Author: Every Writer

She said, “This is crazy.” She looked at me. “Isn’t this crazy?”

I shrugged. I thought that, sure, maybe it was a little crazy. But I thought it was exciting, too. Crazy or not, I thought it might be crazier if we parted ways and never saw each other again.

David Lohrey grew up in Memphis. His poetry can be found in Otoliths, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Easy Street and Quarterday. In addition, recent poems

Gone but Not Forgotten by Carol M. Gore. Carol lives in Victoria, BC, Canada, and when not writing, work in labour relations for the provincial government.

While the apartment phone rings over and over, the couple cooks awkwardly trying not to involve eye contact with each other. Her shinny blue eyes are fixed on the onion she is chopping,

I was assembled anonymously according to traditions. I fail to realize my identity. My memory is cyclically deleted. I’m a symbiotic specialized adaption for systematic kinetic force. I have been eaten and I’ve consumed anything radiating energy forces

“Here, give her to me. I’ll take her.”

A nurse snatches my baby at the threshold as though I’m a delivering a bundle of laundry. Her statement, brusque, devoid of emotion, and her manner, business-like. This woman is obviously in charge.

I cradled her beautiful face in my hands. Her big blue eyes looked up at me and her smile shined radiantlywith the glowing light bouncing off her white teeth.

Mrs. Petersen knew what they were doing up the road. Mr. Baum had a good idea, too. He was the town baker and although he worked a lot he still heard the rumors.