I didn’t know
A man could die of a broken heart
Until I saw him on the floor
Not breathing
All I remember
Is the cold
The slight beats
As I pumped
With the lady at
Nine
One
One
Telling me to count
1, 2, 3, 4
As instinct
And the first aid course
Took over.
No one tells you to pray
You make promises
To the deity you abandoned
If they could
Just this once
Help
No answer
And you stood shaking
As the EMT took over
5, 6, 7, 8
9…
And here I am
Months have passed
Clutching at my heart
Back at 1


Author Bio:
Taffle Gwitimah is a writer, educator, and advocate for writing. She has been writing poetry and creative nonfiction since she could write and has recently been dabbling in fiction. Recently returned to her home country from the United States, she is currently working on a book about her cross-continental adventures and has a blog Coming Home Means... that can be found at http://cominghome13.blogspot.com.

I’ve got shots to take but not at you--so loving. So tender. So…hot. 
Burnt the roof of my mouth singed the tip of my tongue but somehow it still finds a way to taste you. Swarthy dark skin doesn’t scald but soothes and soothes and I’m off away in a dream land that captures me every once in a while when I’m sleeping on and off and off that crack cocaine caffeine; visine, sun risin’ there is nothing to help me see you more clearly you are a glory a morning glory blooming shortly after the long winter and the even longer awaited spring. No rings on these fings because seasons go and love does too ya see marriage isn’t as stagnant as you’d think. Patient and kind those envied promises slip away with the somedays that turned into nevers, finding a way to elude you until your days are etched in stone that final rest because when you sleep with potential it’s potential waking up next to you. Day old coffee year old dreams. You’re ethereal and it kills me because that kills forever and sometimes I’d rather be without you so I don’t have to worry about this man called doubt who--comes and lays on my pillow with me at night whispering sweet everythings like “you’ll meet a tall dark stranger and his name is Green and he’ll look real good comin’ on up over that other side.” Bides and bides is what time does when I’m in this double wide double shot blended fun because everything else but you is just waiting for coffee.      


Author Bio:
My name is Samantha Horkott and I am 21 years old. I am a Texan, avid coffee lover, and am currently living in sunny south Florida where I am pursuing a degree in psychology.

they say
i'm more than
a pretty face,
but they
don't want to hear
me speak
to read my words
rippling
on the pages of
books of poetry or novels
they simply want to appease my
deep anger and indignation
that all men can see
when they look
at me are
my good looks
they all want sex from me,
but not a relationship
because commitment is
overrated when
everyone else is giving it
away for free,
but not me
i won't sell out i'll stand here
alone if i have to because
i want a good man
one that can see past all
my beauty and charm
one that sees my
soul and heart as something
more beautiful
than the
contortions of my body.



Author Bio:
Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh, but she was raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She attended and graduated from Edinboro University of Pennsylvania with a degree in English-Literature in 2009. Her poetry, articles, reviews, and short stories have appeared in several journals online and in print. Her chapbook A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn was published by Fowlpox Press recently, and her novel Amethyst Epiphany is forthcoming from Assent Publishing under their imprint Phantasm Books.

side by side we lie, seam on seam
that which is not understood is translated: providing clarity
watch rewound (with the 'little wheel'): a new century

together(-ness?): new(-beginning?) - crisis(-prevention?)
everyone’s pursed their lips
single file. (Dis-)unity. Trouble and strife.

then: clinging to each other (nevertheless)
then: lying in each other & keeping ourselves warm
maybe: familiar with each other again
in fact: learned to like

letting the past be past
contracts signed & ideas propounded
controversies: overcome. not understood. exposed.
withdrawn. appointed. agreed: contemporary
corpus: everyone together / millions
intergenerational inheritance: responsibility
resonance: defining interaction, meaning
then: freed – and snatched away

umbilical cord removed but stayed together nevertheless
promises kept: honoured
learned to live side by side, always

finally, rediscovered our philosophical tradition
finally, developed models for the future from the past
retained every language:
but still found a common one


Author Bio:
Sarah Katharina Kayß *1985 in Koblenz (Germany), studied Comparative Religion and Modern History in Germany and Britain. In autumn 2012, she became a PhD candidate at the War Studies Department of King’s College London. Her artwork, essays and poetry have appeared in literary magazines, journals and anthologies in Germany, Switzerland, Austria, the United Kingdom, Italy, Canada, New Zealand and the United States. Sarah is a recipient of the Austrian-VKSÖ Prize (2012) and winner of the manuscript-award of the German Writers Association (2013). Her poetry and essay collection “Ich mag die Welt so wie sie ist/I like the world the way it is” will be published in 2014. She edits the bilingual literature magazine The Transnational (former: PostPoetry) and lives in London.

The woman is tired of the overcoming of things, of turning on the television and watching people get over things, of reading about people who survive “against all odds,” of stories that make people sit and weep and feel maybe that life is a blessing.

She is beyond the stage where she can lament and say things like: “That is a terrible thing, what happened to him” or “It’s a pity…she was so young” or “Those poor starving children!”  But really, she was never that kind of person anyway.  Now, she is at that point in her life where she feels like throwing her body down on the ground and saying “Take it.  I don’t care.  Who really cares?  Let life overcome me.” 

But instead, she sighs—a long one, because who would notice?  It’s just a body and they see those everyday.  


Author Bio:
Jennifer Yu is a writer and creative person who writes to express the feelings and thoughts that float around in her head. She likes to compose stories in her head while running and in quiet, clear moments of the day. You may visit her blog at www.wanderingfeeling.wordpress.com.

I walked into the overgrowth and saw the mammals that I would become. I was minute and gargantuan. I was pinkly born but full of tooth and tail. I was slick and sluggish. Five seconds later I grew fur under my skin, talons, and a third eyelid that gave me night vision. Then I waited to be carved out inside or cut down nearby. Thunder claps sent the marmosets scampering. The earth, now immovable, with only my four feet treading on it. The people left behind wore their person suits. I made my spell in the overgrowth: a shredding suit, tongue of man, tongue of lamb, iguana claws, featherless soup, shared labor.  What lies beneath a stopped-up heart?  A deer shirt, a hare shirt, a man suit.  My extra special ingredients: cream, foresight, jam pulp, grain seeds. The stag stumbles, disappears forever. I grew a beard overnight. No tools, the toast: too cheerful.


Author Bio:
Jennifer MacBain-Stephens first attempts into writing began when she wrote notes to her mother from her room when she was mad. (Dear mom, I do not think it is fair that I cannot watch the scary movie with Sean. I am sure that I am old enough. Please write back. Love, Jenny) She loves writing and poetry because she still uses it to make sense of her thoughts and feelings and she also has a short attention span. She is influenced by girly things, science, scary forests, and then mixing all of that together sometimes. She went to NYU but now considers the Midwest home. She has been published in such places as: Superstition Review, Emerge Literary Journal, Red Savina Review, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Burningwood Literary Journal, The Apeiron Review, Star 82 Review, Thirteen Myna Birds, Rufous City Review, Stirring: A Literary Collection, Gravel Magazine, Sein und Werden, The New Poet, Menacing Hedge, Sassafras Literary Magazine, The Missing Slate, Iowa City’s 2013 Poetry in Public Project and others. She was recently nominated for Best of the Net. She likes cooking new dishes and then forcing people to eat them and she also likes getting dirty outside in various capacities.

         I didn’t know until I was eight years old that the proper name for a “n…” shooter was slingshot. 

I didn’t know.

         I didn’t know until I was nine years old that the appropriate phrase for “n…” rigged was to fix something.

I didn’t know.

         I didn’t know until I was twelve years old that my great grandfather was a member of the Klu Klux Klan.  He had the white robe, hood, and a ring with KKK on it.

I didn’t know.

         I didn’t know until I was thirteen years old that I was not allowed to date any of my peers that were not of my race.

I didn’t know.

         I didn’t know until I was seventeen years old that an ancestor of mine was one of the first African American slaves brought to America.

I didn’t know.

         I didn’t know until I was eighteen years old that so many of my relatives and friends were for segregation. 

I didn’t know.

         I didn’t know until I was grown how subtle racism could be.  I didn’t know until I was grown how bigotry comes in all walks of life and in all types of people:  the religious, the uneducated, the educated, the farmers, the lawyers, the rich, the poor, the non-religious, the middle-class, and the politicians.

I didn’t know.

         I did know I could read and learn.  I chose to do so.  I did learn about slavery, Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, the Civil Rights Act, and every man and woman who fought for equal rights.

I do know now.

         I didn’t know until 2008 that an African American would run for president and win.  I didn’t know how proud I would feel when the first black man was sworn in as President.  I didn’t know I would weep with joy.

I do know now.

         I did know I could break the cycle of racism by raising my children to know all these things long before I did  I didn’t know that my parents would vote for the first African American President, but they did.  I didn’t know how wonderful I would feel to witness such a transformation in my family.

I do know now.

         I do know change is possible with all people.  I do know racism still exists, but doesn’t have to.  I do know my hope for our world is love among all people, no matter the race, the religion, the gender.

I do know this could be so.


Author Bio:
I am a freelance writer living in Santa Fe, NM. I have sold fiction, nonfiction, and poetry over the past 20 years to various magazines and newspapers. My most recent sales include: Rise Early Old Woman to Ginosko Literary Journal; Sewn to Life to Dialogue Magazine; Mysteries of the Arroyo, Let Her Sleep, and I Float to The Write Time and The Write Place; I Dream to Westward Quarterly; and Alive Now to the Poet's Pen. I love writing. Poetry is my passion. The reward of writing something that someone else might like to read or feel an emotion or be inspired by, is worth the lack of great riches.

Everything spins around its center,
meanwhile, the moral man is bragging about his perfection,
poking us with furry toys
made in China,
drinking from plastic bottles.

Everything spins around its center;
the bottled up reality
is packed in soft drink boxes,
words and speeches titillate
with senseless purposes
while I buy the bathroom cups
requested for the busy preschool year.

The centers become stories of budgets,
the people become meaningless puppets,
meanwhile, untreated waste
floating in the lakes
enhances the bank accounts
of those who swell and shine
following the rhythm of their centers.


Author Bio:
Julia Hones has a passion for writing poetry and short stories. Crafting poems and stories is a journey of discovery to her. It helps her to understand life. Her works appeared or are forthcoming in Epiphany
Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, the Greensilk Journal, "You, Me & a Bit of We" Anthology, The Mindful Word, Skive Magazine, Coffee Shop Poems, Freedom Forge Press Anthology, Flash Fiction World, the Southern Pacific Review and TRIVIA: Voices of Feminism.

Unrepentant source of hushed
eyebrow-raising sin
as I grew up,
Aunt Willie was alien
to women like my mother
and the other sisters,
1950s housewives who never 
wavered from family dinners,
who scrubbed floors on their knees,
who whitened and brightened
and lived days for others.