Photo by Matthias Wagner on Unsplash

Willing hostages held captive
to electronic displays…
blue light addiction
persuades the cunning fog
of Stockholm syndrome…
After all the world’s a stage
as actors play their parts.

We wait with baited breath
for the latest blather
from mindless legends…
content with
the blind leading the blind.

Meanwhile this planet’s elected bumpkins
claim victory over empty solutions
to remedy wars, racial injustice, or
the impact of a virus and vaccine.
The audience applauds a bomb,
and gives the performance rave reviews.
The magic of manipulation
always brings down the house.

So much to digest…
an endless buffet of
talking heads…


One person’s struggle to discern how healthy adjustments in personal space and human touch shapes survival.

Max Rockatansky

Hugs and handshakes were once energizing ways I received and displayed affection. For me physical touch had always been a primary language of love. At least until it wasn’t. Covid-19 reduced physical contact to a wave from six feet or more, or the occasional daring elbow bump. The definition of healthy personal space expanded in a rapid manner. It had to for our survival.

Yet my experience felt like withdrawal. Not from some narcotic. More like from caffeine. Unpleasant and annoying yes, but not mentally and physically overwhelming. The prolonged lack of hugs and handshakes has been necessary to slow…


Paul Einerhand

Jake sat on the back porch steps wearing only his Fruit of the Loom boxers. He loaded the 12 gauge with buckshot shells. A small boombox played Love Shack by the B-52’s and a crack in the speaker distorted every bass note of the dance song. He didn’t care. It was music about having fun. Something he didn’t remember happening much growing up. It tenporarily releived the madness going on in the house. Jake shivered in the chill of the April morning air. Just back two months from a stint in the Navy, he’d been a lot colder for a…


Blessing Ri

A short story by Paul S. Markle

Silas sat on his back porch listening to a Mockingbird whistle and chirp in the back yard. The smell of fresh cut grass hung in the breeze. His new neighbor Ted had just finished mowing. He used one of those quiet battery powered models. A gust of wind skirted through and the timbre of chimes echoed from Ted’s patio. Silas felt his chest tighten. Turning his ear toward the yard he ground his teeth and pain twisted from his hips into his feet. The wind eased and the tones from the chimes grew softer.

The Mockingbird warbled with more urgency…


Yohann LIBOT

Pandemic’s tension
once simmering on the horizon.
A haunting annoyance
that seemed far, far away
suddenly becomes the elephant
in the living room of our hearts and minds.
Trumpeting trauma while
fanning flames of burning hope
into smoldering despair.

Survival requires discovering actions
hell bent on distraction.
Searching for hocus pocus
to fuel my elusive focus,
but the remedy remains incognito.
May I rediscover some control,
some reconnection with my inner locus…
once upon a time a salve for my soul.

Every day’s a day for a daydream
even though they used to
keep my muse in limbo.
Pile on infinite…


lounis production from Pixabay

A prequel to Amber the Third

Keenan studied Lacy in black lingerie lying on his couch. She remained silent with her arms crossed emphasizing her voluptuous cleavage. Staring at him with indigo eyes, she cast a suggestive smile into the living room. He glared at her and snorted. Lacy’s seductive expression remained pasted on her face.

The sound of a bed frame ramming into the wall rumbled from the apartment next door. His neighbor Jeremy banging Lisa Ann…again. They went at it two-three times a day. He heard her moan and talk dirty, giggling as she urged him to keep going.

It sounds like a jackhammer’s…

Paul S Markle

Wordsmith Apprentice studying under this collective community genius. Writer of short fiction, poetry, etc. Former head shrinker, current equine coach…

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