The new way of life


Nobody deserves to die
Mother dressed in black with flowers while she cries
The new way to deal with your problems is with a gun
But you don’t know the reality of the harm that you’ve done
And now a mother has to bury her son
Tears coming down her face and even through all of this we still kill our own race
What is the issue? How can it be resolved?
What is the answer to this puzzle we caused?
Is it the guns? Is it the gangs?
In the end it doesn’t matter because we all still hang
We hang from a tree of slavery making it a need to kill our own to look cool or be tough
We look like fools acting like this knowing our ancestors had it rough
Now sketched into stone is your sibling’s name with bones
Wishing you could have told them to stay out that zone
This is all a cycle that we need to stop
But it never stops because we still have cops
The people who are supposed to protect us
They abuse the power they have and objectify us
“I only killed him because he looked threatening to me”
He look threatening to you?
My black skin is nothing new
Now you are turning blue because you feel unsafe
I’m guessing that it has to do with my race
And the fact that our Kings and Queens have beautiful faces
Or maybe it’s our height that gives you fright
Whatever it is our people will always be alright
For the past 300 years we have had to fight
Nothing has ever been easy for us
We weren’t even allowed at the front of the bus
What have we done to deserve this?
I wish there was a way we could reverse this


By Chyna Colon


Books for writers                                       FAQ

Together forever


Finally, Pili gathered courage and approached her husband, Saad. “Oh darling husband, I’ve passed the interview,” she said calmly. Her husband, however, did not look up from his reading.

“I’ll be reporting for work in my new employment tomorrow,” she pressed on.

“Get out of my way,” he said threateningly.

“We shall now be better off.…”

“I said you get out of my sight,” he said, looking up for the first time.

“Darling, how can you be so unfair?”

“Don’t you hear?” he said rising from his seat.

“I assure you.”

“I don’t need to be assured. You can take your assurance elsewhere.”

“No darling. Don’t say that.”

“If you wish to avoid trouble with me, do keep your distance.”

“I think we’re not communicating.”

“Any more of this nonsense,” he said rising to go, “and I’ll break your nose.” He threw the paper violently at her and walked away.

The following day, Pili reported for work in her new job.

In the evening, Saad was raving mad. “You’re now puffed up with pride, eh,” he started. “With a car to visit your men, you now feel at the top of the roofs.

“Have I ever been insincere to you?”

“One day, I’ll teach them the lesson of their lifetime.”

“Come on,” Pili said sharply. “I’ve endured long enough with you.”

“Who gave you authority to talk to me like that?”

With time, Pili adjusted to her new job despite chaos at home. In one of her official meetings in the office with the boss of the company that employed her husband, she found an opportunity to address the simmering crisis in the family.

“My company,” her colleague said, “is in the process of down-sizing its labor force, starting with the redundant staff.”

“Do you know of a man called Saad who works with you?” she asked.

“Oh yes. He is among those to be retrenched. But if he undertakes an in-service training he would be retained. In that case he would be given one year unpaid leave. Otherwise, he leaves in grace.”

“Did you know he is my husband?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“He is.”

“I didn’t know. But are you not jiving?”

“No, he is my husband.”

“Oh, if only there was anything I could do!”

“There is,” she said leaning forward. “There is something I want to tell you in confidence.”

“You’ve my word.”

“He is terrible. Go ahead and declare him redundant.”

“I’m sorry. If only I could help.”

“Don’t mind. Just go ahead.”

For some time, Saad had been idling around the house after having been declared redundant by his company. Being a spendthrift, he had spent all his handshake moving about town and in rich living. Only after clearing the entire amount did he return home to face the landlord.

And the landlord showed up right on time with a group of burley men behind him. Going out through the back door, Saad escaped across the bougainvillea hedge leaving his family at the mercy of the unwelcome visitors.

“Get in and throw everything out,” said the landlord with his hands akimbo. “Only one hour for the job. No mercy. No nothing. Ok?”

But one hour was too long. In less than half an hour the house was emptied of everything and locked. The landlord, satisfied of a mission well-accomplished, congratulated his thugs and left immediately.

The following day, Pili visited her husband’s employer at his company offices.

“Welcome, Pili.”


“How are you getting on?”

“Yesterday we were evicted from our residence. Fortunately, I got another house.

“I’m sorry. But Saad got a handshake.”

“The hand-shake did not help him in any way. He got lost in town and remembered his family only after he had spent everything to the last penny. Anyhow, the purpose of coming to see you is to pay for his in-service training. But for one thing, please, do not tell him who sponsored him for the course.”

“As I told you, you have my word.”

Saad, now a vagabond received a letter out of the blue. On opening he started dancing, holding the letter high in joy for everybody to see. “Look! After all, things are not so bad,” he said giving the letter to his friends to read. They congratulated him profusely, hopeful one day he would remember them.

On the reporting day, a jubilant Saad went to see his employer.

“Congratulations Saad,” greeted his employer when he entered his office.

“Thanks so much. I’m so happy. I don’t know how to express my happiness. But tell me Sir, who is this magnanimous person who has sponsored me?”

“She is a lady and is not around at the moment. I’ll introduce you to her at the appropriate time and place.”

“Anyhow, pass my heartfelt regards to her. I’m so grateful. I would have liked to thank her personally.”

“I’ll try to get her someday. She is a very busy woman and she rarely comes around. I’ll remember you to her. No problem with that.”

After some few discussions Saad left feeling highly elated. He thought; who could this philanthropist be? She must be a terrific woman, no doubt; the best under the sky, perhaps. He went on singing praises to her in his heart until he arrived at the college where he was to spend the rest of the year.

Saad finished his course successfully. But during his graduation ceremony, he saw no sponsor as his employer had promised. As they moved about the crowd with him looking for her, they bumped into Pili who had all her children around her. Surprisingly, Saad did a quick about-turn and walked away almost running. His employer stopped abruptly and watched dumb-founded as the children ran in hot pursuit after their father who was now negotiating through the crowd at supersonic speed. In no time he had melted into the crowd.

“Did I not tell you?” Pili said. “Saad is a terrible man. Believe me.”

“But I never expected him to go this far,” his employer said, bewildered. “I now believe what you told me. Saad is an animal. Nonetheless, I hope you’ll attend the evening function.”

“I’ll surely attend,” said Pili.

In the evening, as usual, the invited guests started arriving. It was organised Pili and her children stay behind a curtain to conceal them from Saad. Unaware of the presence of his family, he entered the hall gallantly and took his seat at the high table. Pili had a rough time trying to hold back her children as they attempted to break free. The master of the ceremony then took the rostrum.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I wish to take this opportunity to congratulate Mr. Saad for his successful completion of his studies. It’s an honor for me also, to introduce you to his sponsor who has made it possible for this function to take place. We’re greatly indebted to her. Before she comes, Mr. Saad do please come forward and greet your guests.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Saad started. “I’m grateful to you all for having found time to attend this auspicious occasion. I’m particularly grateful to my sponsor and also my employer who have worked together tirelessly to see that I go through the whole course without a hitch. I don’t have much to say at this moment except that I’m very eager to see her. For the one year that I studied in this college she did not get any time to visit me, but since I’m told she is in attendance, I only hope to see her before the function is over. Thanks so much.”

As the master of the ceremonies took the rostrum once more, Saad’s heart migrated to his mouth. It pulsated with such force that it put him off balance as he tried desperately to maintain a forced calm. He studied the ladies present closely but could not make out who she was. Unable to maintain his composure, he begged to go out briefly but the master of the ceremonies motioned him to stay. And he sat back a resigned person.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the master of the ceremonies went on, “as we approach the end of our function, it is an honor for me to call the guest of honor who also is the sponsor of Saad to come forward. And do please stand up in her honor. She is none other than the Managing Director of the well-known International Manufacturing Company, Mrs. Pili Saad. Mrs. Saad, do please come forward and give your closing remarks.

As Pili came forward, her children raced before her to embrace their father who was by then frozen in his seat. He thought of running out of the hall at terrific speed, but his children had already milled around him and there was no way he could escape. He had no option but to stay. Then, when he looked up, he saw his wife bending forward to kiss him. “Together forever,” she whispered in his ear.


By Khamis Kabeu


Books for writers                                       FAQ

Echoes of peace

Wind chimes

In the echoes of peace

the house seemed so quietly

still as if it held its breath

and the wind chimes outside

the glass door would catch

the sunlight and add their

own brightness to the room.

Overcome by a curious sense

of elation, I tie back the white

lace curtains to invite the sky

in, glimpse the cerise blossoms

in the wind. The day smiles

back at me and I feel a quiver

in my heart of what’s to come.

The air, soft as a lady’s hand,

gently wraps me in.


By Bobbi Sinha-Morey


Books for writers                                       FAQ

All quiet on basketball courts

Basketball court

The “March Madness” ran its course into the first week of April. At the end, two basketball powerhouses would meet: one drawing last blood from the other to raise the championship trophy. The nation, however, remained dazzled by a new Cinderella, the team from a small catholic college outside Boston. She danced exquisitely until the semi-final, when her clock struck midnight. But, it was their octogenarian nun, perched on a wheel-chair at the courtside, rooting enthusiastically for her boys, that would melt the soul of a politically fragmented nation.

Bill Walton, a firebrand senator, understood “How sports find a way to bind an entire nation!”


By Sankar Chatterjee


Books for writers                                       FAQ

The Fallon Holding Company


China waits in doorways.  In the seaports, in the cities of the hinterland, and in the rural villages dotting the tapestry of hills and swales, the indigenous endlessly gossip, gaze, and gape, amused by the panoply of the world that spins about them.  So was it in the beginning, so will it be at the end.  Who am I to make such accusations?  I am a gentrified crook, an elusive con artist, an entrepreneur in the opium and the hard liquor trade.  Looking for a proper, refined young man to accompany your chaste daughter to some function?  I am not him.  I am Ivan Stone. 

British by birth, Chinese by breeding, my grandfather, with his family, undertook their exodus to the Orient arriving on the heels of the Opium Wars.  Before the ink on the Treaty of Nanking had even dried, my extended family holed up in Shanghai, which with the treaty, became arguably the busiest port in Asia.  Of German stock and heritage, Kurt Stone was the patriarch of the family, who had impoverished scores on the European continent in accruing his fortune.  He then set his sights on England, buying a small estate an hour by coach northwest of London.  Everyone who knew Kurt the least bit intimately was cognizant of the lies that were his stock and trade.  But the old man did manage to assemble the Fallon Holding Company, a shipping concern that traded in tea from India.  Furthermore the ships of the holding company conveyed everything from dress goods to manufacturing implements in the bowels of the hulls of their ships bound for seaports that stitched the world together: Lagos, Cape Town, Bombay, Hong Kong and others that sailors had sullied on their shore leave.  Among the shipments were guns and other outlawed weapons of war.

Being a shrewd man, Kurt conducted himself as a polished patrician, raising his two boys to be perfect Englishman, ones that might have been mistaken for any other Brit every bit the polished Englishman that only Eton and Oxford could turn out.  Peter, older than my father, was carried away with my great grandfather in a cholera in the summer of broiling heat, and with that my father, Siegfried, resolved that someday he would run the shipping business, as soon as he could wrestle the helm of Fallon Holding Company from his father, Gunther.  That was a contest that never materialized for one day my father, already in his twenties, arose to find his father had absconded with all the pounds and francs, rupees and yuan the monument of a bank safe nestled in the estate office would hold.  My father was unconcerned: he had the company. 

Only vaguely do I recall the Tudor mansion, for I was too young for it to make an indelible impression on me.  But with the passing of Kurt and Peter in the epidemic and the midnight departure of my grandfather, my father put the estate up for sale.  Taking a beating on the price, he got out right before the local sheriff came to arrest him with a fistful of complaints of fraud and embezzlement.       

Leaving, scurrying in the light of day, Siegfried abandoned my mother in the streets of London with a shamefully meager amount.  I can still see Greta, my mother, pleading with him on the docks to not to leave her behind.  This brought peals of laughter from my father.  Once on the deck of the HMS Pearl of the Orient, I queried my father, “Where are we going?”

“You’ll know when we get there, Frederic,” he replied.  The wind was snapping the sailcloth like a pennant in a hurricane as we eased out into the English Channel.

“What about mother?” 

“Just you worry about yourself now.”

“What if I don’t like it?” 

“Then I suggest you swim home!” 

This brought a guffaw from one of the sailors.  “You should have been born with fins mate,” he retorted.  Taking forever, the cruise anchored in the docks of so many seaport towns, that it seemed like being in heaven with civilizations floating beneath us.  Only twelve when I made the exodus with my father, I gave him wide berth for he would swipe at me if I crossed his sensibilities at any given moment.  Finally, we landed in Shanghai.  There, with the money he had secured from the sale of our estate, he bought a handsome domicile in the French Concession and immediately went to work on the new Fallon Holding Company.  In China, the Opium Wars were recent history.  With the Treaty of Nanking, the imperialist countries carved Shanghai up into five concessions.  On the Bund, next to the tidal bore of the Pu River, my father set up the headquarters for the company where he was more a thug than a manager.  Through its doors passed the high and low that walk the earth: those with black coachmen at their side; those wearing rags, those wearing eye patches and those whittled down by war.  Some came to sell, some came to buy.  It was in my father’s office that they traded opium for tea and sundry things not normally available in the East.  A large man, one well over two meters, with a stout frame that had not completely gone to fat, my father would physically toss clients onto the Bund’s packed earth who insulted him with low bids.  And to a soul they took it from him. 

Once in Shanghai, after we moved into the house in the French Concession, my father inaugurated me into St. James’s Academy to be a proper young upstart.  The week after he enrolled me into the academy, he stormed into our first class of the day, and grabbing me by the scruff of the neck, dragged me out, muttering, “my son gets his religion from me and not you scalawags.”  That was the beginning and end of my formal education.  My father had an entirely different idea of how I was to be educated.  Tagging along with him in my plus fours, I witnessed most of the transactions my father conducted.  Well I remember his asides to me as we scuttled along the wharves, such as, “can you fathom why he believes me,” or “wait ’til he finds out what he signed over to me.”  No one along the Bund liked my father as much as they feared him.  Crowds would part for him like they would a feral feline creature of the jungles. 

As time passed, my father grew richer and richer.  But as human nature would have it, others seeing my father’s wealth (and that of other importers), other roustabouts tried to muscle in my father’s business.  We had been in Shanghai for only two or three years that I noted certain entrepreneurs unexpectedly disappear from the shorefront of Shanghai.  By this time my father had gathered a half-dozen Pretorian who accompanied us on our sojourns in the nettle of the seedier side of the city.  The smell of smoldering opium pervaded the streets of Shanghai both day and night.  It was a smell my father reveled in.  Cecil, a friendly giant of a man from Scotland, who joined my father from almost the beginning, seemed especially affectionate as he ensured nothing troubling occurred to me.  The first trader to move on was Foster Sutherland.  One day my father and I encountered him walking on the Bund.  My father, rather cooly, said to him, “You know there’s a lot more opportunity in Fujian or Hong Kong.”  It wasn’t but three weeks later that the authorities found his body in the swamps next to the harbor.  Other traders avoided dealing with my father after they found Sutherland’s body.  People would whisper as my dad and I walked past them in the avenues, but no one directly accused him of having any hand in the man’s murder.  Nor did the authorities manage to capture the assassin. 

Like locusts in the year of a plague, other traders came to Shanghai.  This time, they brought their own muscle.  Though most of the traders pledged fealty to my father, Siegfried, others sought protection from the younger, heartier traffickers who moved into the concessions.  Exceeding the murder rate of anywhere on the Chinese mainland, the police lost count of the bodies. 

Then when I was sixteen, I was walking beside my dad down a dark alley off the Bund.  He wanted to check on some opium that had just arrived.  Suddenly, from a door in the brick building, out jumped a half-dozen Chinamen, their hair in queues, with their guns drawn.  My father never had a chance.  Nor did his two bodyguards.  The Chinamen left me.  I wasn’t worth their trouble. 

Now, people speculate if Ivan Stone can keep the Fallon Holding Company together.  But I was born to the breed.  China waits for me in doorways.


By Joseph Dylan


Books for writers                                       FAQ

The infinite curse

Infinite curse


A fine place to

set up a lifetime.

A grain of sand has more cachet.


And what do I get.

Eighty years if I’m lucky.

Ninety if I’m not.

And how many years

are there in infinity?

How many lives?


If I knew I was

going to be this insignificant

I wouldn’t have bothered

learning to walk and talk,

or going to the bathroom on my own.


But of all the substances

that ever were,

here I am.

And of all the times

that have ever been

and ever will be,

this one’s happening now.


The coincidence is killing me.


By John Grey


Books for writers                                       FAQ

Speech of the flower


When no other voice was

spoken or heard I listened

to the speech of the flower,

the delicate petals of the blue

orchid so shyly speaking to

me in the quick wind, open

to let in the golden aura of

the sky, the joy at its center

I could hear above the water,

and the blue orchid waved

to me as if it had seen me

before. My fingers trembled,

so afraid to touch it, and I

paused with a stillness in my

soul. Gracefully, in the clear

deep pool of palpable light, I

graze every curve, let the blue

orchid brim over with its own

wellspring of life.


By Bobbi Sinha-Morey


Books for writers                                       FAQ

Gypsy Miles

Gypsy Miles

She traveled the gypsy miles and now she dreams 

In the courses of her early stages of life she stood in the valley watching her dove take flight 

This fashion a desire to only soar with pure site 

But her dreams had to be put on hold 

For so many stories and patterns had to unfold 

I will tell you now, this is the how I was told 

She traveled the Gypsy miles and now she dreams 

She heard the forest screaming in pain that’s stands so near 

Only using an enchanting touch for the faces of the tribes and Musketeers 

Never letting go to all that she found so dear

Running running pulling pulling their Mandrake roots 

Wanting to ease their pain while playing her supernatural flute 

Always teaching them to heal with genuine fruit 

She traveled the Gypsy miles and now she dreams 

Her story even merges down to the ocean floor 

Unlocking safes and many coffin doors

Preparing mankind minds to not desire poor 

Dancing die hards to the surface with all her might

Walking them on water with their knew site 

Honestly guiding them to take new flight 

She traveled the Gypsy miles and now she dreams 

The Gypsy verify that the ones she enlightened would be fed 

And determine none of them left for dead 

That each of their churches lite and read 

She enjoys watching them fly freely out of their cages  

Always supplying skills to master how to turn their pages 

If any person desires to face them to a lock the Madame gypsy would become outraged 

She traveled the gypsy miles and now she dreams 

A male blind horse with a black carriage captured her one stormy noonday 

It was her love for others that made him look her way 

If you ask me it was him that took her so far out and lead her astray 

She finally escaped and took a walk with a full moon and surveyed her ancestors books 

For the story was never told to her and she forgot to look 

The truth of the matter awakened her charmed heart and the information made her shook

She traveled the Gypsy miles and now she dreams 

The Sun finally shined on a crossroad with a mirror standing near 

Remembering all her loved ones she taught how to take flight with pure site and without fear 

She turned to the east and peered through her lacey rose, that’s when her valley finally reappeared 

She took one more look at her reflected study which was her own dove so she could soar 

She only wanted the Love that comes from the heavens above it something you can just ask for  

Finally, I got the message from the man in the cage that the lady is in that valley forevermore.


By Annashea Downey


Books for writers                                       FAQ

Handsome stranger

Handsome Stranger

When Anne saw the remarkable stranger walking a dog in the park on an otherwise ordinary summer evening, she sensed that fate had arranged for this man to cross her path. Her mind could only hold one thought: This is the most handsome man I have ever seen.

“Hello,” the handsome man said through a smile so white his teeth pulled light from the air around his mouth.

Anne could hardly believe he had spoken to her, had said the word “hello” through lips so full and perfectly shaped for kissing.

“Hello,” she replied through her own lips, which were suddenly dry.

“I’m Paul,” the handsome stranger said, his voice a mix of honey and cello. “I just moved in down the street.”

“I’m Anne,” she said, grasping handsome Paul’s offered right hand, his big, soft hand that buried hers. His left hand, dangling from a thick wrist, well-muscled arm, and square shoulder, held the dog’s leash. That lovely hand, Anne noticed, held no wedding ring.

“This is Bowser,” handsome Paul said, nodding a square jaw darkened with thick evening whiskers toward the dog standing beside his sandaled feet.

Anne tore her eyes from Paul’s handsomeness to look at the dog for the first time. Bowser was mid-sized, about two feet tall, the color of charcoal, so dusky he looked like he would darken the palms of anyone who touched him.

“Hi, Bowser,” Anne said, noticing the affected lilt in her own voice. Anne wasn’t a “dog person.” She didn’t have one as a child and had never felt the need for one as an adult. She had no interest in paying for, housing, feeding, walking, and cleaning up after such creatures. She could take them or leave them. In Anne’s experience, humans made the best companions—humans like Paul, for example.

Handsome Paul was leashed to this dog at this moment, so this dog was worth the effort. Anne knelt beside Bowser, whom she now noticed was a mutt of undeterminable lineage—and not a good mix. Maybe some Lab, perhaps some dachshund, a pinch of boxer, a hint of terrier—overall, more a chunking of attributes than a true blend. He was as thick around as a beer keg with a football head, meatloaf neck, and short, spindly legs.

“I think Bowser likes you,” handsome Paul said. “Don’t you, Bowser?”

Bowser grunted and thrust his head at Anne. Reflexively, she put her hand on his back but had to consciously force herself not to pull away. Bowser’s spine bones jutted into her palm through his wire coat. Dander dust wafted from just the light stroke she gave him.

It’s not his fault, Anne thought. He’s a dog. He can’t help being a little dirty. Think about how handsome Paul is. Just keep petting. Pet the dog. Think of Paul. Pet the dog. Think of Paul … handsome, handsome Paul.

“He likes being scratched behind the ears,” handsome Paul said. Anne glanced up at him. She liked the view from this angle. Yep, she thought, just as handsome as he was fifteen seconds ago.

Anne looked down at the big ears on the back of Bowser’s clunky head. The skin was scabrous. Anne thought of how Paul’s wavy hair was nothing like Bowser’s ratty rug. She guided her fingernails lightly over the ruined, patch-furred skin just behind Bowser’s right ear.

Bowser looked up to meet Anne’s gaze. His right eye was ink-dark and featureless. His left was circled in a blood-red, inside-out lid. That eye bulged, nearly disconnected from the socket. Bowser eased his snout closer to Anne’s face. His breath smelled like something found months too late in the back of the refrigerator, something turned green with fur growing on it. Bowser’s moldy tongue lulled across one side of his jaw. Anne saw only four intact teeth, and the holes in Bowser’s gums oozed pink puss.

“Awww, he wants a kiss,” handsome Paul cooed. “Bowser wants a kiss. Go ahead, Anne. Give Bowser a kiss.”

At the sound of his handsome master’s voice, Bowser licked the puss from his gums and dribbled a yellowish glob of phlegm to the ground. Anne had to pull her foot away to avoid the glob landing on her newly purchased walking shoes, a maneuver that nearly sent her toppling over.

Anne regained her balance and stood so quickly that Bowser and handsome Paul both backpedaled. “I just remembered something,” she sputtered, striding down the sidewalk like a power-walker. “I have to be someplace for something,” she called over her shoulder to Paul, his smile drooping like the sagging leash he held, like the slack skin at Bowser’s four armpits.

Anne didn’t look back at handsome Paul, couldn’t look. She walked straight toward her echoing house—a house with no pets, no kids, no husband.

One thought filled her mind: Nobody is that handsome.


By John Sheirer


Books for writers                                       FAQ

A lover, by definition


A lover

is not a predicament,

a circumstance,

but a determination


an effort

which follows a revelation

and sets off a revolution


in which

existing strains

of emotion

and forms of entertainment

are jettisoned as inappropriate

or irrelevant

or are drastically revised –


a great tension arises

between what is divested

and what is taken on –


when it snaps,

a lover is what you’re left with.


By John Grey


Books for writers                                       FAQ