by Deborah Doolittle
That it should come to this
opposite of bliss. This more than
mellow recognizance of things past
their prime, outmoded, out
of date, out of style, fashion, service,
and long past usefulness. Left sitting,
standing, or rolled up onto one side,
our collective sighs are not from
contentment. Once we were the stuff
from which dreams were made of.
Our day dreams and our nightmares
share the same theme.
Filed under Poetry
by Beth Escott Newcomer
You are standing with the porch light behind you, casting a shadow on the steps. I can see you’re holding the letter. I left it out on the kitchen table in plain sight, and yet I’m still surprised you noticed it, let alone cared to read it.
Filed under Fiction
by Darren Demaree
for Kelly Morse
Every berry
has an accent
if you give it
a chance
to speak.
Sugar can Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Tamara Moan
My neighbor calls it my “stripper job.” I drop my clothes to pose nude for figure drawing classes. It’s not as titillating as it sounds. I sit as still as possible on a hard stool in a drafty room, eyes focused on a grimy spot on the paint-spattered wall, trying my best to ignore the itch on my nose or the cramp in my right calf.
Filed under Nonfiction
by Chrys Tobey
Made of paper and popsicle sticks. Made of sadness.
This part carries my past loves. This part has my childhood,
my shame. This part holds my loss. I am sailing it down
a stream of rainwater. I have painted it orange because someone
I once loved wore this color. I don’t know if you’ll ever find it.
Maybe you will, but you won’t want it. Maybe you’ll be too afraid. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
Hawaii Pacific Review 