Waking from a Nightmare I am awash in the terrible seas of the night; dream waves lift me and drop me. Every hollow is a deep pit: water for drowning is its floor and I am sure to go under. Gold could be lead in this lack of light, and the sea so big no one could measure its changes. I am rising through blacknesses, drowned in the bleak shutting out of even the sheer blasts of the weather. And as I am rising, utterly lost, the dark water leaching my last warmth you are there soft in the bed beside me, the mercy of your flesh draped exactly on your skeleton. Your body posits axioms of warmth as you draw breath, confident as the geometer in the sand, and though the soldier strike you…

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Not only had Kimmy visited star systems far beyond the ken of her race, but she had left behind, in all viable places, descendants who copulated fruitfully and who lived twice the natural life span of her species. Though she had wished for a corner of the community chambers, what she had been granted was something far more wondrous. The adventure began when Kimmy returned home between trips of campers. There were three shifts and she was on payroll for the entire summer. Though both Ross and Dad had written to her, there was nothing like her familiar hibernaculum to ease her to sleep or to bring on handsome dreams. Sadly, Dad’s handwriting was becoming increasingly illegible. Like many great omnivores before him, he suffered from a combination of Fatty Liver Disease, Lethargy, and The…

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Her name rolls off my tongue like a sweet puff of smoke. She is a potent mix of innocence and caution with vibrant black hair, smooth alabaster skin and a slender willowy frame. She seems completely unaware of her own beauty. And she is here, in my apartment. She was reluctant, at first, to stop by. She had heard far too much about me from a misguided co-worker who had raised the red flag. She wouldn’t say his name, but I knew who did the trash-talking. When time permits, I’ll have a little chat with him, make sure he knows not to stick his nose in my business. She stood there, yesterday afternoon, in the drab grey-carpeted hallway of our stuffy downtown Syracuse office building, her body swaying, reluctance in her soft voice as she…

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  Wavelength Oh how I wish I was them The two humans linked together As one, pressing fingers together, creating The invisible spark Shooting across hearts, into starry eyes. You can practically see how Their heart beats sync together, until Every beat is the echo of another. She breathes out, He breathes in Her heart thumps, His replies, now connected In the same electrical wavelength Like man made magic, strummed together In the heavens above, reenacted on this earth Below. And as I see them falling farther Into the love I crave I want to hold Your hand.     Cold Morning Here I sit in the early hours of the morning Listening to the birds squawk And the clocks clang The world is waking up— Who said mornings were quiet? Silence was not an…

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Roland looked both ways, then trotted across the street with the flower pots under his arm. He climbed the stairs to the porch along the back side of Sissy’s apartment building and set the pots down among everything else he’d brought—several flats of marigolds, pansies and petunias—then went to work, quickly dividing the flowers and arranging them in the pots, carefully watering each when he was finished and lining the five full colorful pots along the edge of the porch. He paused to catch his breath and frowned down at the backyard—the thick lawn choked with crabgrass, clover and dandelions, clumps of choke cherry bushes gnarled and bent as arthritic old bones. Inside Sissy had fruit punch and a bowl of chips ready for him on the kitchen table. “Thanks Dad, but Jesus you didn’t…

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Sitting in his car outside Omar and Mary Broadhurst’s house, Reverend Sizemore hesitated. It was 12:20. Maybe he should eat lunch first. He was a big man with a big appetite, constantly tempted by the women in his congregation with cakes and cookies and pies and friend chicken and, oh, on and on, and because of his high blood pressure, he’d fight these temptations to the point of rudeness sometimes. But he did not like to delay regular meals. Still, the visit to the Broadhursts shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. Go in ask how Omar was doing, say a short prayer, get out of Dodge. He got out of his car, strode up to the front door, and rang the doorbell. Almost immediately Mary Broadhurst opened the door. She must have been standing…

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The Blue Writer Editor’s Note: The Fictional Café was created with the old coffee shops of the 60s in mind. Back then, they weren’t just a place to grab a cup of joe on your way to work. They were hubs of social activity where poets would read to a captive audience, artists would hang their thought-provoking work and musicians would perform to set the mood. When we came across Phil’s work, we were instantly reminded of the archetype that our Café was build upon. From music to art to poetry, Phil is a one-man show. We hope you enjoy immersing in this café experience. * * *   “Life On Earth”     The Misplaced Journey I’ve lost it. I’m lost. Two roads diverged in the disappearance of the would have been I’m back…

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Editor’s Note: Judith’s short story is intercut with some of her own paintings, including the featured image above. * * * Winter has its way with Boston, Massachusetts; it captures and enslaves the place. The deadly cold, the snow and ice, the gloom, creep in and take over. Cars, windows, doors, all freeze hard. Snowplows, salt, shovels, tire chains, even ski poles emerge. The city succumbs, then accepts, bears down, fights on. Yet the still young enough enjoy it. Some college girls and boys, or as they like to be known, college women and men, revert to being girls and boys again. Ironic, but true. Some ski, some skate. There are sleigh rides. They have fun in the snow. A certain young woman, however, was not one of these winter revelers. Heather Ellen came from…

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Editor’s Note: Our latest installment in our Children’s Literature Issue is a short story about a girl who uses her burden help a new friend escape danger. Illustrations by Jennifer Bolten McDonough. * * * Mirror Girl Mercy, a thin girl with long dark hair climbed out of bed. Her mirrored body reflected the grey, stormy clouds from outside the window onto the gloomy bedroom walls. Mercy’s entire body was covered with sharp pieces of mirror, glued to her like shards of armor. Only her head, soft and pink, bobbed out from the glass. From a distance, she looked like a walking Christmas ornament. Today, like every day, she would spend the day reading at home, alone. She flinched as she walked towards the library, the pieces of glass digging into her flesh. She opened…

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Editor’s Note: This one’s just for the parents. Betsy’s poem takes the classic nursery rhyme “Hey Diddle Diddle” and puts a new, PG-13 twist on what the cat, dog, moon, dish and spoon may have been thinking that fateful night when so many fantastical events transpired. * * * Hey Diddle   hey diddle (the dish thought) what have we here – you don’t see a leg like that anymore. i want that to tap my well – what a line, so classy. i love a good party.   hey diddle (the spoon thought) here’s something – lovely and round with wide hips and smile. i want that to fill my bowl – how sturdy, how fun. i’m so glad i’m here.   these gigs suck crickets (the cat thought) the costume uncomfortable – the…

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