Prose
Imposter in a gingerbread house . Top Story - November 2025.
I'm a little more than just trapped inside this gingerbread house, made of flour, butter, molasses, and aromatic spices. While I could eat my way through and out, I remain. Sitting on gumdrops, showering myself with M&Ms, whipped by licorice ropes. I am an imposter. I belong on the naughty list.
By Caitlin Charlton2 months ago in Poets
Never
Now I’m thinking about all the times you never saw me, when I didn’t even care. I became so me that I forgot about you, writing in my top-bound spiral notebooks on campus, on the lawn, stretched out on my blanket, barefoot, books and words and the music of the wind in the trees, friends dropping by to chat. Smoking and drinking coffee.
By Harper Lewis2 months ago in Poets
Memories That Winter's First Snow Brings.
The first winter snow arrives at 9.47 and the world seems to pause as if holding its breath. The slow drifting flakes open a doorway in memory and I return to the journals that waited in my old suitcase. Seven years fall away and I meet the voice I once carried. That voice wrote of promises and direction with a trembling certainty that surprised me even now.
By Cathy (Christine Acheini) Ben-Ameh.2 months ago in Poets
