All That Glitters

editor's note

All That Glitters by Alison Stedman
Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgment old,
Your answer had not been inscroll'd:
Fare you well; your suit is cold.

poetry

WHAT THE STARS KEEP by Pamela Sumners
The gaudy stars bless us first,
curse us last, confessional-
like, with sacred obligation
MEMORIAL DAY by Pamela Sumners
Death loves no shining mark,
Fussy Victorians.
He is all Ozymandias
Poem in Which Nothing Bad Ever Happens to Me by Courtney LeBlanc
I catch the train.
I make the flight.
I get the promotion.
Genesis, American Style by Nancy Flynn
Planting the cross and the gallows,
men wearing clothes did come, dominate, kill
every gaiety that once warmed the blood.
Icing on the Cake by Shelly Blankman
The room once dim, now lavishly lit with happy tears
and hugs crossing borders drawn by outsiders in shades of hate,
here in the warmth of safety, vibrant with family of friends,
Inflected Reduction by R. Gerry Fabian
Like a wine glass
tipped over but not broken;
like a cell phone battery in the red
BODY PIERCING by Robert Beveridge
It's always held
a fascination for you
the needles that pry
Stale Gingerbread by R. Gerry Fabian
Her fondest desire
was to be a wooded path
that lead past a rapid stream
Mandoline by Carol Alexander
I am invited but refuse
Marie Antoinette's bright guillotine,
eschewing half-julienned radishes and pearly spuds.
Sold by Elise Hempel
They'll paint the yellow siding blue or beige,
tear out the carpeting, stained and worn
with our steps and mishaps, promptly raze

fiction

A Very Old Man with Remarkable Paintings by Time Barrow
When I was seven, I met a very old man who gifted me with a most remarkable life. That was almost eighty years ago.
Waiting for the Bus by Amy Smith Linton
The sound of a dog made Gani miss his bus. He’d hoped to catch the 10:15 express. Hurrying along the rainy sidewalk toward the yellow beacon of the bus shelter, he suspected the express might have come and gone a little early since no one else was waiting. He’d just settled onto the metal bench when he heard the faint wheezing cry.
The Cards by Cara M. Hall
I hold my breath for a moment. Maybe it was the memories of the fair, or the perfect placement of the tattooed images, or the way this stranger’s words matched my mother’s from eight years ago. But for some reason, I find myself slipping through the flaps of the tent.