My skin loves scissors,
and these scars on my arms are
proof of their affair.


Author Bio:
Katie Sowles is a creative writing student at Hollins University, where she has taken a number of literature and writing classes. Storytelling in multiple forms is a passion of hers. She has worked in novel-length fiction, short stories, poetry, and screenplays. She also enjoys studying art, philosophy, psychology, and gender and women’s studies. Much of her writing, especially poetry, is inspired or influenced by her personal struggles with Bipolar Disorder.

when you come
when you come into my life
what is the feeling of the heart inside
when you see me through your love eyes
now I have every thing in life
it has given me new rise
that makes you and your love eyes

what I feel inside
nothing is deep as your love eyes
what appears in my life
is your emotion inside
something of day something of night
everything is bright
and now feels so light
 
now I am the height of the sky
stay inside me day and night
that is my dream, my dream inside

When a sista’
one to another
starts a sentence
with the word “girl”
you know in an instant
the next utterance
out of her mouth
is sure to perk up your ears

There’s the guttural
Ghu-u-u-r-r-r-ll
that pushes you to the edge of your seat
as if waiting for E. F. Hutton to speak
It starts deep in the belly
lips pursed
a gradual crescendo of notes up the music staff
signaling a Can I get a Amen
testimony is eminent

And there’s the bold and sassy
Girhl, seriously? –
her response to the tale you just told
that’s even hard
for you to believe

Then there’s the baritone whisper,
Gerle
to get your attention
on the down-low
for that ever-important
piece of gossip
she’s itchin’ to spread

And not to forget
the high-pitched
Giiirl
a shrill of sorts
I couldn’t agree with you more
type of statement

So the next time
you hear a sista’ say
Ghu-u-u-r-r-r-l-l, Girhl, Gerle, Giiirl
Listen up
‘cause you’re about to hear
some JUICE!


Author Bio:
Deborah LeFalle is an active retiree who enjoys writing, supporting the arts, and spending time outdoors communing with nature. Poetry is the genre of writing she is drawn to most, with inspiration for her poems often stemming from personal experiences. Penumbra, Sisyphus Quarterly and Icon are a few of the journals where her work has appeared.

the overpasses that circle the city 
swell like the symmetrical waves of 
a children’s crayon drawing of the 
ocean, up and down, up and down. 
if they are the ocean,
then headlights and taillights are
fish swimming in schools, rising and 
falling, flickering flares. in the distance
looms a veteran god, a willowy white
beacon that once symbolized 
america’s future, now a relic of its
past. an apollo that stretches toward
his sister stars, held to the ground with 
dusty cement. 

in the east lies no man-made starships
or rolling roadways but instead the
verdant remnants of a mountain range,
sloping hills that cast a blue shadow over 
a smattering of steeples and towering
window glass. in the center lies an
ancient spring, the water always clear
and cold, snaking through a park full 
of blossoming pink trees like a serpent
in the blessed garden, offering some
secret hidden knowledge, a key to the
illustrious city. to possess
it, you must dip your hands into the
wellspring and drink.

to the south a river courses rapidly,
dangerously, bending with a roar until
it is out of sight. this is the city’s boundary.
near its edge is a crumbling dock, alluring
in its derelictness, covered in shattered 
bottle glass and scruffy weeds. if you listen
closely, you will hear the voices of children,
toeing the starting line of adulthood but not 
quite ready to hear the whistle blow, shouting 
with joy as they run and they jump, their 
sloppy splashes and shrieks of surprise
carrying on the wind. across the river,
a barbed wire fence lines the silent pine
forest, a forbidden fringe, not to be breached.

a deafening boom echoes across the valley
and bounces off its foothills, rustling the leaves
of every tree and silencing the swifts in their nests. 
smoke rises from a test stand in the skyline.
perhaps the sleeping apollo will wake once more. 


Author Bio:
Anna spent her first 18 years of life in Rocket City, USA, but has recently relocated to a different part of the state to study English at the University of Alabama. She has always been in love with words, but only in the past few years has she finally found the courage to write them down. When she isn't writing, Anna often bakes, plays piano (somewhat badly), shops for new books (despite having a dozen or more unread ones at home), and panics about her future. 

The egg cracks open to see
mid-day: so much light pours in that
one is almost blinded. 
And perhaps 
it would be better to be blind
at that single moment when there are
angelic voices all around. 
The voices become a mother’s sigh, 
a father’s answer. The room darkens.
Another child has been born, and
what changes will settle down
and happen again, as before.


Author Bio:
Gigi Marks lives in Ulysses, New York. She regularly publishes poems in many literary journals. Her collections of poems include, most recently, Close By, published by Silverfish Review Press in 2012, What We Need, published by Shortline Editions, and Shelter, published by Autumn House Press. 

I expected wrinkles and lines on my face.
I knew my hair would grey.
I had heard of age spots.
I knew my hands would age
—the veins would become more pronounced
and the joints would enlarge producing that gnarled look.
But, like pregnancy, aging seems to be an all-over-body experience, 
and my feet betray my age to my surprise.
As a child and young woman, I never gave my feet much attention, 
other than nail polish.

Yet, as a middle-aged woman my feet show age.
My heels, in particular, show it. 
The skin is dry and hard. It is flecked with white dead skin.
There are cracks in the tough, hard skin.
My feet demand consistent work to tame the flaking dry skin and cracks.
Sometimes, I have that time and dedication, and other times I don’t--
and my feet look old.

Perhaps more difficult to me is that 
the fat pads on the bottom of my feet have thinned,
and the beautiful, elegant shoes with which I have encased my feet
I often cannot wear for long;
I am not as vain as Cinderella,
but the idea wearing “comfortable” shoes is a blow.
Never a stiletto-heel wearer, I still enjoyed the pumps that
accessorized both my feet and every outfit with an added flair.

In aging, I am betrayed by my own feet.


Author Bio:
Kathleen Murphey teaches English Department courses at Community College of Philadelphia. In her ideal world, people would read a wide variety of literature to help them sympathize and empathize with all kinds of different people and to empower them to work toward a world in which all human beings are treated with courtesy, tolerance, respect, and dignity. In addition to teaching and writing, she is the mother of three lovely girls for whom she wishes a better, kinder, and more socially just world.