am trapped 
in a mobile box
I feel I am suffocating
and turn the AC up in vain
realizing lack of oxygen is not what causes my
throat to close up so
although there is a destination ahead
I feel like I am buckled in
seated for a never ending
Ride

My mother
the driver, the controller
the woman in power 
she knows her position.

Beginning her bombardment
into my psyche 
desperately seizing the 
opportunity
to peek around my mind,
as she does so often in my room.
Looking hopelessly
tossing aside morals and ignoring 
any feelings of guilt.
She wants answers.

She needs to understand why
I've been so distant
yet her daughter gives no leads.
So what other option is there
but to spy 
and poke around?
Invade every aspect of my life
until there is no thought left unturned
and no stony disposition to guard against 
my emotions.

I drown her out with the muses
they take over my senses 
in danger. 
My armor grace my ears with waves,
tales of love and happiness
my playlist saves me.
I block out her noise
And stare through the window
into the world.
It seems like a safe haven to me.

I hate car rides.


Author Bio:
Elena Maria is a high school student on the East Coast. She is an editor for her school newspaper and a member of the Poet’s Society club. Her love of writing and reading have shaped her hopes and dreams of becoming an author. She continually reflects on her own experiences, and listens to the lives of others as inspiration for her pieces.

Tiny kitten,
you reach out
gently
to encircle my hand
and pull it close
and I drop my heart
into your paws.

Tiny kitten,
with your ginger face
and oversized eyes,
I’m afraid to love again.
I know the outcome
will be sad,
for I’ve been 
at this crossroad
before.

But you meow,
yawn,
tiny pink tongue
peeking out,
you stretch your tiny body
and pull my hand closer,

inviting me
to risk 
one 
more 
time.


Author Bio:
Thalia resides in New Jersey, USA. She has had poems published in the anthology More Rescue Smiles, various online magazines, and a story in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Grandparents. When not writing, she teaches in a local high school. 

How would I have taught her to handle the gifts
this friend gives in the shadows of night
and in the familiar of day?

How would I explain a companion, who mirrors
our existence, at the mall, in the airport, 
in bed with a lover?

After other friends have come and gone, 
like love and grief, 
contentment and despair,

By our side sits loneliness, faithfully waiting 
to take our hands, to cross any threshold, 
and to meet any stranger.

I couldn’t teach her about loneliness, 
my loneliness told me no, he knew the path 
she had to follow to find her own, she had to be alone.

Loneliness will find her, he will be her first 
and last lover, her companion always.
I’ll know when she’s met him, 

when she’s come the full round, 
she’ll hate me then,
she’ll know me then,

and we’ll toast flutes filled with our sorrow
revealed, and let our companions meet 
on the plane of austerity. 


Author Bio:
Sonya Groves is a teacher in San Antonio, Texas. She has published a short stories and poetry in over 50 publications and journals, the latest including La Noria, Aries, and FLARE: the flagler review. Currently she is pursuing her PhD at the University of Texas at San Antonio.

Today I saw my future
I saw it across rough waves & a stony beach, a small house upon a hill
The sun shining a gentle spring amber
Wind swirling across the ground lazily, barely enough to tousle your hair
White capped mountains serene in the distance
 
Dogs & children play in the woods
A familiar stranger strolls through the fallen leaves towards the beach
I sense they all await me
A feeling of contentment animated
This place is mine
I know it
Yet I recognize not the landscape nor the denizens
Where is this?
How do I get there?
 
From my rowboat, rocking with each wave, I see a storm approaching
Swells rising by the moment, the wind begins to scream as a banshee
Swept out, the distance to land now immeasurable
No longer can I focus on the gentle scene on shore
 
The storm has come, a tempest it becomes
The sea froths and wind tears through me, rain lashes viciously blurring my vision
I can barely see the small boat which has kept me afloat thus far
There is debris floating in the water
Hidden reefs where wreckage is dashed upon
Disoriented and fearful I am at the mercy of the unrelenting force of nature
 
As I cling to the boat desperately, a defiant cry rises above the squall’s cacophony
Lightening reveals another boat in the distance rowing furiously against the currents
 
Gone again
Row, Row
I must defy the hopelessness
Row, Row
 
Grasping numbly my oars, I begin to fight feebly onwards
Towards what, I know not
Dark still
Row on
Row on
Out of the storm
Through the debris,
Skirting the reefs
I need to reach that beach
Water fills the bottom of the boat, exhausted & defeated I collapse
I awake to find the storm passed, its thunder and waves a distant lullaby
Dreams take me
 
Woken by the gentle caress of sunlight, my boat scrapes on sand
Somehow, someway I made it
My gaze drifts to the wood’s edge
There stands my future smiling at me
 
All this I saw in your eyes


Author Bio:
André began writing about emotions evoked by nature. He comes from a small northern Canadian village where each season is strongly felt, from deep white winter, to hot dry summer. These as well as his friends his inspiration.