The Small and The Wonky's Anecdote
The Small and The Wonky's Anecdote
By Romain Barriaux
By Kevin Ridgeway
He emits an endless stream
of unedited thoughts,
his voice poring over
the histories of his life,
while dipping a stale chip
in a dollop of braunschweiger
to match the spice of speech
he reaches a crescendo of
his mood’s maladies
screaming at the autumn sun
and racing across the
hissing grasses with these
grabbing a pinch of olives
and spitting the pits out
in a machine gun rat-a-tat
to match the words that
flow so easily and recklessly
from his brilliant yet
fatigued mind for all to
ponder for so many seasons
Quills & Quails
By QB Quill
the dew sparkled, caught
revealing the web, yet still
beauty passed over
why the lonely call
of the mourning dove in the
sunshine, breaking hearts?
Plum Flower Deer
By Yoho Hang Yue and Crush
The Arrival of the King
By Chris Whitley
I recognised him as soon as I walked into the cafe. I ducked in out of a summer downpour, and he was sitting alone at one of the formica tables facing the door. Although our eyes met, there wasn't a trace of recognition on his part. Nor should there have been, after all, a little arithmetic told me it had been around forty five years since we last saw each other. Back then, I had been an insignificant little boy; just one of his friend's little brothers.
I took a coffee and sat at a table to one side but facing him where I could take him in unnoticed. Although he must have been in his sixties, he hadn't changed much. He still had all his hair and that sparkle in his eye.
I knew, that if I were to walk over there and tell him who I was, he would then remember me. He would probably say, 'yeah, so you're one of Billy's raggy-arsed little brothers! you must be the nosey one!' He probably wouldn't remember that first visit to our house, which has stuck so firm and yet so fresh in my mind for all these years. I felt I wouldn't be able to express how back then he had instigated such a shift in a young boy's world. And, oh, how often I've thought of that fateful day he first appeared.
Before that time nothing interesting ever seemed to happen in the street I grew up in; well, nothing that was life changing anyway. Everyone in the area was so hard up -- life tended to be lived within the narrow limits of pay-day to pay-day. It was the nineteen fifties, the place; a slum, hellish, beyond black! And it seemed to me, that I was living in a closed stifling little time-capsule -- as if it were all there was; no outside world!
But like Marquez's Macondo, later some things did find their way in from the big outside world. Somethings seeped slowly in over years, while others just smashed their way in overnight! And it was one such smashing entrance, so to speak, which gave the boy, I was then, a weird but wonderful shock! But also, a priceless gift, and it was brought to me by this man.
By Maxime Paccalet and Kawanimation
By Brian W. Porter
Shadows began to materialize from the flat gray of dawn as nine men sat around a small fire and drank an aromatic brew. Dew adhered to the leaves, humidity collected from the air, humidity that also chilled the skin of the hunters. The day would be comfortable later, but for now they welcomed the hot liquid.
Webber, the youngest person at the fire, drew in the steam from his cup. He tried to analyze the aroma of the tea, to identify the different ingredients from the smell. Occasionally he could smell the ingredients his mother used when she cooked dinner, but this concoction was difficult. His cup had cooled by the time he gave up.
He asked the person who had brewed the tea, "Dennis, what's in this tea?"
The young apprentice healer, just two years older than Webber, looked up from the pouch in his hand. "Different plants. It wakes you up in the morning. Gets you going. Warms you up if you drink it right away. Why?"
"Just curious," Webber answered quickly. He didn't want to give away his interest in women's work, or possibly the Healer's duty.
He asked, "Can you tell me how it's made?"
Stuart, the lead hunter for the village, threw the last of his tea into the woods and growled, "You two watch how much noise you make. And stay out of the way. Don't want to heal the healer, or the learner, or have them spook the prey."
He pointed at several of the hunters and grunted. They emptied their cups, placed them in their packs stacked near a tree, and silently melted into the woods. Stuart pointed and growled at two more. They also stored their gear and loped off between the trees.
Stuart glared around the camp, noted what was finished and ready, and what was not. The Chief Hunter growled at Dennis, "Coat those arrows. Now." He grabbed his pack and followed the last two hunters.
By Belle Byrd
Where are the virgin woods of my youth?
Their wild honeysuckle and playful vine?
Their sycamore, maple, oak, and sweet pine?
Where are the emerald forests I once knew?
Their delicate leaves and dying logs?
Their tender toadstools and little frogs?
Where are the fairy bogs of my youth?
Their water nymphs and weeping willows?
Their snaking ivy and pixie pillows?
Where are the secret swamps I once knew?
Their sinking pebbles and blackened mud?
Their newts and many-a hyacinth bud?