“The Boy in Search of His Mother” by Dalton Palmer

Every foggy morning on my way to work, there’s a little boy standing on the sidewalk right outside of my apartment door, his head looking up while his eyes were lost in the clouds. Almost every day that I catch sight of him, I want to stop and talk to him to make sure he is alright, but I’m constantly running late to work. Tomorrow I plan to wake up early so I can talk to the boy, but sitting in a narrow blank gray cubical at a computer covered in years of dust on it for 12 hours straight turns me into a salty snail. On the bright side, the memories I don’t want to remember start to blur. When I get home at six at night, I usually watch reruns of whatever is on. Tonight, I plan on going straight to bed, so I can talk to that little boy in the morning.



As I wake up, I make my way to the unkempt kitchen, open the blue dusty curtain with my index finger just enough to see if the little boy is on the sidewalk. As I suspected, the little boy stood in the exact spot with a similar look from the day before and the day before that. I slip on my black house slippers, put on my wedding ring, look at the picture of my wife on the wall, and make my way toward my front door. The door’s white paint is starting to fade and there’s a screech that could make a monk lose his mind coming from the rusted door hinges: metal grinding together with metal. I mentioned this to the landlord, but he most likely won’t repair it. As I walk down the rickety wooden stairs outside of my apartment, I approach the little boy. He mumbles the word “mommy.” The boy looks up out of the corner of his eyes at me. His eyes are blue like the sky right before the day expires.
“Hello, young man.”
I can barely hear his response as he replies.
“Hello, mister.”
“Ya know, every day I go to work I see you in that exact spot looking up into the sky with your mind lost within it. Do you care to tell me why?”
“My daddy told me that my mommy was going to always be in the sky watching me, but every time I look into the sky and ask my mommy to talk to me, she don’t answer.”
Clinching my fist, I swallow the storm, drop to one knee, and look into his eyes. My mouth opens, but my throat tries to swallow the words.
“My wife and your mommy are both in the sky watching us. They can watch us, but they cannot talk to us.”
The little boy’s eye lids separate from each other, with one eyebrow slightly raised higher than the other, as his face begins to turn the color of a strawberry.
“They can’t talk to us because then they wouldn’t be able to protect us any longer.”
“But I don’t want my mommy to protect me any longer. I want to show her what I made for her in class.”
“I know how you feel bud, but we both have to learn to accept it for now. One day you will get to see your mommy and I will get to see my wife; then we can show them everything that we have done for them.”
Every day, I think about ending all the memories. I’m a 30-year-old man whose 29-year-old wife passed away, whole weeks going by as if I wasn’t even there because I’m stuck in memories, yet I am sitting here, telling a child, whose mind hasn’t even developed yet, to accept the death of his mother.
The little boy lets out a short breath from out of his mouth, looks down at the ground, then looks back at me.
“I hope one day you get to see your wife, and I get to see my mommy.”
“Me too, buddy; me to.”


Photo made available by Xavier Mouton Photographie via Unsplash


“Bigger Picture” by L. J. Callis

to be so occupied with
“the bigger picture”
one loses sight of
the little things,
this dismissal of detail
dulls the perception
of life’s craftsmanship,
nature in its entirety
is beautiful
but the smaller aspects of nature
make it so
life in its entirety
is beautiful
but the smaller aspects of life
make it so
trees, flowers, grass
days, moments, memories
beautiful works
are accumulations of
beautiful detail.
Photograph made available by pine watt via Unsplash

“Better Than Dead” by Dalton Palmer

I am on my feet;

boss on my back–

just won’t cut me any slack.

With only few hours of sleep,

Contemplating on taking this leap.

Not sure how I got down this path I was led.

All I know is that it is at least better than dead.

Sometimes I feel as if this hole is too steep.

At the end of the day I get go home–

hug the kids, hug the wife–

a place where I no longer feel alone.

It’s not always easy, yet I still love my life.

We’ve built something great, and it surely is shown.

Everyday, hanging on with all my might.


Photograph made available by Matthew Brodeur via Unsplash

“The Sleazy Politician’s Tale (in the style of Geoffrey Chaucer)” by Heather Chamberlain

For years he’s lived in confusion,

unable to escape the delusion

that he doesn’t belong here; he never did.

Despite his efforts, he’s unable to rid

himself of this sour cognition:

that something strange separates him

from the people he’s been with all this time.

Something’s permeated and poisoned his mind.

Whatever it is, it’s gamy and sweet—

replete of exhilarating self-conceit—

that seed of malice born of the core.

Like a user, he yearns for more.


From amongst the shadows he emerged one night,

wandering in a dark forest and in quite

a curious predicament he was in—

not knowing where he was or where he’d been,

or who he was. He thought, how odd,

when the ground began to rattle and out of the fog

appeared a circus caravan brilliantly lit,

and they welcomed the drifter—a fellow misfit.

Virtuous people will do all that they can

to lend a fellow man a helping hand,

but ahead, bleak Destiny awaited;

that fearsome Huntress had them all baited.


He was as blissful as they of the depth of his nature,

but one’s heart can often be fooled by behavior.

The man’s goodness and honor were surely fictitious,

but his companions never became remotely suspicious

of his mysterious arrival that was quite dismaying.

They all had pasts not worth relaying.

In fact, they found the man extremely enchanting:

young, charismatic, and commanding.

They wanted his leadership and made up their mind.

They devised a plan and in no time

the old ringmaster was executed,

and the disease of power was rooted.


Photograph made available by Lukasz Szmigiel via Unsplash

“The Cold Winter Winds” by Luna Neira

The day Alex left, it became autumn

Only grief and sorrow could follow

I thought without her I was at rock bottom

Empty, soulless, above all hollow


Was it guilt or regret

I fell for another but was only a kiss

Did it drive me away or was she a threat?

From fiancee to a mere miss


But to Emily I am love and joy–

I am a shining beacon in a darkened abyss.

Our time together I’ve come to enjoy,

and now together we are it’s become pure bliss


She made me her Luna, her moon,

and somehow, she became my sun, my stars

The night we kissed I could tell that I was swoon

But I was imprisoned in my own bars.


But I am free, flying high above the sorrow

just as the leaves flutter down in the wind.

For it seems like winter is but tomorrow,

bringing its chilling winds, snowflakes descend.


The cold winter is upon us;

While I’m in love, I must confess my greatest sin:

I seem to be no better than Gus

sickly, ill, and a fool who felt love within.


Even if I am her moon

and I have no bars.

It seems no matter how I swoon,

there is a fault in my stars.


Photograph made available by David Dibert via Unsplash


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