For more from our members, follow their blogs:

Headley Hauser

Will Wright

Courtney Annicchiarico

Judy Mehl

The Last Time Jess Fredrick Went Hunting

Tony Wayne Brown

Fifteen-year-old Jess Fredrick, his beagle Molly, and the others got picked up along the winding dirt road by Zeb Vance, oldest of the group at seventeen, the rest all sixteen. Excitement was in the air to them, and the game they sought were rabbits that would mean food on the tables in their cheaply-built Plymouth Coal houses, squatting on the high bank overlooking the Kanawha River. "Jenny Linds," folks called them, little more than barns with rusty tin roofs.

Jerry McCrary--with matching red hair and eyebrows--rode up front with Zeb. Jess and his cousins, Robert and Paul, enjoyed the fresh air from the back of the rusty '38 Dodge pickup, sitting on the pen holding the dogs, which walked in anxious circles.

A fine day in the hills of West Virginia it was to the friends heading toward Hawk Hollow for a carefree day of hunting like every November Saturday, brightly-colored autumn leaves scattering behind the truck. A robin glided from a pine tree to the roadside.

Read more here . . .

USAF veteran Tony Wayne Brown USAF veteran Tony Wayne Brown, a graduate of East Carolina University’s Communications program, is a former journalist whose fiction has been published more than fifty-five times, including Huffington Post, Main Street Rag, Vestal Review, cahoodaloodaling, Foliate Oak, Birmingham Arts Journal, MoonMagazine, Black Mirror, Infective Ink, Gemini, The Story Teller, Short-Story Me, Long & Short Review, Long Story Short, Whortleberry Books, Sleeping Cat Books, The Write Place at the Write Time, and Every Writers Resource. Brown, who writes out of Greenville, N.C., is currently working on the psychological thriller, “A Love Story For Sharon.”

Locker of Lost Dreams

Bryna Kranzler

At a stage in life when my friends and their husbands were buying second homes or visiting their adult children, I was starting over, going through a divorce that required me to sell my house and most of its contents. Whatever I chose to keep had to fit into a fifty square-foot storage locker, a size chosen based on how much I was willing to pay rather than how much space I needed for the remnants of over thirty years of married life. Each time I slid aside the mesh grate, unlocked the padlock, and rolled up the corrugated metal door of the storage unit, I was assaulted by the exhalation of the memories accumulated within. And each time I added a box to storage, I removed another that I realized I couldn’t afford to keep.

Though I’d jettisoned so many formerly beloved objects, my storage unit was nearly overflowing with items my sons, both young men, had asked me to preserve for them. And while I (and even they) knew that by the time they had homes of their own, they likely wouldn’t want their old football jerseys or fingerboard skate parks, I wouldn’t preemptively impose that forfeiture upon them. After all, the divorce, the sale of our home, and the dissolution of the family unit were losses for them, too.

Read more here . . .

Bryna Kranzler

Bryna Kranzler is a graduate of Barnard College (BA, Playwriting) and Yale University School of Management (MBA). She is the author of the historical biography, The Accidental Anarchist, and the forthcoming reference book: 9 Critical Steps to Successful Self-Publishing.

The Ghost of Waterstreet

Gerry Quirke

One Monday morning in a small house on a quiet street in a town in West Cork Ireland, Mrs Kelly woke up, or did she. When she opened her eyes, she realized something was wrong. The room was strange, there was a lighted candle on either side of the bed, and her rosary beads were wrapped around her hands. At the side of the bed her fifty five year old son was kneeling, beads in his hands, tears in his eyes and reciting the rosary. ‘I’m dead’ she thought. At her age she knew that some morning she would not wake up in this world. ‘But why am I not in heaven? Something is wrong. She moved her hands and legs. ‘I am alive!’ she shouted, ‘Larry, thank Jesus I’m alive’, but he didn’t hear her. She reached over and touched him .He didn’t react. She got out of the bed slowly, and very carefully walked over to him. She hugged him saying ‘my darling boy your mother is alive’. Still, she got no reaction. She walked around the room and watched him praying and saw tears were running down his cheeks. She cried out again, ‘I’m here Lar!’, but he still couldn’t hear her. ‘I must be a ghost’ she thought, ‘but why? Jesus help me I’m stuck between this world and the next.’

Read more here . . .

Gerry Quirke

Gerry Quirke lives in West Cork Ireland.He is a traditional musician and storyteller. He has been doing creative writing for the past two years. In some of his writing he is trying to capture the essence of the old Irish story telling tradition.


Richard Luftig
(Be yourself: Everybody else has already been taken-Oscar Wilde)

Samuel Clemens had problems
you know on choosing his,
tossing this way and that,
betwixt and be-twain
then finally taking aim
on one based on a river sounding.
And Dr. Seuss too. For who would
take serious or consider mysterious
a guy with a moniker like Geisel
who wrote of hats and cats
and good luck, or meisel-tov
with finding anything
which rhymes with that.
Let’s remember Amantine Dupin
who dressed like a man and wrote so much
romantic gush about the Sands of time
if you will, by George,
and had affairs with Chopin,
hopin’ to make her husband jealous
when she had them with lots of other fellas
right up until they day she died.
And then there’s me, whose poetry
is so obscure that I cannot secure
its printing in any book or get the local library
branch to not forget to take a look
and place it in their hometown author stack,
though my lack of fame I can only account
to my name that defies all rhyme and possess
no iambic bounce that one might manage to pronounce.
So pick me a pseudonym Sam:
I Am all ears for a name that grabs
attention. But know that I require one
without pretention: Nancy, Cuthbert,
Harris, Ira, any old name will do.
From Sand’s Paris or Twain’s Elmira
it makes no matter to me just so
it does the trick, sticks in one’s mind,
trips across the tongue among my readers.
But please not one that contains no rests
like trochees, dactyls, anapests
or some still unnamed poetic meters.

Richard Luftig   is a professor emeritus of educational psychology and special education at Miami University in Ohio who now resides in California. He is a recipient of the Cincinnati Post-Corbett Foundation Award for Literature and a semi- finalist for the Emily Dickinson Society Award. His poems have appeared in numerous literary journals in the United States and internationally in Japan, Canada, Australia, Europe, Thailand, Hong Kong and India. One of his poems was nominated for the 2012 Pushcart Poetry Prize.