Yesterday, a child
came to me,
quiet, shy,
reddish brown hair,
tanned cheeks
and tiny bare feet.

She held out her hand.
In it was a sand crab
she had dug up
from a bubbling air hole
in the sand.

We ran together
leaving miles of footprints
in the wet sand
and the salty waves
playfully splashed
against our ankles
and knees.

We smiled at the sun.
I heard her laughter
in the wind.

Suddenly,
the child disappeared
within folds
of crashing,
angry waves.

I looked back
to find our footprints,
but they were
washed away.

Only briefly
did she reappear
in the springtime
to remind me
of her laughter.

Today, a child
came to me,
quiet, shy,
reddish brown hair,
tanned cheeks
and tiny bare feet.

She held out her hand.
In it was her heart
she had dug up
from a bubbling air hole
in the sand.

We ran together
leaving miles of footprints
in the wet sand
and the salty waves
playfully splashed
against our ankles
and knees.

We smiled at the sun.
I heard her laughter
in the wind.
I laughed too
knowing
I would always be her.


Author Bio:
I spontaneously started writing poetry at the start of a long journey to emotional and spiritual healing many years ago. Blank sheets of paper were perfect canvases to catch the words that poured from my soul. Ink recorded my voice, which had been silenced. So very thankful my prayers for restoration were heard and answered by God. I am a pastoral counselor, online and at my office in Florida, helping others start and continue their healing journeys, author of two books and a publisher, Big Footprint Books. 

Cashier Polly scans farfalle,
swipes extra virgin
olive oil,
baby spinach,

price-checks salmon,
rings a six-pack:
Blue Moon,
packaged rich-chocolate
cookies sprinkled
with crunchy pecans.

“Fine taste,”
says Polly, tossing hair
curly like a giant bouquet
of Flanders poppies,
wizened eyes green examining
at tops of bifocals,
Irish as a leprechaun, spicy
as peppercorn.

The beer? asks we.

“Oh, absolutely
not. Gave that up,

beer.

I’ve been relinquishing
lots of things, many things,

love, blood and treasure.

But I won’t, no,
unhitch the hold
on chocolate.

Refined taste
you got;
preferred cookies of mine:

chocolate.”


Author Bio:
Wendy Sue Gist was born in California, raised in Northern Arizona. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Dark Matter Journal, Burningword Literary Journal, New Plains Review, Oyez Review, Pif Magazine, Rio Grande Review, RipRap, Sundog Lit, The Chaffey Review, The Fourth River, Tulane Review and other fine journals.

The girls answer their cell phones
in the middle of class,
catty, raucous, privileged.
Who knew what so much wrapping
Could hide?

One doe-eyed girl
asks me about my boyfriends
(“Did you talk to them?”)
while the others laugh
at me
because I’m not married yet

She disappears
second semester, her father
sending her to a religious madrasa
as punishment.

In class
my students write about
their anger
and say, “I get angry when
I see a man hit a woman.”

This barren land
spits sand in my face
and blurs the truths
I want to escape.


Author Bio:
Molly Gleeson works as a writing tutor at a community college in Bloomington, Indiana. Previously, she spent seven years teaching English overseas, in China, Japan, and Saudi Arabia. She is working on a memoir of her time in Saudi Arabia, entitled My Heart is a Wilderness.

Once when I came home to visit from college, I found mom immersed in a marathon of reality medical shows. Her green eyes were wide with interest. As each grotesque scene unfolded, her knuckles whitened around her wine glass. The intensity of her gaze was palpable.

“Mom, why do you watch this?  It’s revolting,” I said, crinkling my nose in disgust. It wasn’t in her nature. She’d never been known for her strong stomach. But when she confided her reason for watching the real-life surgery shows, I was not surprised. “Strength training. Got to be ready to handle anything. If one of my babies gets cut up, I’ll know what to do.”

This was the twisted logic I had come to expect from her. At her core she felt a need to protect us from some vague, unnamed harm that plagued the minds of all the women in my family. Like my Grandmother, who didn’t feel safe until she’d counted all the legs – humans and furniture alike – in a room.

“Mom, if I get cut up, which is wildly unlikely, do me a favor and let the real doctors handle it.”

She laughed but her eyes never moved from the screen. They carefully followed the glint of the surgeon’s blade as it plunged into the patient’s skin, exposing a thin line of blood. With her right hand, she traced the surgeon’s movements as he peeled open the patient’s chest cavity. 

In that moment, I felt truly safe.


Author Bio:
Alyssa Ross was born in Guntersville, Alabama. After her parents’ divorce, she moved with her mother and sister to the outskirts of DC. She spent a year painting at VCU's art school, but then went on to pursue writing. She now has an MFA from George Mason University and is currently teaching and working on her Ph.D. at Auburn University.

Bliss is wasted by some
For others it never comes.
It seems I am the other
A product of a cold and distant mother
A youth of poverty and pain
Steered by my fathers twisted brain.
In my house love did not abound
Instead, we learned true fear and how to stay down
As an adult the negelect still has its place
With hurdles of depression and a lack of social grace
By all of this I am left
Feeling sad and hollow
My hope is that
The burden will disapate in the years to follow.


Author Bio:
Mattie Clubb is a twin, a sculptor, doll maker, and animal lover.

That was the name of a paint
can from J&M Hardware.

With sweat lingering on her
face, she colored her room.

Tinted now like insides of
ripe plums, like perfect grapes.

When the sizzling lemon sun
dropped from heaven...night
became moist and black.

Her fan whirled thick air
stained with cigarettes
coffee, turpentine, white wine.

She sank into her wicker couch
as fog horns trail the horizon.

Lotus screech relentlessly for water
always wanting more more more water.

Closing her eyes, remembering him
now tasting the feast of his smile.


Author Bio:
Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, Spectrum, three Bright Spring Press Anthologies and several Kind of A Hurricane Publications.  She has been nominated three times for Best of the Net.  Four of her books have been published by fine small literary presses.

Band aid women
Stretch their adhesive
Cushioning the wounds
Left by other women.

Band aid women
Continue to absorb
Long after their
Medicated pads
Are saturated
With blood.

Band aid women
Never tear fine hairs
And band aid women
Never leave dirt-clotted outlines
Suggesting where they’ve been.


Author Bio:
Evelyn F. Katz is a writer and teacher in spite of her 2nd grade teacher. Her work can be read in Riverrun, The Voices’ Project, and Coffeeshoppoems and will be featured in an upcoming issue of Tell Us a Story Blog. Evelyn is the recipient of the Irwin Shaw Honorary Mention Award in Fiction Writing.

When I left school, I applied for management trainee jobs, for which I actually had more than
enough education.  Instead of being interviewed for the job I'd actually applied for, every interview resulted in "the man we hire will need a good secretary."

I learned the hard way that having worked my way through school as a secretary meant I was (pardon
the pun) typecast.  I was hired as a secretary but never promoted.  The men I was working with had
gotten too used to having an intelligent secretary who could do their work for them, and didn't want
to go back to doing their own work by giving me the job I'd been doing successfully. However, I continued to work on myself, studying management books, and saved money wherever I could. When a medical crisis caused me to lose my secretarial job, I was ready.  If I couldn't go to work, the work would come to me.  I opened my own business.  I work from home.  I network online.  I stopped spending money on advertising years ago because I now get all the clients I need by personal referral based on my reputation.

Now that people are noticing my skills in management and offering me jobs based on my current title
instead of "once a secretary, always a secretary", I'm no longer interested in working for someone
else.  And that is the best revenge.


Author Bio:
Karen M. Campbell is a writer and editor with International Proofreading Consortium,
www.IntlProofingConsortium.com.

There are reasons
Shedding their seasons
Deep within me.

Rustling leaves
Undisturbed this long time
Dry and fallen
Share their private pain with me.

Their veins no longer hold nectar
Once extracted from the learning tree
A wishing hand reaches out to them
And in discomfort, they blow and bend.

But from the shedding
Comes a Light
Upon new buds
Birthing fresh gleanings
From old reasons
Whose death was not in vain. 


Author Bio:
Nanci first began writing poetry when she was fifteen years old. She recalls sitting alone on the deck of her mother’s house where, on moonlit nights, she would feel so overwhelmed with the pang of romance of the moon’s holy invitation that it was too much for her to keep inside. Nanci realized she had to express her feelings and experiences even if only for a piece of paper to see. And when it came out onto the paper she felt real, poignant and a sense of release.

Nanci Stoeffler was born in New Jersey, grew up in Indiana and now resides in Kansas City, Missouri. She attended Cincinnati Christian University where she received a degree in Biblical studies with a psychology emphasis. Along with writing poetry, Nanci also enjoys creating expressionistic artwork, singing, playing the djembe drum and "exploratory driving".

The dancers floated across the stage
the men hoisting the ballerinas over their head
it was so beautiful
all he wanted to do was be on that stage

But when he asked his father to dance
he was laughed at
No son of mine is going to run around in a tutu

So he was signed up for football
forced to put on pads and get knocked around
he could barely catch the ball
the other boys laughed and pointed at him
he left in tears

secretly in his room
he danced to his heart’s content
ballet, jazz, contemporary
he loved them all

But he got caught
his father went into a rage
screaming at him to be a man
and men don’t dance

But when he turned 18
he was free
he did every style of dance he could find
his natural talent allowing him to soar

Before his first performance his heart was pounding
how could he ever get through this?
But as he stepped out on stage he saw him
his father sitting in the front row
smiling at his son
finally proud of who he was.


Author Bio:
Lauren is a marketing writer at K12, America's largest provider of online education for grades K-12. She enjoys shedding light on women's rights, sexism, and mental illness.