It rains in Laos, where a weeping willow erupts from the lemongrass fields. History is written on every inch of tanned bark, every ring of age, every knot in her winding branches. Though her leaves are green and ripe, scars from the last winter crisscross over slippery veins. Children sit on her lap on dry days, drowning amongst the tangled roots and taking shade beneath a curtain of silk hair. They read schoolbooks at her base; sharing first kisses and gossip and they gaze up at her peak breaking the sky, wondering how something so tall could spring from barren earth.

​The downpour severs and clouds are blow by the breath of Buddha. And Lieu, hair in her eyes and head bowed and feet buried in the soil of Laos, lifts her branches toward the sun.


Author Bio:
Michelle Iannantuono is a chemist by trade and a writer by birth. She resides in beautiful Charleston, South Carolina. As part of her liberal arts education at the College of Charleston, she studied writing under bestselling novelist Bret Lott and nationally recognized playwright/poet Franklin Ashley. Currently "prepublished," she documents her writing progress and philosophy on her blog, Aether House. Her primary reason for writing is to invoke sublime images and emotions solely with the imagination.

As I drably sat, musing o’er the world
Meditative and peering thru the window,
I tersely overheard a chirping bird 
Whilst I was soaking in woe and sorrow.
He vaulted from one twig to another, 
As if performing his one hit wonder.

As I distractedly stared into space.
I heard him spryly iterate a strain,
With such a bracing elegance and grace,
Ostensibly giving his gift free rein.
But as he was hid in a tuft of leaves,
I relished the dulcet recitatives.

He’d unrelentingly come by sunrise 
And rehearse his agreeable refrain,
Which I, at long last, came to realize 
Was an appeal unmistakably plain.
Whoop it up and live like a feathered friend!
It grieves me seeing you at your wits end.
​

Author Bio:
Ahmed Mehdi is an EFL/ESL high school teacher and a poet. He has been writing regularly since 2006 and has written over a hundred sonnets.

You held the promise of life 
First one, then finally four
The parents were so proud
Keeping vigil round the clock
Mother robin rocked the eggs lovingly
They loved the beautiful blue eggs
Robin blue, a color like no other
Their “cheery cheery cheery” calls filled my home
Then suddenly an eerie silence
The eggs were gone without trace
Oh nest, only you know the tragic secret
I cried with the parents that day
My cheery friends, I felt the pain
But take heart, build another nest 
Away from preying beaks and marauding claws
Wish I could see next spring with you
But I will be gone soon leaving my nest empty too
But perhaps you could come back next year
And be “cheery cheery cheery” to the new tenants
Bring up a new brood of fledglings and watch them grow
And life will be cheerful once more


Author Bio:
Swati Rawal is a dentist by profession who loves the arts and nature. She is an avid photographer and writes poetry and short stories. She was born and raised in India and then relocated to Trinidad and Tobago. She currently lives in Memphis, Tennessee with her husband, two boys, and two canine children.

i refuse to lay 
quiet
not to make waves
as i was always
taught
for there is a time for peace
but also a time for
war,
and i am done
listening to these men and these religions
telling me what to do with my body
and my mind;
you will not control me
i am the weapon for saturday--
will not relent
only rage against those who would take
rights away from those who are
abused and taken advantage of 
you will feel me like
an earthquake
i was born to shake this world up and change it
for the better,
and you will not silence me with your
bigotry and dogma;
i am a woman,
but i am more than that:
a poet, author, writer, artist, daughter, sister,
friend, the secret keeper, defender
of the weak, believer of justice and love,
dreamer, lover, giver,
the laughter in the golden slant of sunlight
pouring through your windows;
i will keep marching 
until my last breath against anyone who would
oppress someone simply because of whom they are
it is more important to be kind than to be right
because in compassion you couldn't be
wrong.


Author Bio:
Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. Recently her two chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014) were published. Her fantasy novel Blood & Magic was published in March 2015. Her second novel Dragons & Magic was published October 1st, 2015.

She communicates
To me
Using small facial movements
She closes her eyes
Or her mouth
Or raises her eyebrows
To tell me
Her thoughts
Her emotions
Her feelings
I understand her
Like she understands me
I know her
She knows me
We communicate in a language
An unspoken language
A language only meant for two


Author Bio:
Kauser Parveen is married with children.  She observes life then writes about it. She would relish the idea of writing a book and remains hopeful. Presently, she is training as a mental health nurse but was a youth worker in the past, finding this a useful mechanism to understand young people. 

Nymphomaniac.
What is that?
A Whore?
A Slut?
A girl who’s found her pleasure spot.

Why is he not…
a Nympho
a Whore
or a Slut
when he likes pleasure too?


Author Bio:
Kathleen Murphey teaches English Department courses at Community College of Philadelphia. She has been reading and writing non-fiction about women's issues for years and has now discovered the joys of incorporating those ideas into fiction (both poetry and short stories).

Silence, unbearable, is overthrown,
A flaccid tyrant no longer 
Granted reign to oppress.

Power explodes,
Forcibly shredding the gag. 
An unstoppable flood of soul sound
Gives voice to deep turmoil, while 
Cauterizing a fleshy exit.

I do not want them to stop, these words,
But the gift of their release comes in 
A package wrapped with pain.

Waves of emotion 
Crash into me, suck me under, 
Toss me about and 
Pull me into depths denied.
Panicked and grasping for solidity, 
Exhilarated and desirous of expression,
I ride the waves as best I can
For fear of the drought.
​

Author Bio:
Michelle reunited with her love writing a few years ago as a way to express the difficult internal turmoil she could not otherwise voice. Her work focuses on communicating the emotion in the details of an experience. She holds a BFA from Texas A&M University – Commerce. She is also a photographer and is currently on a twelve-month trip around the world.

She bought a condo on the top floor. To be anywhere else in a building meant hearing footsteps. Footsteps creaked the 2 x 4s, thumped when dancing. A bass speaker on the floor could shake the cottage cheese from a ceiling. A guy moved in below her and sanded the hardwood floors at night for weeks on end. She used Day-Glo pink ear plugs, leftover from a White Stripe concert, to sleep at night.
​
When the sanding was over, all was quiet, but the notes started to appear on her door, as if he’d never used a power tool in the building. You make a lot of noise at night, walking around, the first note said. It was written on a Farmville post-it. The note was hard to form a reply to. There was no question to answer. And she didn’t walk around at night much, her shift ending at nine, her body ready for bed. Is there a need to move chairs and couches when you get home from work? the next one said. She wasn’t moving furniture. The condo was so small there was no place to move furniture to. A week later: I can hear you chop celery. This made her laugh, because she was allergic to celery. She swept the kitchen floor and let the broom handle go a few times, telling herself it slipped.


Author Bio:
Martha Clarkson manages corporate workplace design in Seattle. Her poetry, photography, and fiction can be found in monkeybicycle, Clackamas Literary Review, Seattle Review, Alimentum, Hawaii Pacific Reivew. She is a recipient of a Pushcart Nomination, and is listed under “Notable Stories,” Best American Non-Required Reading for 2007 and 2009. She is recipient of best short story, 2012, Anderbo/Open City prize, for “Her Voices, Her Room.”

He throws himself at my back
With the very first dune in sight;
He dreads the emotional deserts
He concocts himself all day long.
 
Despite the cold, eventful night,
My shamed heart feels so dry
With his callow and dull looks
And the weight of his cute calumnies.
 
With this man, I feel like a cactus
Trying to caress a fragile fish.
And as the moonless wind blows
From the oasis I realise that it’s not
 
A straw that breaks sincere threads;
It’s the strain of wrong words.
But when we reach some burnt tree
He kneels under scurrying clouds of guilt.
 
I grunt with desperate joy.
He never wanted me; he always wanted my ride.
Wish the dark could scare the ego off
His hooves and teach him the right balance
 
And how to respect my body and soul.
As we cross the last mound
The stars tell me that I’ve shown him
My back could be overloaded that’s why
 
He despised me and dribbled
The cud of his mistakes over my rough skin
To call himself perfect. Let’s hope God
Catches him when he falls from the
 
Hostile humps of life’s clamorous circus.
Meanwhile, the walk continues for Spirit Camel.
 
​
Author Bio:
Amit Parmessur is a writer who resides in Mauritius.