“I told a lie the size of God’s hands, as long and as dark as the midnight between stars.”
by Deborah Clearman
When lightning strikes the tulip poplar, five hundred years of leaf lifting crashes into splinter wood, and several notables roll over in their graves.
by Cezarija Abartis
Outside the kitchen window, squirrels scattered the seed from the birdfeeder Paula’s dad had set up. The seeds gleamed in the sun like drops of water.
by Kevin Couture
The men waited on the shore while Susan, (whose son they searched for), made coffee on the tailgate of a half-ton.
by Chris Connolly
At the supermarket I see a young mother gently weeping in the cereal aisle. Her baby watches her curiously, possibly stumped by this reversal of roles, or too young to understand.
by Brian Fanelli
In our house, nobody ever danced, / even though my father played Elvis / or Johnny Cash from the silver / CD player that rested on the nook
by Kristene Brown
Hot summer and birds pillage garbage cans, / squabbling for scraps. / With ripped jeans and knotted hair, I follow / the unpaved road to town.
by Robert S. King
My socks are small trash bags, / and the street number of my house is zero. / Garbage cans are my walls on winter nights.
by Simon Perchik
These sheep have no choice either / though even in summer / they still want to hear the truth
by Emile DeWeaver
Writers’ processes differ, but here’s my truth: Writing is hard and I hate it; revision is easy, and I want to take it to the movies, then get to third base.
by Isabella David McCaffrey
Autofiction is technically new, but now it’s been identified as a trend—like cat eyeliner then or wearing winter white. When the masses catch on, is it no longer cool?
by Diane Payne
After making the one hundred mile drive with my daughter for the Breast MRI appointment, she takes off to meet an old friend who is a medical student at the hospital.
by Jim Krosschell
Lately, as I’ve progressed from little walks around the living room to real walks around the block, the neighborhood seems to be different.
by J. Johnson
Sometimes poetry must be heard, not read.
Dylan Thomas reads his most famous poem.
Brendan Constantine, Easy Street’s October Poet in Residence, is no stranger to the stage.
Spoken word poetry by Patrick Roche.
A poetry reading by Sierra DeMulder.
At WLTRY we’re looking for recordings of poetry and prose, whether original compositions or “reprints.” Readings that bring written words to life.
by David W. Berner
Casey and Graham heard me talk about the details of the trip, about my purpose for taking on the challenge of it, and an itinerary based on the travels written about in Kerouac’s book. Although neither had heard much of anything about Kerouac . . .
by Eli Glasman
When I got back to the house it was nearly midday. My father and Talya were still at synagogue. Normally we had coffee and cake for breakfast on Shabbat, but I’d left too early, so there was a piece left for me on the bench.
by Karen Paul Holmes
Why do knots form by themselves? / In my blow dryer cord, / cell phone charger, / dog leashes. / What Boy Scout crept into the dark / to practice right over left / around and through?