I told no one. Not my parents, not my older sister, not my little brother. I locked myself in the bathroom while my mother stirred tomato sauce and tasted spaghetti (we did not like al dente).
Tag: Creative Writing
On Visiting My Elderly Parents After Lockdown — Mark Czanik
A sprinkling of much needed rain has fallen overnight, and some of the roses have left broken mosaics of red and yellow petals on Dad’s newly cut lawn. Ideal conditions.
COMFORT FOODS // Homegrown — Nadine Alm
For a while I would obsess over how I could make my London plot look less like itself and more like the one I’d walked through as a child on summer holidays.
ONE POEM – Susan Calvillo
goat cheese cannoli with garden gem tomatoes & a floral salad
a hot croquette with apple compote, pumpernickel, & sherbet
blackberry compote on a throne of chocolate mousse
a slice of seasonal pumpkin spice cake
all go to waste
ONE POEM – Ella Sadie Guthrie
other poets will fall at my feet
cover their cheekbones in cream cheese
for me to lay stale crackers on their noses.
ONE POEM — Louise McStravick
We look up to her, I’ll teach you how
it works she says to the ram’s head, the birds eye
her mouth devouring snake heads
ONE POEM — Diane Fahey
a frieze of lacemakers
intricately at work
beneath the bay’s
array of scintilla –
ONE POEM — Florence Campbell-Gray
My name is June; you have to say it like ‘sex’
softly bright
like it’s a pink toaster
COMFORT FOODS // Reheating Leftovers – Bojana Stojcic
Reheating Leftovers And there you wereletting the world know you’d betemporarily unavailableagainthinking, All I can do now iswait for the clocks to tickhalf past six because thenthe door is opened andstays open untilthe blood has been takenout of the bodiesgiven a brief stirput back in or your hate of the present brings you to the…
Right There — Lily Blacksell
‘Your place or mine?’ he typed, adding then deleting a winky face and pressing send.
‘Neither,’ she replied very quickly, adding ‘obviously.’
ONE POEM – Ross Thompson
Beneath the light of a bashful demilune,
the water appears quite black, like blood on snow.
ONE POEM – Holly Conant
Last night they were alive again, flying through the air at break-bone speed, but they didn’t break.
