Prose

The Reverse of Remembering
I stepped through a crack in the wind— not a door, not a dream, but something stitched between sighs. The world folded inward, then bloomed in reverse.
By Carolina Borges8 months ago in Poets
The Imposter
I am an artist who paints with Letters. Palettes of multicolored prisms, mixed to form Words. Brush strokes on blank canvases, create
By Kenny Penn8 months ago in Poets
Shipshape
How can you not see the ship going down? Do you actually believe your own propaganda? The commercials? The CEO? They say the store made millions last year.
By Meredith Harmon8 months ago in Poets
I know a bit about how memory works
It’s time to accept the inevitable idea of disappearing completely from your world. Even the wounds and scars I spent so much time and care trying to heal will eventually vanish.
By Juan Carlos Balderas8 months ago in Poets
the pride bus
Beauty is around me today because a woman on the bus says so. She says sorry for interrupting and it’s funny how that’s a conversation just the same. I tell her where I work and to ask for me if she comes by and I know her bus stop so it’s okay to share. When she gets off she complains everyone else is too loud (they are) and she’s a stranger so I forgive her. Customers tell me I complement myself and I gladly take credit for it. I say it’s day three without a wash and they differ because they’ll never see me again. It still feels like purpose swims through time because we all like beautiful things. Even when it’s trapped outside our skin. Even when it takes a stranger and the right lighting and it’s okay for me to say because I’ve never been good with performances. Just because I sound different doesn’t mean I am and just because the bus is loud doesn’t mean I can’t make a friend.
By Olivia Dodge8 months ago in Poets
My Childhood Home
My childhood home is crumbling. An underfunded museum, grants are few, and donations even less. A caretaker dodders through the space, preparing for visitors, though attendance remains perennially low. Local artists nailed to the gallery walls are little appreciated and fated only for further depreciation at the next garage sale. For security, there is a single long-haired cat who also handles pest control. She is constantly requesting a raise and commendations for sub-par service. Any furniture in the galleries is of unknown provenance and questionable construction. Beds are covered with sheets that smell of Downy and carcinogens. Stacked in the corners are dozens of crocheted blankets in every hue and pattern as if their thick presence alone could ward off the bite of winter. Layers of dust weigh on shoulder pads hung up in the Lost and Don’t Bother Finding. Behind vault doors are cracked frames and bits of things that might be useful someday. Banker’s boxes hold up the plaster walls, stuffed with the fading past and crinkled achievements of little note, dreaming of the day they’ll be audited.
By Sean A.8 months ago in Poets
We are the Heartbeat of LA. Content Warning.
I wrote this as I was watching the chaos on YouTube that is still happening in LA. I love LA. Copilot We Are the Heartbeat in LA
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 8 months ago in Poets
The Bangmaid
She doesn't say it out loud, because who would listen? - Of course she made the bed. Of course she put the dryer on so his clothes are warm and dry.
By Autumn Stew8 months ago in Poets
The Silence Beneath Her Smile
In the heart of a quiet little town, Lived a girl who never wore a frown. Her eyes sparkled like summer skies, But no one knew they masked her cries.
By TrueVocal8 months ago in Poets
Before the Final breath
They say death is our finality, The moment all things end, But it’s isn’t always thunderous, Not a scream, not a crash, not a fall, A quiet disappearance before we know it’s begun, A slow, steady, fading of life.
By Peace Oputa8 months ago in Poets
Analogy for Hens
What’s it say about me that returning to my rejections is the first time I’ve felt normal in a week. That despisement holds my hand and tells me when it’s clear to walk. That I show up at last call and get a meal for two. That I can’t feel my teeth after the first drink and I admire the ocean of friendship I already have in this new glass shack. It’s cold like the last one but I know it won’t be forever. They installed a heater for me and the hens out back so we can hatch the double yolked eggs in time for breakfast. What’s it say about us that providing life for life is just giving thanks. That we equate normalcy with any day the pain stays in one spot. Tell yourself it’s easier to ignore that way. Easier to walk with your eyes closed and let God decide your fate. Easier to go back to clay floors when glass straw just makes an eerie view from all sides. At least now you don’t have to look at the dirt. At least now you can say it’s all in your head.
By Olivia Dodge8 months ago in Poets
You Will Never Know. Top Story - June 2025.
You tried to kill me. Don’t try to deny it, the evidence is quite clear. It was close, my dear. Very, very close. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?
By Meredith Harmon8 months ago in Poets