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…

Continue reading →

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…

Continue reading →

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…

Continue reading →

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…

Continue reading →

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…

Continue reading →