The Writing Garden ~ Issue Two


Cover Image: Ghosts/feralc4t – WordPress

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Unfolding

.

sleeping-on-books-24813

.

I slept inside
a book today
the pages
closed
behind me
The world
grows dim
and slips away
and here
a voyeur
at the feast
am I
Swallowed
words
unfolding
in my hands
Close up
magic
performing
tricks for
the imagination
Mark the page
and reality
brings it’s
lighted flame
.
Frofc -> frofc.tumblr.com

.

.

.

.

.

.

Standby

.

searching_by_latyrx-d4is6g8

.

Maybe the greatest blessing i have tonight, are these long moments without you, for i can see you from afar and you’re not dangerous anymore, and my once relentless mind has gone on standby.
.
KatYa -> kissilent.wordpress.com/YouTube/Twitter/Amazon
Image ~ MikkoLagerstedt

.

.

.

.

.

.

His Story

.

story_by_stockholm__syndrome-d4juk3d

.

I decided to be a writer.
I had no choice
there was a person in my head
waiting for his story to be told
insisting his story be told.
I thought about him.
I dreamed about him.
I loved him.
.
I spent twenty years
telling his story, over
and over to myself, to him.
I thought I loved him.
.
Five years writing his story
in my son’s exercise books –
I had a son – didn’t I say? –
the ones my son never used,
with biros which arrived in the post.
I copied the scrawl, re-wrote his story
typed his story up with
one second-hand typewriter
one finger
two hundred sheets of foolscap
twenty bottles of tippex
twelve typewriter ribbons
and two years.
I thought
I could have loved him
maybe.
.
I put the pages of his story
in a box-file for four years.
I forgot that I could have loved him.
My son went to college.
I found
it was easier with computers.
His story re-written in two years
fitted on two floppy discs.
I felt for him, but that’s not love.
.
I became mature, a student –
my son went elsewhere, did I say? –
For seven part-time years I learned
how to do creative writing.
Creatively I re-created his story
re-created him. I sympathised
with him. Workshops
de-constructed him, tutors
empathised with him.
Nobody loved him
not even in his story.
He got me a degree.
I finished his story
revised his story
again and again.
I edited his story,
printed his story posted
his story
again and again.
His story returns to me
again and again.
.
I don’t love him
I don’t hate him
I don’t even think about him.
I just know it’s too late
to begin a new story.
.
Susan Gilbert -> sugswritersblog.blogspot.co.uk/Twitter
Image ~ AidaBabayeva

.

.

.

.

..

Arundhati Roy - The God of Small Things

.
.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Song of Sorrow

.

red_by_runyouknow1-d51rqd4

.

Early morning walk down the snow-filled street
No cars, no people, nobody but my dog and me
Tiny white flakes fall like dust on our hair
The crunch of my boots follows us into the silence.
Trees stand like white-haired sentries, watching
And then the plaintive song of a lonely bird –
One syllable high, second one low, over and over
Like a call, a question, a cry.
Its mate is lost, in the snow, in the woods
Gone, as the bird calls and waits, calls and waits
We trudge on, leaving the song of sorrow
Behind us.
.
Pamela Wight -> roughwighting.net
 Image ~ runyouknow1

.

.

.

.

.

.

In Remembrance

.

02623pxp.In_Remembrance

.

As I light a single candle to remember my father – I’m reminded of how he loved the landscape…how he lived for the early morning sun.
Twenty-five years. It’s been.

 

It happened just yesterday…and it happened too many moons…and a lifetime ago.
Time is beyond my grasp and measure.
The sun rose then. It rises today. In an instant – everything changed.
And yet – it has all remained exactly the same.
It was. It is. It will be.
I re-turn and re-visit the same lessons over and over.
Life has a strange way of surprising.
It does go on.
And – I will forever hear my father’s voice in the quiet of that morning sun.
 .
Marcie Scudder -> marciescudder.com
Image ~ Marcie Scudder

.

.

.

.

.

.

While You were Sleeping

.

Innocent_Dreams_by_peachy_pebbles

.

A mother watches over her child throughout life

.

Your first night on earth was held under my eyes.  Swaddled among blankets in your Moses Basket, like a tortilla wrap.  Your breath so fragile, I could detect no trace of it, which served only to quicken my own throughout the long hours.  Your alabaster lids so transparent, the shadow of your eyes beneath were visible.  You were wholly still, save for the flinch of your startle reflex.  What dreams could you have had, less than twenty-four hours on earth?  Ones brought with you from my womb no doubt.  Rhythmic, liquid dreams.
.
And somehow you soon migrated from the basket to my bed.  For my ease of feeding you as much as your own insistent neediness.  How I was too terrified to go to sleep and roll my weight on top of you.  So I watched you instead.  My eyes accustomed themselves to the scanty light.  Your dreams were now attended by little whimpers from your mouth.  And I could see your chest rise and fall with your strong heart.  Was I yet in your dreams, or was it only my breast which figured?  Whichever of the two, were we glorious to you, or monstrous?
.
When finally you were decanted from my nipple into a bed of your own, I would read you magical stories to convey you into slumber.  Always I would linger by the bed and continue to marvel at your seeming contentedness.  Retiring happily ever after to my own bedroom next door, I never once heard you cry out in your repose.  Peaceful, agreeable dreams seemed to be the order of your night.  And thereby I dropped off contented myself.
.
Oftentimes I snuck in under cover of night.  In the guise of Santa Claus or Tooth Fairy.  Leaving you gifts while you slept on unknowingly, yet expectant.  An exchange of milk and biscuits or tooth, for bulges in the stocking at the head of the bed or under your pillow.  Waiting, suspending my breath until your twisted frame was positioned just right, so as to grant me access to slip the offerings under you.  Though no follower of religion, yet in those moments you looked like an angel.  And my leavened soul floated up to the ceiling.

 

Those times when you were struck down by childhood diseases, how I maintained a tender vigil by your side.  Mopping your brow with a damp cloth, trying to contain and drive down your inner heat.  Catching the blocked cadences of your breath, tracking its forced entry through your mouth.  Watching your pinched features as you struggled to overcome the snags and snarls of a body turned against itself, in order to garner the necessary restorative rest.
.
Once you decamped to University, I occasionally still visited your bedroom.  To be confronted with the crisp lines of the untouched linen and the dry smack of cold, uninhabited air.  I cocked my ear for any of the various of your pulses I had matched to my own.  Yet now my aspiration lacked for its filial echo and solely filled my head with dissonance.  Even when home for the holidays, there was that period when you cried yourself to sleep every night over a girl.  With me stood outside your door, head bowed against the wood.  As torn apart as you at my redundancy.

.

Came that time when I visited you in hospital after you’d been knocked off your bike.  Your arm was in plaster and braced in a harness.  How we joked about your involuntary salute.  And that the steel rod holding it together might set off metal detectors in airports sparking shakedown searches.  But it hurt you to laugh.  Pushing spluttering air through mangled ribs.  I could see the soreness etched across your face in spite of the analgesic deadening.  But I ached too as I thought of you travelling to far flung parts of the world.  In the end the pain would exhaust you into an uneasy and throbbing sleep.  I looked on over you and the years fell away as we resumed our mutual stations.  Albeit until the overseeing nurses asked me to vacate the ward, since visiting time had expired.
.
And now it is you who sits at my bedside, though I can no longer detect you.  I’m unclear if my eyes are open or not, but they are assuredly unseeing.  My breathing too is irregular.  Straining not to the pulse of my heart, but to lungs toiling out of synchronicity.  Sometimes shallow breath, sometimes deeper.  Scrambling after every possible variant patterned after yours.  As I try and reach out for the last time, to fall into conjunction with your stout heartbeat here and now.  But I can’t hear it.  Are you even in here with me?  I sense that you are.  I think you may be holding my hand, may be softly purring words at me, but I can’t tell.  If you are, it is you who is awake and I am the one asleep.
.
I can hear one thing however.  Deeply recessed in the back of my barely functioning brain.  The sound of wings flapping.  I always said you were an angel.
.
Marc Nash -> Readwave/Twitter/Amazon
Image ~ peachy-pebbles

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.
.

 Experimenting With The Fiction Genre

.

64496eb6727809bc950e2d442500f777-d4ihqvf

.

I just realized something weird about writing fiction books, and I guess it’s part of the reason why I don’t write a lot of fiction.  It always has to be about a person, or people, or animals, or robots.  There isn’t one fiction book on my bookshelf that doesn’t follow a person/animal/robot around.  Though it is a really broad thing (people, life, etc.) it feels really limiting to me.
.
Why can’t a story be about anything else?  Is it possible?  Or is it just not something that’s popular enough to exist?  Can there be a story about some, possibly conceptual, thing?  Without giving it human characteristics or conscious thought or whatever?
.
This made me think of persona poetry. In a persona poem that isn’t from the perspective of another human, there’s this spectrum of how human the poet can decide to make the thing that they’re taking the perspective of.  Let’s say, for example, one of John Berryman’s Dream Song 28: Snow Line, where he writes from the perspective of a sheep.  He gives a very specific amount of human thought and likeness to the sheep.  It can think like a human, but it also understands very little about its surroundings. Berryman chose that point on the spectrum to write from.
.
I was thinking that you could experiment all over this spectrum with the same thing (which is a reason I quite love persona poetry).  Using the sheep as an example, you could write a poem from the very bottom of the spectrum that is only the print of its hoof on the page.  Then you could move one step up on the spectrum and write a poem that is only a line made by its hoof, or a picture that it made with its hooves to show creative thought.  You could continue to move up and up through the spectrum and give it natural human though while still being a sheep, or make it completely aware of its sheepness (sheepishness lol) or of the fact that a poem is being written from its perspective until the poem ceases to exist or whatever.  You could do anything. The options are infinite.
.
But maybe writing something from an extreme end of the spectrum wouldn’t be enough to constitute a story, and/or it would just be a different genre than fiction.  Maybe it’s just not possible?
.
I’d love to hear other thoughts about this.  I’m feeling really troubled thinking about it, and I’d love another opinion.  Maybe I’m totally forgetting some key thing that makes this whole thought obsolete.  Feel free to start a conversation either on this post or in my ask box or whatever.
.
imvastlyunfinished.tumblr.com
Image ~ anuptorque

.

.

.

.

.

.

 White Butterfly Dream

.

White Butterfly Dream - Brenda Harsham

.

The white butterfly raises her wings,
Setting sail across the wide Dogwood Sea.
Wind makes the crossing choppy,
White wings jibe and come about,
Alighting nowhere, like a fae albatross.
The cabbage-white butterfly blends —
She could be a dogwood petal
But for her mesmerizing aerial dance.
One tiny egg laid on the underside of a mustard leaf,
Gave birth to her brief but ecstatic life.
Her tiny white wing-sails make of the air an endless ocean.
Oh, to dance with her on the white breakers,
Smelling sweetly of spring rather than salt
With nectar’s spray dampening my skin.
.
Brenda Davis Harsham -> friendlyfairytales.com
Image ~ Brenda Davis Harsham

.

.

.

.

.

.

 The Tempests

.

black_bird_coco_ii_by_simsalabima-d4yyvb5

.

Like the zephyr breeze, he came to me
Enveloping, caressing,
Gentle passion, wicked intention,
Numbing and blinding mind and soul till naught was left
But the fevered desire of weakened flesh.
Like the desert winds he came to me
Spinning gold dust and devious chants
No siren song, but the sirocco hymn
Of fluid melody and structured lies,
A dance too inviting to ignore.
The proffered hand I grasped,
The honeyed lies I devoured,
The mindless feast I entered
A willing slave, a devoted fool,
Deaf to thought and caution, heeding only want.
And when the tempests left me, wasted and spent,
No afterglow bathed this sodden heap,
No cherished memories lingered,
Only the quiet pain of guilt and misgiving
Amidst a shower of mistral tears.
.
Justa -> Jottify
Image ~  simsalabima

.

.

.

.

.

.

Case of the Mondays

.

newspapers_by_mcdermid-d3k19kp

.

May monday lessen its grip on your sorrows
Today a new page in an old book
Turned over for new eyes to read
Pasted into New York Times
Reminding us today is not a tragedy
Today is a miracle
.
JWolfeB -> Hello Poetry
Image ~ almcdermid

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 My First Love

.

Pictures_of_You_by_Ericana

.

Ahhh! My First love!
The unnatural cadence of the heart. The inner tumult in her presence.
The unspoken words. The unwritten love-letters.
The ambrosial pleasure from her smile.
The euphoria brought about by her ebullient tress.
The everlasting yearning to catch a glimpse.
The heart wrenching pain at her absence in school.
The wild agony for the unanswered looks.
The transcendence of emotions, when she laughed.
The daunting proposal. The exultation over victory.
The electrifying feel of her first touch.
The evenings in heavens, The nights in hell.
The joy of springing while walking.
The endless blushing behind a book. The evanescence of walking together alone.
The vacuousness of endless staring at the walls. The impatience understood and teased.
The buoyancy of those nudges. The mystic rapture of decrypting those eyes.
The turning of tides.
The broken promises. The sleepless nights.
The futile arguments.The persuasive strokes on the cheek.
The anxiety about the future.
The unfortunate crossroads.
The flared nose. The curled lips.
The life-shattering tears.The unending hug.
The last breath of hers I inhaled.
The striving to preserve her inside me; forever.
The love that morphed into a memory.
Fin
.
demystifyingtheuniverse.wordpress.com

.

.

.

.

.

.

Why Every Writer Must Remember To Read Children’s Books

.

b52d5e4561dc27fe596f2ba680f3f354

.

“Don’t stop imagining; the day that you do is the day that you die.”

.

Every once in a while, a writer must admit to oneself that some books are too complicated and some words are too unnecessarily long—(are they trying to make me feel inferior?).  That’s why, every once in a while, even the most sophisticated and refined writers must take a break off of the hard and heavy reads in exchange for something more lighthearted, more childish—like a fairy tale.
.
As one who adores reading might do on a cold and rainy day, I found myself rooting through my father’s collection of books; books both big and small, short and thick, from Hemingway to Twain to Emerson, the familiar smell of paper and ink and the pitter-patter of rain hitting the roof soothing to my anxieties.
.
At the very back of a solitary bookcase in the far corner of the room with books gathering dust since the time I sat in a high chair, my wandering eyes caught a flash of fading daffodil yellow, so bright among the dulling covers of books long since forgotten.  Cautiously, I lifted the old book out of the towering case teeming with works by authors I should have been more eager to read, yet… this book, this one I held, was so attractive to my youthful appeals that I couldn’t help but cradle it to my chest and bound up to my room to begin the indulgence of a new read.
.
The book is called, “The Yellow Book of Fairy Tales,” author unknown, back from December of 1940.
.
As I opened it, I saw that it was a collection of many works wrapped in an innocent and charming yellow hardcover with pages browning at the edges with that special smell only found in those of old, overused books—the smell of comfort and serenity.
.
Now, let me tell you why this is my favorite book—It’s simple.  All stories in the book hold happy endings and the protagonist is rewarded while the antagonist is graciously pardoned or meets a fate in which they deserve, a common theme observed in our youth as far as fantasy goes.  I have read piles of books on philosophy and auto-biographies and science fiction, with hidden meanings and undecipherable metaphors and differently interpreted connotations and literary devices that leave your head spinning.  Now, don’t get me wrong; I love a good mind-boggler.  But for some reason, this book called to me.  After I finished each story, I found myself smiling at the character’s brave actions and heartfelt words.  All of the stories, like children’s stories do, led to morality and right versus wrong with lessons learned.
.
In our everyday lives, we, as humans who understand that things don’t always work out the way we might want them to, often abandon our childish desires and dreams.  We reproach the very notion of reminiscing too long in our childhood; we’re more mature than that, there’s better things to do, more work to be done; anything to keep the waves of nostalgia from sweeping us away.  Sometimes, though, I believe that being swept away is okay, even good in order to keep the soul wondering and engaged positively in the world around us.
.
This book is my favorite book because it reminded me that nothing is over, nothing is final, and everything is possible.  Yes, it’s a children’s book, and yes, I may have “better” things to do, but this book lifted my spirits more than anything has in a very long time.  The character’s comical exchanges and genuine concern and love for others leaves a favorable impression, reborn every time I open the book to cherish the homely feeling of a good piece of writing.
.
So, instead of hoisting up a 500 page book on matters that are just too grim for your spirits, find an old fairy tale book that reminds you of your inner innocent and frivolous disposition, and remember that you are only as old as you allow your mind to convince you.
.
Hannah Leigh -> Readwave
Image ~ Vanessa Garcia

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.
.

Poetry Talks

.

Writing_by_amy_derfer

.

poetry sings to me…
shh, can you hear it?
it lives and breathes
do you feel that?
i swear i can smell it
mmm, take a deep breath
yeh, that’s it….
i can almost taste it
i see your lip curl
and some drool forming at the corners
of your mind….
that’s poetry!
oh, that tastes so good!
it’s written in your mind,
indelibly inked upon your soul
and your heart runs red with ink
from this blissful symphony…
touch it…
it’s okay,
don’t be afraid, no!
embrace it!
feel it
love it
live it
but
don’t forget
to
write it.
.
wolf spirit aka quinfinn -> Hello Poetry/Twitter/Facebook
Image ~ amy-derfer

.

.

.

.

.

.

Time Travel

.

disaster_by_sangelus-d3918ft

.

Maybe we could try
Swallow these pills
like pomegranate seeds
Go back in time
to where our hearts lie
We hold hands as we flew by
And we won’t let go
Interlaced fingers
Watch them as they falter
Webs of what was lost
Memories we always recall
Let us catch our tears
Drink them before they fall
We make love once more
Remember
How our skin and bones fit
How our lips first met
And how you said
they taste like berries
Follow me
Swim these shallow seas
of our plans and dreams
But now they run dry
Let us make a garden out of our lies
Let us find the place
to where we had our first gaze
And walk back to that park again
Sunbeams and Cherry blossoms
But this time
let’s pretend
that we didn’t see each other
.
Margaret Austin Go -> Hello Poetry
Image ~ Sangelus
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

My Grandfather Was A Great Scientist

.

Old_Man_by_Zoroko

 

.

.

.

My grandfather was a great
scientist. He once yelled at
me for laughing too much.
He died of a science that
kept him from breathing.
Their goals were the same.

 

 

 

.
imvastlyunfinished.tumblr.com

Image ~ Zoroko

.

.

.

.

.

.

 


.

Geo Sans -> geosans.wordpress.com/Twitter
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

 Rose Petals

.

cluster_of_rose_petals__by_escaped_emotions

.

I want to be fallen rose petals
Picked up and carried by the wind
To you and your red lips
I want to be laid to rest gently against them
And feel your kiss…
Breathless
.
I will try to stay with you

In defiance against the wind
While we both slowly wither
And die
Thinking that we could survive
Only on love…
That became to us the familiar scent of roses and the taste of your lips….
.
I realize now that what i want more is for this to not be a dream
I want to be there with you as i am
And touch you
Feel you…
.
But i know how much we both wanted to fly…
A desire in me that manifested itself as flower petals in my dreams
That somehow made up for the distance between us…
Yet you were always more alive than i was…
You could live without me
Even in reality
So you closed your eyes and crushed me in your palm…
Gasp
Release
And i return to the earth
.
But you cry because i left a stain upon your hand that looked so much like blood…
.
You’ve forgotten the smell of roses
Your lips have gone dry
and the wind died a long time ago…
.
sadcats13.tumblr.com
Image ~ escaped-emotions
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

Ideal

.

vintage-couple-kissing-crop

.

He married a belligerent woman, mistaking it for character.
She married a gentle man, mistaking it for malleability.
They both were growing older and more fearful by the day.
They spend the evenings gnawing at one another.
Jabbing, taunting, smirking, belittling.
He savours the pitying glances of his mates down the pub.
She grimly absorbs the tutting smugness of her friends on the phone.
“It’s hardly ideal…”
But every now and again, she forgets herself and wraps herself around him in the night.
And over breakfast, each smiles privately, pondering the accidental sex.
.
right_arrowVimeo Version
.
Othniel Smith -> ReadWave/Twitter/Amazon

.

.

.

.

.

.

ness less rest

.

Lovers_by_reginanegra

.

IF i was nude
without my clothes
wrapped in a blanket
feeling soft and thin
lying on your couch
in an industrial space
where the air is cool
but alive
.
if you were reading
poetry to me and i
was reading novel excerpts
between
.
if friends were welcomed
through the lovely living space
without any of age old appropriate hesitations
.
then the rains would slap
the leaded glass
surreptitiously
.
then the warmth between my legs
under your arms embracing
.
then the electric wait
before touch is over and helpless is real and beloved this moment of all that there is
.
then the realized infinite tenderness so palpable!
the fifth force validation so soft! loving! gentle!
so needless of words
then way out there with us in the ness ness ness less rest
ness less
.
be still
my memory revigorate
be kind my love
invigorate
.
pliable me
pliable you
.
light finds ways to the resting shade. it may be wondrous when it does so. non-chalant. when shadows flicker around these high walls candle lit
.
taper not
sweet memory
.
carry on bold to the next. precious life never fail! never falter! never leave! ever last
.
be still
be kind. let all past present future lives come together here. remarkably
.
anyone who still dreams
lets go of all you ever established
cherished institutionalized
yours
.
come read your little voice large into the clear seche vaulting expanse with us. up to the leaded glass high and ritual drumming of rain patter pitter
.
take off your clothes
wrap yourself in new vetements for once you are seen you are known you are you!
you are loved explored like these pages these words these letters inscribed now released upon breath to honor the air
.
this moment these words from our bodies our ours! and forever. unsealed and exposed to the element
.
this is now magick. catch fire and cooled by the brick
.
KatYa -> kissilent.wordpress.com/Twitter/YouTube/Amazon
Image ~ reginanegra

.

.

.

.

.

.

The Everyday Occurrences
Of Someone Like Me

.

original

.

Now, I don’t want this journal to be anything close to normal.  I want dragons and I want crazy old ladies who stay in their stone grey rooms in the middle of a nobleman’s castle telling the fortune of the kingdom.  I want to show people the crazy things we all can see with our imagination, and I want to show the world, that you really don’t need imagination to see the crazy side of things.

I got this thick, 500 page journal from an office supplies store over winter break – not that I actually have a winter break anymore, now that I’m home schooled – and I’ve been dying to start digging into this.  I hope to someday show at least someone this and maybe they’ll like it.  Maybe they’ll just try to throw me into an asylum again. I mean, it’s happened before.
.
You see, I see the world a little differently than most people.  Some would say I’m crazy, but I know the difference between crazy and what I am.  You see, I’m inspired! I see the world as it is, the violence, the death and suffering, and I point them out to people.  I say, “hey, look at that gruesome thing, don’t you think it would make a good story!” or I’ll say, “Why is everyone so stupid the answer is so obvious that even a baby could see it.” But these people think I’m a witch when I point it out.  I’m inspired, I’m the smartest person on earth. Do you think someone who’s crazy would be able to do so many clever things as I have in my life?
No!
.
These are the everyday occurrences of someone who knows their crazy in many ways compared to the norm in the world, but who is not – I repeat not! – crazy in the terms of wanting to kill someone of putting chicken feathers and glue on my entire body and run outside trying to fly. No, I’m not crazy.  I’m inspired!
.
Someone somewhere will find my opinions crazy, offensive, and just plain stupid.  And I know that everyone has their own opinions.  Hell, if we didn’t I’d probably go insane – er – but please if someone ends up someday reading something I write and it does not agree with their personal opinion, by all means yell at me for it! You wont stop me, but you might make me laugh.
.
Jo Burr (The Genius.101) -> FictionPress/Facebook
.
.
.

Image02302-07Thank you so much to everyone who contributed to this issue.  I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did discovering some really great talent.  And do please check out the writers pages, some are very young writers compared to others and I’ve been really impressed with the work they have produced.  Way beyond anything I could have written in my teen years.
.
And thank you also to feralc4t for the brilliant photo art, please check out his website.
.

If you’d like the possibility of your poetry, spoken word, short story or essay included in the next issue published in May, please see Submissions.

.

separator-red

.

Button_HOME

.

34 comments on “The Writing Garden ~ Issue Two

    • You’re very welcome Sue, it was a lovely poem! And anyone who’s had a story living in them for a long time will understand what you were saying. I have one myself, so know the feeling.

      If you are looking for somewhere to connect to former Jottifiers you might like to join a growing gathering at WritersCafé -> http://www.writerscafe.org/SuzyHazelwood Roland, Data, Ladybird and Blossom are there along with me, plus possibly a couple more too. It will never be Jottify of course, and if it comes back I’ll be happy to return, but in the meantime we’re enjoying sharing our works on there. Nice website, everything seems to work well and other writers are friendly and keen to read your work. No like button on there, so that encourages writers to join who like to read and interact. You might like it. Have a think about it, because it would be good to see you there! 🙂

  1. Hi Suzy, did not realize the ed. had come out, found it by accident, by checking your blog, but enjoyed it a lot, found it better and more meaty than the first one, really enjoyed the readings a lot as well, so well done and looking forward to the next installment. What a wonderful and very necessary undertaking you have taken on, enjoy it and keep up the good work. 🙂 . Best wishes and blessings, Charles.

    • Time goes very quickly, and even though this magazine is only published every two months, I found the time zipped along and almost took me by surprise. Good job I have plenty of time to sort it all!

      I like the suggestion of meaty – I guess it is quite meaty compared to the other one. The first issue was all put together in a bit of a hurry in order to get it published by January, so not quite so many pieces of writing in that issue.

      I’ll certainly try to keep it good, and thank you so much Charles for your lovely compliments! 🙂

      • Pleasure, and yes the time does seem to disappear, and when you have to look for so many great pieces of art and writing, I’ m sure it is quite difficult to get it all together in this time. Any help required? I could try and help, but do not have much time, and am not that good with the computer. Best wishes and blessings, Charles.

        • If you come across any poetry or short story/creative writing blogs that you think are good, you could let me know through a message in my contact sheet here or on my other blog. All messages go straight to my email address and I can also read them in the WordPress dashboard too. That would be helpful. But other than that, not to worry, I find people on a regular basis, a bit at time, and I’m getting more writers leave links each time, I’m sure it will be fine eventually. I’d rather be looking for work than overwhelmed with a great list of people to get back to! Thanks so much for your concern Charles, very thoughtful of you! 🙂

    • Hello Roland, thank you so much for passing by to let me know! I really loved that one too, quite an emotional story. The ending felt much like my own experience with my Mother’s last moments of life. And so well written too! 🙂

    • Thank you Christine! Song Of Sorrow is such a beautiful poem, no surprise you really liked that one. It’s really great finding these gems, there’s so much good writing out there! 🙂

    • Thank you Pamela, it was a pleasure to include your beautiful poem! And I’ll certainly be happy to publish more of your work in the future. Thanks for discovering this little corner! 🙂

Leave a comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s