Cleaning out the boxes,
I came across a strand
of your hair,
not thick enough
to hang myself with
not thin enough
by Phil Lane of Parsippany
The touch at my elbow threatens to snap- I'm not sure which bone would break, mine or theirs, but there is something brittle about this guiding hand. Avian and hollow. Or non-existent since the beginning. I'm really not sure. That presence has been replaced by the maitre d' and he's telling me tonight's specials are bone marrow and osso bucco.
by Shelly Holder of Duarte
There’s something going on with hedgehogs. Jumping through windows, spines shining silver-mauve. Or wheeling broccoli florets down a dark path. Quite smoothly.
I do believe they’re my armoured protection. For my soft underbelly. I need their spikes, just in case.
We can come out dancing now, you and me. Wheeling in the moonlight to the strains of a military band. A little distant and, of course, marching away from us.
by Cath Barton of Abergavenny
Holly Golightly and I hit it off; I'm debonair, and I haven't spilled on her dress yet--but there's this sinking feeling in my stomach as I realize I know her from before this party, "What the hell are you doing here?" and she gets understandably angry, but it's too late because I'm already puking on her dress, and yes, into her cleavage. I put my sunglasses back on, and I get up and leave.
by Leeroy Berlin of Lancaster
He rattles bourboned ice cubes
like dice, hopes she recognizes
their desperate Morse code:
baby, I’m sorry, come home.
by Karrie L. Waarala of Ypsilanti
Murder of crows, pride of lions, trouble of goldfish? I wanted to see for myself: a month’s allowance and a dozen plastic baggies later, I was the proud owner of a bowl chock full of fish. Little guys didn't seem like trouble, really, just swimming and blinking. Twitching. Blinking. Floating. Less blinking. When I jammed the toilet disposing of evidence, Mom found out. Then I found out how much trouble goldfish are.
by Carrie Cuinn of Hamilton
We hadn’t heard from you in a while. You wore garbage bags and bloody shorts to the front door. What a lovely surprise! Why, you were having a dinner party this very evening and, oh, wouldn’t we come? Your voice could drown a cat. Oh, too bad. Another time, then--toodeloo! The door swung closed. We returned the next day to find your guests still sitting at the table--dead, of course--and painted robin’s egg blue.
by T. K. David of New Paltz