Pat calls Portland, OR home, for now. Her work appears in Labyrinth: Poems and Prose, An Eye for an Eye Makes the Whole World Blind: Poets on 9/11, Listening to the Birth of Crystals, and various Ezines.

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Daffodils from fresh flower lands
Tempted us at the market stands
Sun yellow forms sway motion precise
In trains and trams

Motors surge to driver commands
Steal wheels respond on silver bands
Guiding us home from avarice
And thousand things set to entice
Shoppers know not that our love expands
In trains and trams

Ivana Plucinski is a Slovakia born poetess and has been a German resident for many years; she writes in English. Her work has appeared in e-zines. Her literary sensibility for the intimacy of words and her passion for writing have her alternating between reporting from a female angle and spiritual relationships with emphasis on nonlinearity. Currently she is working on her historic epic saga. This rondeau is Ivana’s second ATG entry.

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Penny Luker is the editor for the writings section at ATG. She writes poems and short stories. Her first book, “Missing and other short stories” is published by Lulu. Her poems have been accepted for three anthologies coming out later this Summer.
Visit her website to read more of her work. Web:http://www.thewritingroom.fastmail.fm

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Amy Kitchell-Leighty will graduate with an MFA in poetry this June from the Bennington Writing Seminars. Her work has appeared in The Tecumseh Review, The Aerie, and The Great American Poetry Show.

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We’re on Highway 6, windows rolled down so that hot air rushes through the car. My hair plays frantically with the wind. I twist the length of it into a sloppy braid. My dad’s scanning the countryside for wild game and Mom messes with the radio knob, trying to zero in on a weak signal. Frank Sinatra crooning. Then static. She’s intent on dialing him in. Something is coming.

I tense, waiting for the threat of a distant disturbance. Clear skies. My dog trembling. My brothers go quiet and Mom stops tweaking the radio. Dad’s eyes glimmer caution in the rear-view. It’s that moment. The still before the storm when all the birds disappear and one lone straggler makes for the barn, everything sharpening, sharpening, our senses growing keener.

Then they’re upon us, all around us. The sound is deafening and I shout, not meaning to. Grungy, murderous-looking men astride stripped down motorcycles rumbling like the deepest thunderboomer. Twenty of them. Thirty. One glances my way, all grease and tattoos and wild, blowing hair. He flashes an ecstatic grin, and all at once I’m on that bike, rocketing, plummeting, faster, faster, whip-haired and free, headlong into the eye of my future.

Season Harper-Fox has published fiction, poetry and reviews in OnTheBus, Primavera, The Santa Clara Review, FRiGG Magazine, Verbsap, and other journals. She is on the fiction faculty of NYC’s Gotham Writers’ Workshop and is currently at work on a memoir.

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of tiny feet remembered

on now barren floors

A native Texan who has published poetry, short stories and other fiction in print, online, journals and reviews.. Author of Mind on Fire (Dawson) available at Amazon.com

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Carmen Eichman has written three novels, the first published, When The Ugly Comes, has been hailed as an adult version of Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird. Carmen traveled extensively as a military colonel’s daughter and studied for eight years under the impressive auspices of master fiction writer, Leonard Bishop, Dare To Be A Great Writer. Earning her Master’s Degree in Creative Writing and Literature from Kansas State University. Carmen is an Assistant Professor of English, Virginia. Her blog is: http://bellafairre.blogspot.com

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But who is to know, or care
Or think it is to be unfair
That this lonely road
Or so we’re told
Leads to no-where

But who are they to ever say
That no-one is to go that way
To where they’ve never been
To where they’ve never seen
But still determined to stand in the way

O come all and gather from where ye stand
For who are they to reprimand
So follow me, I’ll lead the way
Do not assume you’ll be led astray
But there is none, I not understand

Of those who speak, are you afraid
In case of truth in what they say
Shame on you all who stay
I shall walk alone, I do not mind
For I am not one who shall foray

Marie was born in London. Her family moved from Warrington to Scotland and then to Devon. She has always written poetry and for many years has played guitar and written her own songs.

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It wasn’t unusual for them
not to exchange any words.
They spoke instead with
their touch,
moving, doing
what their instincts
had told them.

He held her firmly as
if their cores were inseparable and
he stroked her lips with his thumb,
down towards the contours
of her neck—
As all goes unspoken,
a strap slips and snaps
And their breath
smooth, quiet,
smooth, quiet

The night pours,
falls gently
onto their cool pale skin,
their hearts beating
in silence.

Ariel will attend the University of Connecticut in the fall of 2009 as an incoming freshman, planning to major in English. In high school, she was the co-editor-in-chief of the literary magazine. She also has had two op-eds published in The Hartford Courant.

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Patricia Wellingham-Jones has a longtime interest in ‘healing writing’ and the benefits people gain from writing and reading their work together. Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: Poems About Breast Cancer, Voices on the Land, and End-Cycle, poems about caregiving.

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Leaving Waverly, the car and I reek
of tobacco smoke; a legacy from National Rental
and the Lions Club I stumbled out of,
wearing suede pumps that never saw city streets
and a skirt I spent the evening tugging down.

The tires love the two lane road and the rolling hills.
I’ll blow past McEwen and Dairy Queen,
then it’s only Grandma’s and Grandpa’s old place
between me and a flight out of Tennessee,
heading west and away, just like my Daddy did once.

Nathan Bedford Park had swarmed with Baker kin
the first weekend after July the Fourth.
Tucks and Moulders and Dotsons and Bates
seeking a free deck chair or a late night Rook game
or one more helping of fried fish and hush puppies,

bacon sweetened green beans, tomato gravy,
dirt cake or pecan pie or sin cake.
There’s no sweet tooth like a Baker sweet tooth,
hovering over the ice cream maker as the cream
and cut up Snickers bars go into the mix.

Between rain storms we scattered from the ball field
to the lake. Angie in high demand, pushed two swings,
left right left right. Skates and big wheels rumbled
on wood floors and board walks. The red boot piňata
sat on a table all day waiting to be filled and whacked.

This time the sheriff didn’t take Carleton to jail
for outstanding warrants. Kim’s ex-husband didn’t refuse
to bring the baby back from his mama’s on time.
And Cousin Hubert didn’t creep into the lodge,
carrying generation old secrets no one would tell me.

This year Jessica hauled Ruby’s dachshund around
by the leash until it finally refused to budge,
and her twin Emily flirted with the older boys in a way
only a five-year-old in a summer dress can.
All the kids past infancy, the next baby due in February.

Tennessee started to seem so sweet I wondered
if maybe one of the ole boys at my high school reunion
might sweep me off my feet, but the club was white
with smoke, the regulars still at the bar and old classmates
choosing beer, body contact, and standing gossip in the foyer.

In twenty years there’d been a lot of death and divorce
and I wondered what the living had accomplished
in New Johnsonville or Plant or Healdsburg or Clarksville,
only ninety miles away from here as the crow flies.
Or across the country in Berkeley for that matter.

I anchored myself to the table of cheese and raw vegetables,
talked to a widower with two kids to raise. Lord, I thought
he’d been in the class ahead of ours. All I waited for was
the taking of a photograph to prove I’d been brave enough
to venture back and remained unrecognized. That Skylark waited.

A graduate of the MFA in writing program at USF,Trina relocated to southern California for love, not the air. Currently she volunteers with WriteGirl, an organization providing workshops and mentors for young women in high school who are interested in writing. Recent publications include Earth’s Daughters, 26, Poetry East, Yemassee, Natural Bridge, 88, and Bombshells: War Stories and Poems by Women on the Homefront.

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Her sister and mother fawned over her in the bride’s dressing room just minutes before the ceremony was set to begin. The sunlight shone brightly through the window on this late spring afternoon and sparkled on the crystals trimming the ballerina neckline on Kate’s gown. The scent of fresh roses filled the air.

“Oh, hon,” her mom said, tears in her eyes. “You are so beautiful.”

“Kate, you really are,” her sister confirmed. “Just wait ’til Robby sees you.”

Kate looked into the mirror and saw a stranger staring back at her. This 23-year-old harried college student had been completely transformed by an A-line wedding dress, headpiece and veil accented with rhinestones and more crystals. Her blue eyes stood out as if they, too, came with the ensemble. Her dark brown hair contrasted the virgin white of the veil and gown.

“Exquisite,” said Cheryl, her sister.

Exquisite, indeed, she thought, admiring her reflection. This should be the happiest day of her life. The trouble was, she could not go through with it.

She had tried to fight it off, to ignore the feeling of dread which had been building up inside her for days. No, weeks. Maybe even months. Where all others saw a lifetime of love and commitment, Kate saw only entrapment and imprisonment.

Up until now, Kate had believed in a future full of possibilities. There were choices to make, paths unknown. If she were accepted into graduate school at Stanford, there would be nothing to stop her from attending. If she wanted to go live in Peru, she could go. Once married, however, there would be limitations, sacrifices, and compromises. Her life would cease to belong to her. Eventually, Kate’s spirit would surrender to Robby’s wants and needs, just as Robby would be expected to put her priorities ahead of his own. That’s how marriages are supposed to work. Instead of anticipating wedded bliss, however, her thoughts dwelled on the never ending string of days ahead as wife and mother, her individuality slowly fading away.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love Robby—she did. Most of the time anyway. He was a great guy with a good future in his dad’s construction business. He made her laugh when she was grouchy or depressed, and he could be quite affectionate and caring when he wanted to be. But love wasn’t enough. What it came down to was that she did not want to be a wife—not his, not anyone’s. Not now, and perhaps not ever. The longer she was together with Robby, the less interested she was in getting hitched.

Then why had she ever agreed to marry him? She had asked herself that question a lot lately. But she knew. Because it was exciting, it was sweet, and, at the time she had accepted his proposal, it was what she thought she should do. Yet here she stood in her wedding gown devising a way to tear out his heart and squash his dignity in front of two hundred guests. Her stomach knotted up in a ball.

“Katie?” Cheryl asked. “Are you okay?”

Before she could answer, the pastor’s wife stuck her head in and said, “They’re ready for you.” She had that annoying smile that older women sometimes get when they think they know what you are going through; in this case, Kate thought it was a pretty safe bet that the pastor’s wife did not have a clue, or else she wouldn’t be smiling.

“Here we go, hon,” said her mom, gently guiding her out into the
hallway of the church. “I’m so proud of you.”

Oh God, Kate thought. How am I going to do this?

She moved slowly down the hall, roses in hand, toward her father. He had a big smile on his face—this one not annoying at all, but one of love for his daughter. His eyes glistened with just a hint of tears. Kate’s guilt was too much to bear.

“Dad,” she started to say, but no sound came out.

The noise of the organ startled her as it blasted the first note of “Here Comes the Bride.” She and her father stood in the doorway of the congregation hall. The guests rose; all eyes were on her. She looked out into the sea of faces, knowing that she should recognize these people. She had made out the guest list, after all, but friends, relatives, and acquaintances blended together as one entity. At the end of the aisle she saw a face that stood out from the others, a face which belonged to the man with whom she had spent so much time, and the one whom she no longer wanted. Sweet Robby, a gorgeous sight in his black tuxedo.

Her father started that first step down the aisle. ‘Oh no, oh no, oh no!’ her mind screamed over and over. She forced herself to focus, trying to figure a way out of this mess. She could turn and run, but her feet weren’t getting the message. She moved right along with her father.

Cameras flashed. Everyone was smiling. If only she could faint—or throw up. Yeah, that would buy her some time. Embarrassing as it might be, it would get her out of here, and that was all she needed right now. Incredibly, she kept walking, her heart pounding so hard it might burst out of her chest.

Reaching the pulpit, Kate’s dad offered her hand to the groom. Robby smiled weakly as he took her hand. Couldn’t anyone see that she didn’t want this?!

Robby looked wrong somehow, as if panic was distorting her vision. His brown eyes seemed wider than usual. Beads of sweat dampened the wisps of brown curls at his hairline. One trickled down his cheek. That ought to be enough to make her get sick.

The pastor was saying something about being gathered today to witness this union. His usual spiel, she guessed, she couldn’t follow it. Then Robby’s aunt sang a song. Something lame — what was the name of it? “Together Forever.” That’s it. That was what they had rehearsed, but now it didn’t even sound familiar. Why couldn’t Kate act? For God’s sake, she was going to end up married if she didn’t DO SOMETHING!

And then came The Question:

First to Robby: “Do you, Robert Michael Johnson, take Katherine to be your lawfully wedded wife?” the pastor asked.

Now he would say ‘I do,’ and Kate had better have an answer when it came her turn.

Robby didn’t answer right away. Why wasn’t he answering? Kate stared at him, expecting the standard reply. How difficult is it to say ‘I do?’ In spite of her anxiety, she leaned toward him in expectation.

His face went white. “I can’t.”

Silence pervaded as Kate, guests and bridal party struggled to understand the two words Robby had just muttered. One of them was expected, but the other didn’t register.

“Pardon me?” the pastor said, as if he had not heard correctly.

What is this? Kate thought.

“I’m sorry,” Robby said. “I - I . . . just can’t.”

Now the church buzzed with commotion as guests whispered to one another.

“Robert!” his mother yelled.

“Pardon us,” the pastor said, this time to the entire congregation. He took Robby and Kate aside, which was pointless since Kate’s voice could be heard throughout the church.

Forgetting herself, as well as the fear and apprehension of the last hours, days, and weeks, she shouted with humiliation in her voice. “You are NOT doing this to me, Robby! Do you understand? Not here, in front of everyone. What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“Kate, I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not ready. There’s so much to do. I–”

He stopped suddenly, turned and looked at the side exit, and then bolted out of the church. She studied the door for a few seconds, half expecting him to come right back. No one spoke. The pastor only shook his head. Finally, though for the life of her she had no idea what she would say, the shocked and confused Kate, alone in her crystal accented A-line wedding gown, turned and faced the church full of people staring at her.

Donna lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and four children. She works as the assistant to the president at Lane Community College and is a board member on the local and state chapters of the American Association for Women in Community Colleges.

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Always in search
of what cannot
be obtained, your
eyes touch on the
mysteries guarded
deep beneath the
waters as your
hands skim
the surface.

Light bleeds onto
an ever changing
canvas as you
repaint each day.
Thoughts, like those
ships that never sailed,
harbor resentment
in their tattered
moorings as
the tenuous threads
of rope stretch and
relax at each
pull until the
sun trickles
west and laps
at the face of
its back.
I’ve come to
tell my story
because the thoughts
on my tongue are
no longer relaxed
in their moorings
but torn in effort to
be free.

Olivia recently graduated from Texas A&M University and is pursuing her masters at Texas Tech University. Her passion dwells in between the sights and sounds of the stories woven with delicate intricacy in books and poetry and anything else with heartfelt sincerity.

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Clouded by worry
Tears fall like rain
But, there is a promise
Of contentment to gain

Seeking fulfillment
Yet finding no peace
When true contentment
Is found in release.

Let go and enjoy
Each moment of time
Give thanks in the midst
And true joy you will find.

*** Philippians 4:11

B.C. is a full time student / MTSU and School bus driver (20 years)

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You’ll kick the bags
down the stairs
(they are too heavy to carry),
scramble for odds and ends
(was there a single thing you forgot?),
bolt out the back door.

In a shelter or an abandoned car
you’re ready to set up housekeeping:
food (dried, veggie, in sealed containers)
for 275 meals, bottled water,
portable toilet, portable shower,
axe/crowbar, lights/lanterns and tarps.
Separate bags for meds and music,
don’t forget clothes.
The list goes on and on.

My emergency kit
consists of an old nylon backpack
with envelope of important papers,
backup of my computer files,
a wad of cash, roll of quarters, bottle of water.
Maybe some brandy.
Two pairs of socks, two underpants,
a few stale energy bars.
I hope I remember my toothbrush.

Patricia Wellingham-Jones has a longtime interest in ‘healing writing’ and the benefits people gain from writing and reading their work together. Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: Poems About Breast Cancer, Voices on the Land, and End-Cycle, poems about caregiving.

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White crosses aren’t choosy
about whom they claim
on glacier mountain passes
Tombstones substituting for
babies, best friends, grandparents
Generations of innocents
swallowed by bottles of booze
Downed by DUI owners

White crosses bear witness
on graveled country roads
to the buried who bought the farms
Testimonials to suicides
and manslaughters
Vigiled with flowers by loved ones
Viewed by motorists as billboards
Advertisements for prevention
Slogans that deter decisions to have
one for the Montana road

Ellaraine Lockie writes poetry, nonfiction books and essays, and serves as Poetry Editor for the lifestyles magazine, Lilipoh. She has received a writing residency at Centrum in Port Townsend, WA, eleven Pushcart Prize nominations, the Lois Beebe Hayna Award from The Eleventh Museand and many other awards. Recently released is Mod Gods and Luggage Straps, a poetry/art broadside from BrickBat Revue. Forthcoming are chapbooks from FootHills Publishing and Pudding House.Her website is here

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“That goes back,” Amy said. “I can’t believe she kept it. It was so stretched out that every time she wore it, she had to roll the sleeves up until the cuffs were like little inner tubes around her wrist.”

“And look at the burn marks. Remember when she set it on fire? At the stove?”

Amy laughed. “I’d forgotten that.”

Both were silent a moment. Jane spoke first. “I just can’t believe she kept all this stuff. Should we keep some of it, you think? Just to—you know?” She squinted at the far corner of the closet. “What’s that back there?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How much do we really need to keep sweaters and old slippers?” Amy held a threadbare robe at arm’s length, its red color time-dulled everywhere but the trim. “Look at this. She wore it every Christmas morning.” She glanced at the family photos on her mother’s dresser. “You know, Janet, most of this stuff is too worn to donate to anyone. I hate to say it but I think we might as well toss it. She never could throw anything away.”

Janet backed out of the closet on her hands and knees. “Hey, look what I found back in the corner.” It was a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper. “What do you make of this?”

“No idea.” Amy rested a hand on the parcel, as if to detect fever in a small child. “But I don’t think Mom would have left something she didn’t want us to see.”

“You mean like twenty years of love letters from an old flame?”

“Like that.” Amy sat on the bed. “I say let’s take a look.” And she handed Janet the scissors to clip the string.

“I don’t believe it,” said Janet. “That’s—it’s our dress-up hat!” She held up a bedraggled flowered hat, squashed and aged, its pinks and purples faded into grays and blues.

“And look!” That blue thing. We called it the ‘lady dress.’ Oh, and the sequined purse.” Amy sat up straighter and clasped her hands in her lap. “Remember how much fun we had playing dress-up with these?”

“Look, Ame.” Janet held up a pale yellow envelope with “To Janet and Amy” written in their mother’s hand.

They exchanged looks—a shared instant of wariness—little girls called by their mother, almost certain they hadn’t done anything wrong. Amy nodded and Janet opened the envelope, reading aloud:

Dear Girls,

I wonder when you’ll be reading this. After I’m gone probably. Or maybe when one of you has your first baby I’ll decide to give it to you. I’m writing this on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. You’re off apple-picking with Daddy and I stayed home to clean up the old dress-up bin because you just don’t use that stuff anymore. Do you remember that day?

It’s hard! Somehow it’s making me face the fact that at 13 and 15, you’re truly growing up. Those lovely days when you would come shrieking down the hall in some sort of outlandish get-ups are gone. I can’t bear to part with all of it. These things are so much a part of you for me that I need to keep them around. Who knows if I’ll ever open them? I’ll just know they’re there. As you read this, I hope they remind you of how happy we all were. Those days were precious. I love you both.

Mommy

Amy handed the note to Janet, who took it and smoothed its folds. “I don’t remember that day at all,” said Amy. “And here it was so important to her.”

“Me either. I wonder why she never gave this to us when our kids were born.”

“I don’t know. Maybe the moment never seemed right. Maybe she felt embarrassed. Maybe she forgot all about it.”

“I doubt that, knowing Mom.”

Amy laughed. “True. So, do you save your kids’ things?”

“Some. Drawings mostly. Birthday cards. Report cards. You?”

“I suppose it’s silly, but I save a lot of the kids’ things. Yeah, I do.”

“This dress-up stuff really was a hoot.” Janet laughed.

“Those were fun times, weren’t they? I’m really glad Mom thought of saving this stuff.”

“Me, too. Well, what will we do now? Divide it up?”

“I guess so. Here, I’ll tear the paper in half and we can each wrap some stuff. You pick first.”

When the half dozen items were divided between them, they sat in silence, Janet’s fingers playing at the edge of the cape. “I think I’ll just add that robe of hers to the parcel. She wore it for so many years—That is, if you don’t mind.”

“No, no. That’s fine. You know, though, I think I’ll take the old white sweater. It’s so her.”

And together they wrapped their parcels, and tied the strings, memories added to memories.

Lydia Fazio Theys lives in Connecticut with her husband and a pleasing mixture of great big kids, fat cats and a wee dog. Lydia’s work has appeared in previous issues of All Things Girl, as well as in Cezanne’s Carrot, flashquake, Opium, Yankee Pot Roast, Gator Springs Gazette, Moondance (column nominated for a Pushcart), Quintessence, Somewhat, Mad Hatter’s Review, Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, Quiction, HeavyGlow and the humor anthology Just Bite Me. Her fiction has been read on KRCB public radio, printed on a coffee mug and used as inspiration for a dance piece by the Junction Dance Theater of Pittsburgh.

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Big bijou celebration
Masks worn throughout the quarter
Down in New Orleans

Music of jazz bands
Will wash away your sorrow
With festivities

Carnival ended
Hurricane Katrina blew
Leaves death in its wake

Aftermath of horror
Mardi Gras returns to life
Bringing back the day

Nancy Lee resides in Beckley, West Virginia. She is author of four books IS IT NOW? The End of Days! ISBN: 1413781446, IS HE MESSIAH? Messianic Prophecies Revealed! ISBN: 1424164990, The Curse of Mayweather House ISBN: 1894936884 and Haiku Smiles ISBN # 0982205651 Nancy Lee also writes for Amazon.com. To her credit, she has twenty-one Shorts to date on the Amazon website. Her website is: http://www.freewebs.com/booksbynancyleeshrader/

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Under the big top
Three rings of amazing sights
We’re all children there

Swing on the trapeze
Amazing feats in the air
Girl in jeweled crown

Lions, tigers, bears
Dancing and jumping through rings
Elephants walk large

High wire acrobats
Death defying without net
Hear the breath sounds here

Trick ponies perform
In headdress and braided tails
Counting, paw the ground

Horses galloping
With pretty girls on their backs
Balancing they stand

Acrobat Jugglers
Throw many balls in the air
Standing ten men high

Laughter fills the air
Painted faced clowns fill the ring
Bringing down the house

Tents come down at dawn
Laughter and joy everywhere
On to the next town

Nancy Lee resides in Beckley, West Virginia. She is author of four books IS IT NOW? The End of Days! ISBN: 1413781446, IS HE MESSIAH? Messianic Prophecies Revealed! ISBN: 1424164990, The Curse of Mayweather House ISBN: 1894936884 and Haiku Smiles ISBN # 0982205651 Nancy Lee also writes for Amazon.com. To her credit, she has twenty-one Shorts to date on the Amazon website. Her website is: http://www.freewebs.com/booksbynancyleeshrader/

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Ivana Plucinski’s origins are in Slovakia; she resides in Germany and writes in English language as non native speaker poetry and essays; currently her musings on life explore both physical and metaphysical relationships with and emphasis on nonlinearity within free verse poetry and strictly disciplined poetry and essays. She wrote a larger amount of text and is currently compiling her work in order to get published.

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Yesterday you wrote me, said you’ve been busy,
and nothing more.
Making it seem like we had just been in touch
when in fact we hadn’t for quite some time.
Deliberately, on my part.
In your two sentences, you didn’t ask how I was doing.

My life without you is a sunny, July day high in the mountains, a soft breeze
redolent with alpine phlox and the sweet smell of summer grasses.
Bluebells and columbines dancing among the trees, the quick movement
of an unseen animal from the corner of the eye.

But the breeze picks up, cumulus clouds rising over
the mountain peaks, harbingers of the coming storm,
bringing a chill to the air.

I find that I suddenly am
another person: envious–not of your life, but what is
lacking in mine–discouraged because you are my only friend.

I wrote you once about my dreams, not telling you
what they were exactly, like a photograph of myself, but out of focus, in
black and white.

You wrote back about yours in vivid color and sharp detail, almost overexposed.
I could memorize in your words the small wrinkles and imperfections of your life,
hidden in an array of colors fit to challenge a rainbow.

Yesterday I surrendered. Raindrops have frozen to hail, wind has twisted to vortex,
flowers bent and closed, hoping to hide their delicate faces in the grass.
Waiting, at once wanting but weary.

Susan lives in Colorado, and writes primarily short fiction. This is her first publication.

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Cairol’s work can also be seen on http://mirror-magazine.com/ and www.zoetrope.com

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Patricia Wellingham-Jones has a longtime interest in ‘healing writing’ and the benefits people gain from writing and reading their work together. Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: Poems About Breast Cancer, Voices on the Land, and End-Cycle, poems about caregiving.

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Shelly Wiseberg is a writer and author of five books of poetry.
Her collection speaks from the heart and depth of soul,
on a variety of subjects from observation and personal experiences.

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Fashion sense
Perfumed lace
Life of leisure
In perfect dress
With finesse
Of upper classes
Celebrating in mansions
With gated fences

Smiling for cameras
On the red carpet
Of the famous
Money walks
Stalkers watch every move
Through your windows
To catch a glance
Of your favorite star
Gossip columns
Evade your space
No more privacy
Cover of your face
On a magazine
Telling a story
Of make believe

Shelly Wiseberg is a writer and author of five books of poetry.
Her collection speaks from the heart and depth of soul,
on a variety of subjects from observation and personal experiences.

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at Biff and Linda’s apartment party
in the Valley

when they named me
sexiest girl,

presented me with a chilled bottle
of champagne.

I posed frozen, clutching the neck
and blushing

in my off-the-shoulder
gypsy blouse,

a virgin
carrying a fake I.D.

Their sexy girl – dreading already
the ride home

with my new
marine boyfriend Mike,

who stumbled
from the crowded kitchenette,

squeezed my prize
with knowing fingers, trigger-happy

from weapons training, focused now
on this cork to pop.

Heather Van Doren has resided on both U.S. coasts and now writes from the Midwest. Her work has been published in The New York Times, the books Hipster Haiku and Tribute to Orpheus, and the literary zines Word Riot, Yankee Pot Roast, Spillway Review, Long Story Short, Pemmican, Poetry Scotland, Wicked Alice, New Verse News, Lunarosity and The Orange Room Review.

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Ruler of the day
Mister Sun looms high above
Upon his head a crown

Bestows winter warmth
As snowflakes fall all around
Over sleeping seeds

Sounds the wakeup call
Flowers rise from winter’s bed
King Sun ushers spring

Burns hot in the sky
Gives all a glowing suntan
Too long, you get burned

Burns an orange heat
Turning leaves to red and gold
Sings a lullaby

Master of the night
His face illuminating
Moonbeams trickle down

Lights the darkest night
The man in the moon is seen
Looking down on all

He’s a shape-shifter
Shifts from full to quarter moon
Moon wanes and waxes

Loved by one and all
Moon song sung by small children
In their beds at night

Under lovers moon
Sweet nothings heard in the air
Moonbeam love tonight

Stars on moonlit nights
Effervescent crowns
Interstellar Kings

Sparkling little kings
Blanket the night sky with light
Lover’s eyes adore

Wishing point of view
I wish I may; I wish I might
Making dreams come true

Falling to the ground
Craters dig deep in the earth
Crown slipped off his head

Many little kings
Another one takes its place
They sparkle and shine

Night’s Three Musketeers
One for all and all for one
Is their nightly cry

Nightly royalty
Holding court up in the sky
No court jesters here

Kings work together
Unlike earthly monarchies
Unique balancing

We three kings rule here
God’s sparkling creations
Masters of God’s Realm

We’re doing God’s Will
Illuminating His world
God is King of kings

Nancy Lee Shrader resides in Beckley, West Virginia. She is author of four books IS IT NOW? The End of Days! IS HE MESSIAH? Messianic Prophecies Revealed! The Curse of Mayweather House and Haiku Smiles. Nancy Lee also writes for Amazon.com. To her credit, she has twenty-one Shorts to date on the Amazon website. She is a member of the West Virginia Writers’ Union, Appalachian Writers’ Guild and belongs to a Writers’ group at the Raleigh County Library. Web: www.freewebs.com/booksbynancyleeshrader

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He should be heading downwards
but he’s standing on his feet.
The nurses try to turn him
but their work is incomplete.

A caesarean operation
brings the baby safely here.
Mother’s doing well.
Relief grins from ear to ear.

The new baby is a beauty.
We all coo and start to fuss,
but God bless him as he yawns
and turns away from us.

Penny Luker is one of the editors for the writings section at ATG. She writes poems and short stories. Her first book, “Missing and other short stories” has just been published by Lulu.
Visit her website to read more of her work. Web:http://www.thewritingroom.fastmail.fm

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the bashfully shy girl was hesitant to reach the next page,
because it was there, in the company of blankets made of silky
white hairs and watery sap, that she would have to close
the stitch held, old fibers of thin sheeted text .

the creeping shrubs of the willow brushed over her
wavy brunette threads, and bathed her in salicylic acid,
which healed the silent pain that seeped through her forth chakra

green, exuberant sparks burst from her breast, and released a thick
cloud of fog that echoed as it passed through the emerald bright
flash of lighting, through the arms of the weeping willow,
and dispersed itself throughout the bland grey sky.

….”life beyond the written quill frightens me, and I
am quite comfortable where I am” …

J.L Glenn was born and raised in Augusta, Georgia. She has been writing since the age of 10. She is the middle child of two siblings, and often quotes “I have the middle child syndrome”. She lives in the Washington, DC area, where she is working on the publication of her second collection of poetry and short stories.http://www.myspace.com/makeup_dark_blemishes

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All pink and soft;
you are the centre
of the world.
Your mother’s eyes
are like a waterfall
flowing
your way.

Your father lifts you
into strong safe hands –
your birthright
and his privilege.
How you extend our worlds;
change relationships
yet not a day old.

I become matriarch,
token head of family -
grandmother of cousins.
Another generation
taking its hold
changing my child to parent
just as it should be.

Your sparkling sapphire eyes
enchant and leave us helpless.
Calmed by your mother’s voice
you embrace this outside space
with newness and hope;
bringing us all
the gift of life.

Penny Luker is one of the editors for the writings section at ATG. She writes poems and short stories. Her first book, “Missing and other short stories” has just been published by Lulu.
Visit her website to read more of her work. Web:http://www.thewritingroom.fastmail.fm

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Hello spring,
It’s been so long.
While braving the shocking blue winter, my heart sat frozen,
So cold, even my tears could not flow.

Hello spring,
I will confess.
Lost within the bitter whirling wind, a dark and chilling moment came,
Which found me wondering if you had ever really warmed me with your smile.

Hello spring,
Somehow dormant love survived.
A shadow of truth remembered you,
Faded memories searching in the darkness for the promises of your eyes.

Hello spring,
My faith is blooming.
I witness signs of you healing your wounded branches of yesterday,
Hope is reborn, sprouting bouquets of wishes, dreams, and daring dances.

Hello spring,
You hesitate so slightly in late afternoon.
Maybe fearing the last of winter’s dark memories,
My arms are here to nurture your efforts, to peep through nature’s frost, and raise your brave branches toward the sky.

Hello spring,
I am here.
I’ve been waiting on you,
Welcome home.

Margaret lives on a small farm in Texas, where growing gardens and raising animals offers an unending supply of inspiration and subject matter to quench her thirst for writing poetry, short stories, and children’s books. Margaret’s paper and pencil companions have never allowed chronic illness to steal her creative spirit; and her goals include completing and publishing her first children’s book (as well as an assortment of other freelance pieces), continuing to explore her desire to become a motivational speaker, and creating a homesteading lifestyle that allows her freedom of mobility and interaction with her garden and animals.

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She sat atop her pine coffin being pulled
by two oxen. Twenty-thousand people came—
sat on the hill of the natural amphitheater—
to see the witch, the green-eyed monster,
be put to death. Her dark hair fell
in puddles around her shoulders, exposing
the jagged scar on her left cheek,
an upside down J from her cheek bone to her jaw.
A white robe draped her body. No bonnet.
No shoes. Simply the spring sun
sweeping across her forehead, her hands
holding tight on the bumpy ride
to the single braced beam gallows.

Did she really kill her husband? This woman.
This mid-wife. This child
who claimed she could blow the fire
from a burn. This widow
who collected sassafras and gingerroot
in the woods, sold them to neighbors
as herbal remedies,
whose niece testified at the trial
I saw her sprinkle powder in Uncle’s tea.

The sheriff read the court order aloud.

. . . be hanged by the neck until you are dead . . .

Then swung the axe. The platform fell.

And the cheers went up: the clapping, the applause,
the joyous hymns as Betsey hung,
neck snapped, body spiraling—
a pirouette before the crowd.

Amy Kitchell-Leighty will graduate with an MFA in poetry this June from the Bennington Writing Seminars. Her work has appeared in The Tecumseh Review, The Aerie, and The Great American Poetry Show.

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a smile on it that won’t quit.
And this gal, let me tell you, she laughs—
out loud and often. She cracks herself

up. Talk about sassy, she has her way
with my emails, chats on the phone
in a chipper voice I don’t recognize—

sounds sort of flirty to me. She doesn’t
stay within boundaries, shows up
at my workplace, jokes with the Director,

even makes the curmudgeon at the front desk
grin—no one’s seen that happen, ever.
Stranger still, she considers herself cute.

Good, God, imagine such thoughts
at sixty-three. The other night
I heard her mention something

about a date. That’s when I caught her
dancing around the house in my robe
to some old Cat Stevens’ tune. She didn’t even

flinch when she flashed the hall mirror
a full frontal view and announced—
not bad for an old broad!

Pat West calls Portland, OR home, for now. Her work appears in Labyrinth: Poems and Prose, An Eye for an Eye Makes the Whole World Blind: Poets on 9/11, Listening to the Birth of Crystals, and various webzines.

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Jessica is nineteen and lives in Cayuse, OR. She has been writing since she was thirteen and is now starting on an English degree at BMCC. She writes about whatever she is thinking or feeling and she loves it.

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Old men carry in their canes,
Coffee extra black, ma’am,
And she taps the sugar bowl empty,
I observe, my eyes dancing among
The shelves of jarred jelly and
The lemon-spray scent of
Wood rotting, steady drip-drop,
Ceiling leaking like a faucet,
A dust-bunny brine of surplus treasure.

And my grandmother,
Never young in her rubber sandals,
Bobby-pins swimming the net
Of gray on black,
I watch her hands, wrinkled but steady,
Examine a can of beans,
Twenty-five cents, you can’t beat that,
And I swat at a lone knat,
His legs kneading a path through my arm hair.

I remember the days of my girlhood,
how my hands would finger
the magazine display shelves
Against the roaming eyeball
Of my fathers’ inhibitions,
Like a microscopic memory,
I’d carry the captions and headlines
Home with me: ten days to new you,
How to drive men crazy in bed,
New fall fashions, blond-lady in a red mini.

Hidden between my breasts,
Two flat areolas of immaturity,
And the thrifty feel of my wool sweater,
I’d slide those secrets of sophistication
Into my closet, two shelves below my shirts,
Three boxes back where the words gathered,
Because virgin Christian girls
Weren’t supposed to wear tight blue jeans,
Writing poetry under maple trees,
About backseats and football game bleachers.
We were never supposed to know
The six steps of a sizzling romance,
Twenty rules to a healthy sex life,
And of the one-night stands in Spain.

Stacy Lynn Mar is a twenty-something poet who also dabbles in the occasional piece of fiction. She has been published in various e-zines, some including The Beat and Mastodon Dentist. She was also published three years annually in her college literary magazine, The Cut-Thru Review. Stacy currently has published one book, titled Anonymous Confessions, and expecting the release of her second book, titled Deeper Than Pink, in Summer of ‘09. She is also editor of the e-zine Muse Cafe Quarterly. She loves nothing more than a tall glass of tea and some good literature! You can learn more about Stacy and her writing at www.stacylynnmar.com

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You must learn to trust
He says to me
And listen to the melody
It will be in My time
That you will see
How I will add the harmony

Of a kindred soul to share the dance
But you must be willing to take the chance
To learn alone, to step in time
With the rhythm of My love sublime
For I create the song you sing
When all your cares to Me you bring

The joy I give creates the flow
That begins from deep within your soul
And follows through into your steps
Which begin to dance, and with My help
You trust and thank Me for each day
Knowing I am leading all the way

I know your heart, your wants, your needs
It is you who must follow
And I who must lead
Then lovingly
I will add one more
To dance with you across the floor

To move through time
And share the dance
But you must be willing
To take the chance
To trust the One who creates the song
For it is to Me you truly belong.

B.C. is a full time student / MTSU and School bus driver (20 years)

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By the window there is a young girl, about twenty-five. She’s lovely. Her long hair is tied up in that haphazard yet stylish way that only the young and beautiful can pull off. She sips a huge frozen coffee with whipped cream on top. I can tell by looking at her that she has never had to watch her weight.

The girl is reading a book, but it’s a little while before I can catch a glimpse of the cover. Then I see it. Ah, it’s chick lit. Of course. Her cell phone rests on the table as she sips and reads.

It’s not long before her phone blares a couple bars of a hip-sounding song. She answers it without drawing her attention from the book. But then her voice softens into a coo. It is obviously her boyfriend on the line.

“Hey, baby,” she says. “Just sitting here at Mancini’s, having one of those coffee slushy things, you know.” She pauses, her face scrunching slightly. “Of course, I’m alone. Who do you think would be sitting here with me? No, I’m not doing anything, just sitting here reading a book.” She finally sets the book down and picks up the cup with her right hand. After taking another slurp of the icy, thick beverage, she asks, “So, what are you doing?”

The disapproval that appears on her face is evident from across the room. “Why do you hang out with that loser? He doesn’t even have a job. He’s so lame.”

Another pause. “Honey, I know you’ve been friends since junior high. But can’t you see how different you are? You went to college. You’re a successful businessman, an up-and-coming marketing whiz. What is he? Just unemployed, fat, and stupid.”

Her irritation shows in the way she starts bouncing her leg up and down on the footrest of the stool.

“Fine, whatever. You boys have fun then. Do you want to get together later?” She sets the cup down too harshly, causing slush to escape the lid and make a small puddle on the table. The girl’s smile twists into something not happy. “Oh, I didn’t realize you guys would be out so late. Well, maybe Jewel and I will get together, see a movie or something.”

“Okay, maybe I will.” It’s clear she doesn’t want to talk to him anymore. “Alright, Ben. You have fun with that loser pal of yours. I’ll talk at ya tomorrow. Okay, fine. No it’s cool. Everything’s cool. Have fun. Yeah, I love you too. See you tomorrow.”

She snaps the phone shut and grunts, “Huh.” She’s too annoyed to start reading again. Instead she drums her fingers on the table.

Then she notices the suited hottie a couple tables away. Her agitated movements stop and she is perfectly still as a smile blooms on her pretty face.

Following her eye, I note that he has dark hair, a fancy Italian-looking suit, and an iPhone prominently displayed on the table in front of him.

Their eyes meet. He wraps a hand around his coffee mug. He doesn’t bring it to his lips though. Instead he says, “Hey.”

“Hey,” she replies, then coyly sucks icy beverage through a straw.

In that moment I know Ben is history.

Selena Thomason writes mostly science fiction, but sometimes feels called to other genres. She has had more than twenty stories published in magazines such as bending spoons, Every Day Fiction, Anathema, The Literary Bone, AlienSkin Magazine, and VerbSap. Selena is also Managing Editor of MindFlights magazine. Her published works are available at http://selenathomason.com/.

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Carmen Eichman has written three novels, the first published, When The Ugly Comes, has been hailed as an adult version of Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird. Carmen traveled extensively as a military colonel’s daughter and studied for eight years under the impressive auspices of master fiction writer, Leonard Bishop, Dare To Be A Great Writer. Earning her Master’s Degree in Creative Writing and Literature from Kansas State University. Carmen  is an Assistant Professor of English, Virginia. Her blog is: http://bellafairre.blogspot.com

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I want a house with mirror-glassed windows,
So I can forever walk the rooms naked,
A naturalist in my toes, tanned of sun,
I’d fill the rooms of my flesh, careless
The intrusion of a peeping Tom,
Eyes level to my summer lover, secrets shared.

I want a house built on stilts, apparition in air,
The sills filled with pink-candied hearts,
where the hummingbird dips her head to taste,
Lazy Boy recliner by the kitchen picture window
Where I can rest my hands to catch the rain,
Mediterranean falling through my fingers.

I want my living room to house a rose garden,
No harsh carpet to burn my heels or knees,
A few scattered dandelions, daffodils, sunflowers,
only the tender breeze of my breath to touch their petals.
Leather couch my center stage, a literati display
Where poets like Anne Sexton can sit barefoot,
Marlboro dangling, words falling, incarnating.

Stacy Lynn Mar is a twenty-something poet who also dabbles in the occasional piece of fiction. She has been published in various e-zines, some including The Beat and Mastodon Dentist. She was also published three years annually in her college literary magazine, The Cut-Thru Review. Stacy currently has published one book, titled Anonymous Confessions, and expecting the release of her second book, titled Deeper Than Pink, in Summer of ‘09. She is also editor of the e-zine Muse Cafe Quarterly. She loves nothing more than a tall glass of tea and some good literature! You can learn more about Stacy and her writing at www.stacylynnmar.com

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Patricia Wellingham-Jones has a longtime interest in ‘healing writing’ and the benefits people gain from writing and reading their work together. Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: Poems About Breast Cancer, Voices on the Land, and End-Cycle, poems about caregiving.

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