Contributor: Amanda Firefox

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You know the woman who was standing in the coffee shop last Sunday,

Watching you,

That was me.

Watching you, admiring you, your beauty, loving you, hoping you would notice, hoping you wouldn’t.

I love you, want you, need you.

How do I put this?

How do I not sound desperate?

I’m not desperate,

I just love you, love you. . .

And I’m too afraid to talk to you.

I guess that you’re just going to have to make the first move.

If I don’t just reach out and rip your clothes off first.


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Amanda Firefox is a fiery little brunette who spends as much time at the beach as she can manage. She doesn't write much, but when she writes, it's almost always about her favorite subject: boys.

Contributor: John Ogden

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Life is full of games
but not with us
not between us

The jokesters tease, poke and sing
weave hoop after hoop
to leap through,
to dodge
to cry out against
when they catch you
in a loop
of legalese.

Roll the dice each day,
each moment
and move your piece from space to space
draw your cards,
read the text
feel the bite of failure
the cool wash
of success

But not here,
not with us,
not between us.

Between us,
All is love.
All is light.


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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

Contributor: E.S. Wynn

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He runs, she follows. She runs, he follows. In the cold, dark streets, they reach, fingers tangling, catching as feet cascade broken noise into the distance.

When they run apart, the world is a beast, towering and cruel, every concrete facade a jaw of jagged teeth reaching the sky, tearing the sky.

When they run together, the world is a meadow, honey-washed in liquid light. Cracked asphalt is a heaven of heat. Gray glass is alive, an eye sliding with the colors of sun as they run. Every doorway becomes a haven, every café an Eden, every passing raining day a blessing brought down by the hands of happy gods.

In the smile-spotted silence, the world moves with liquid laughs, carries the rising fall of quilted mountains and waterfall waves of drifting, darkened hair as cheek rests to chest, rests smile to skin, rests and is silent again.

His hand in her hand, the world gives way, gives way to a dream of both as one.


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E.S. Wynn is the author of over 30 novels, the founder of Thunderune Publishing, and the chief editor of Weirdyear, Linguistic Erosion and Daily Love.

Contributor: E.S. Wynn

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Hot, wet– how it always begins,
The straining, the need, the hands,
The subtle tang of burnt flesh
Crawling along surging tongue, brushing desperate lips
Wildfire spreading from your chest
To mine
In a haze only tasted, leavings of something sensuously dark,
Carbon at it’s best, the blacksmith’s breath, as lovely and sadistic as it is
Exciting, arousing, the flavor of cauterized taboo,
Marking strength of soul like strength of hands,
Moving across my chest, my back, my hips
On other errands, each stroke and linger confident, assured
But they forget– it’s the desperate movement of coupled lips that does it– that taste.
Unforgettable.
As gorgeous and dark as your midnight hair, your native eyes.


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E.S. Wynn is the author of over 30 novels, the founder of Thunderune Publishing, and the chief editor of Weirdyear, Yesteryear Fiction and Daily Love.

Contributor: Glenda Grande

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A hollow heart, like a golden locket without a memory,
Is worn upon my chest; how can I fill this emptiness?
Words become void and emotions slowly fading away -
If I close my eyes and cry, will you catch my sapphire tears?

Let me tell you a story of how my heart was broken in two,
In two and in two again; scattered on the floor like rose petals.
I once fell in love with a shooting star whose love shone down:
A magnificent thing to behold; beautiful and everything I dreamed.

Bright as the purest truth, I wished to reach out for a touch;
But the night changed to day all too quick, in the season of autumn.
My heart locket fell from my chain and split itself upon a silver rock.
The shining stream of light, no longer visible in the the clarity of day;
The golden moment was lost – for how long, time can only tell.

A hollow heart, locked in a cage in the guise of this locket,
I hold it close to me in fear that it will break yet again. Again.
Tonight, I’ll lay upon these grassy plains and resume to stargaze.
My hand around the locket, I’ll hold it tightly with utmost care;
Close my eyes for a moment, take a deep breath of fresh air
And remember, that you are out there somewhere under this sky.


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Emotions written from the heart, this young woman writes a collection of literature by telling the tales of life with artful words. Her aim is to make people remember that being emotion-filled is only human. You can find more of her literary works on her website www.angellusion.com

Contributor: Zenn Wu

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In my hands, I hold a mirror
A portal to another now,
Another when.
Perched on the edge of nowhere,
There are still-frames of a family,
Of children and of lovers
Staring, touching, smiling, hugging
Warmth and safety leak from the glass,
Play golden and sweet in the cold, wet air
Of the night.

Some forgotten part of my mind
Knows exactly what to do
Knows the words to say,
The actions to take.
My hands tense.
Let the future come now.

“Okay.” I breathe,
And I hold the breath in the stillness.
I lick my lips, whisper the words
“I am ready.”

In a flash, the mirror cracks,
Shatters long, side to side.
In a rolling wave of light, it shifts
melts
changes
And then in my palm
There is only a mirrored key.
Out of the haze, a door rises like an obelisk,
A door to nowhere, to everything.
The key fits snugly in the lock
Turns easily, opens the way
To a golden time, a golden now
Lit with children’s laughter,
The happy sounds
Of love and joy.


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You do not have to know the Buddha to know Zenn.