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woman in field holding balloons in sunset — Photo by Catalin Pop on Unsplash

The Long and Short of It

1 October 2026 / Editor

Nonfiction by Mary Lewis

It is exhaustion and euphoria. You often think you’ve figured it out only to discover more layers. Plot twists are a recurring theme.

It is tiny fingers grabbing tiny toes. It is the squawk that jolts you from sleep. And the soft sigh you hear as you pat, pat, pat. It is crawling out of the room, holding your breath, don’t make a sound! It is snuggles and belly laughs that are contagious.

It is extensive conversations in an unknown language. Neon rainbow tutus, action figures and playdough with all the colors mixed together. It is elaborate “shows” in the family room. It is walks that are short, but become long because someone needs to be carried. It is peas up the nose and stitches. It is Go Fish and fights about wearing tights. It is the feeling when you lift your face and sun hits your skin.

It is conversations about outer space, why, and what’s for dinner. Longer walks that become even longer because you have to go back for a Band-Aid and the bike has to be carried. Sports and friend dilemmas. Pick-ups and drop offs. It is forgetting about the poster board for the project until Sunday at 9PM. It is equal parts exasperation and admiration.

It is conversations about everything and nothing. Dating and dances and driving. Curfews. It is waiting up, worrying, wondering. The door opening that jolts you from sleep and the soft sigh as you kiss a forehead. It is Uno and fights about emptying the dishwasher. It is planning, choices. It is preaching and lessons learned. The jokes are on you, but you treasure those laughs. It is heart swelling, tears in eyes, so proud. It is pain, and it is joy.

It is so much joy.

Mary Lewis is a Behavior Analyst who stopped analyzing behavior so she could write about her own. Her poetry has been published in Maya’s Micros and Scapegoat Review. She loves French fries, her family, and the feeling she gets when the words fit together just right.

letters with roses — Photo by Ranurte on Unsplash

My Father’s Love Letters

1 October 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Laurie Miller

Cleaning out my mother’s apartment after her death.
So many things will be thrown away or donated.
I have no room for anything, even though I want everything.

I want to hold objects that might not mean much, but I’ll know
She once touched them, and they meant something to her.

I walk through the apartment, opening closets and drawers.
In the hallway cabinet, I see what I assume is a photo album
Or a scrapbook.
I drag it out and sit on the couch.

On the front page is a handwritten list in faded blue ink in
my mother’s elegant and meticulous handwriting.
#1, then the date, beginning in 1942.
The list goes on to over 300 entries.

She numbered letters. So many letters. All of them are from my father.

My parents met on a blind date.
My mother was 26, considered “old” to still be single. Almost a spinster.
My father was 31 and in the army.
Sparks flew, as did my dad, when he reported to the Army a few weeks later.
Landing in Oklahoma.

I opened Letter #1 and blushed.
My father was telling my mother that he’d rather be making love to her
than be in Oklahoma.

My dad????
I knew they loved each other, but
I rarely saw them hug or kiss.

I couldn’t stop reading.
I was witnessing their courtship.
Well, at least his side of it.
He told her when he went to the movies on the base.
He loved movies and would say when one was “swell.”
Or a “bomb.”

He told her when he went dancing at the USO.
He was a superb dancer, adept at the foxtrot, Lindy Hop or a waltz,
and would have a “swell” time.
But none of the girls held a candle to my mom.

He was such a romantic!
He’d tell her he’d been a “good boy.”

He’d tell her when he went to a Sabbath dinner or Passover Seder.
He and the other Jewish soldiers were treated differently by the other soldiers
And citizens in Oklahoma.
He tried to ignore it and keep his faith.

He went overseas and kept on writing.
The anti-Semitism among the troops got worse.
Nothing “swell” to report, except
counting the days until he could return home to “his girl.”

A year after he returned home in 1945, my parents were married.

I took the album home, and over several weeks I read every letter
I put them in order in acid-free sleeves.

I wanted my son to read them. He would learn about the
Grandpa he never knew,
as I learned about the father I loved and missed so much.

The movie buff. The charming dancer. The man of faith. The wonderful writer. The man who was smitten by the girl back home, and stayed smitten for 47 years until his last breath.

He was really swell.

Laurie Miller recently retired after 30 years as a grant writer, raising funds for foster care advocacy, the arts, and college access. Her work appeared in Vestal Review and Purrseverance: Inspiring Stories of Cat Resilience and Hope. Laurie lives in California with her husband and senior pets Ruby and Snickers.

blue herons

27 September 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Rose Brightree

this river is scented by its mother
the sea
salt water running upstream
coming to meet it halfway

out of this reunion arise
two blue herons
wearing the sky
on loosened wings

legs floating in midair
like a dancer’s
orange-lily beaks lifted
to the rising sun
gamboge eyes that see the way
light does touching what cannot be touched
any other way the tips of mountains
flight of water that is a
cloud

and as they raise themselves
to the high winds that will
carry them
as their bodies join the far-flung distance unfurling
its wide blue wings
i know they continue to teach me
how to live

Rose Brightree is a poet, artist, classical musician, and passionate nature lover and supporter. Her poetry has appeared in Room Magazine, Contemporary Verse 2, Sistersong: Women Across Cultures, Other Voices, the anthologies Revelation and Winners’ Circle (Canadian Authors Association), and in other print and online publications.

blue salvia flower close up — Photo by Francesca Piva on Unsplash

I miss my mother on summer nights

1 September 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Terry O’Shaughnessy

I miss my mother on summer nights,
her silhouette crossing the dark garden,
moving with the heavy watering can to
soak the pots of blue salvia
and pink daisies
and all the stars of Bethlehem,
floating white
in the twilight.

No food, only flowers here,
her labouring shoulders inside shirt and vest
cold, even on warm nights like this,
even as she lifts the cool water,
the woods behind her hidden
in the vacuum of night
where the green darkness
smells of light.

When I think I once lay
within this silhouette,
and this moving shadow that
gave birth to me, I think:
only the two of us, here.
in the dark garden, not knowing yet
there will only be the two of us
at the end—
then, will I hold her shoulders,
that moving silhouette,
and try to let her go
when she leaves me in winter
and when later,
I will miss her most
on dark summer nights.

Terry O’Shaughnessy is a former journalist, editor and recovering advertising copywriter. Kayaking and looking for owls in the wild are current pursuits along with traveling and tending a large herb garden in the summer months.

lavender in sunset — Photo by Olga Prudnikova on Unsplash

I Believe in Purple

1 September 2026 / Editor

Nonfiction by Sherri Wright

I believe in purple, the perfect blend of blue and red. A mixture of cool and calm,
hot and spicy. Negotiating between red’s passion and anger, and blue’s bravery and wisdom, purple finds grandeur and dignity.

Purple needs just the right balance of pigments—too much red turns into muddy
maroon, too much blue takes on the look of a bruise. Too light and it gets girly like a princess, too dark it becomes like the uniform of authority or the wings of a purple emperor butterfly that feeds on rotting flesh and human sweat.

Originally purple was produced by crushing shells of rare sea snails, extracting
mucus and exposing it to the sun. It took over two hundred thousand mollusks to produce an ounce of the dye. So this “Phoenician purple” was expensive and in short supply – only available to the rich and royals. It came to be associated with wealth and pretentiousness. Roman emperors used it for their robes but forbade its use by citizens. The penalty was death. Only in the 1850s did a synthetic purple pigment become widely available. Rich and royal as purple is, democracy is blessed with an abundant supply.

I believe purple is an essential element of human wellbeing. Purple draws on all
the senses. Think sweet sour purple plum, fragrant April hyacinth, supple velvet robe, purple martin’s throaty chirp and creaky rattle, last arc of the rainbow, the amethyst’s crystal clear healing power.

I believe that nothing can go wrong when you are wearing purple. No podium is too scary when you stand up there in a magenta linen sheath, a lilac silk blouse, a tiny amethyst stud. Even under the most somber black suit, lavender underwear can save the day.

Purple is a lesson in moderation. Drawing equally from feminine and masculine,
earthly and spiritual. Purple doesn’t shout, purple whispers softly, waits for you to take it in.

You do not choose purple, purple chooses you. The “Violet” in your first box of
Crayolas. Iris blossoms you picked walking to school. Petunias printed on the feed sack your mother sewed into a skirt. Your grandmother’s gladiolas. The grape jelly beans. The lilac you hid under your pillow and made a wish. A belief in purple is as powerful as Sunday school.

Ubiquitous, omnipresent purple. You can find it everywhere. But one thing is true. There has never been, never will be, too much purple.

I believe in purple.

Sherri Wright‘s work has appeared in The Bluebird Word, Delaware Beach Life, RavensPerch, and Quartet. Kelsay Books published her chapbook “Winter of My Life.” Bay to Ocean Journal nominated her essay “Braiding Sweetgrass With My Daughter” for a Pushcart Prize in 2025.

a blue seahorse floating underwater — Photo by Gary Walker-Jones on Unsplash

Holdfast

1 September 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Amy Nash

I wish I could be there for the seahorse
when she growls.
Build a coral cave for privacy

when she and her future mate begin to click.
I wish I could propel myself
slowly through eelgrass beds

and sing of sunken nights as I reach the next
stratified layer in the water column
without choking on the wait.

Amy Nash has lived in every northern state between Massachusetts and Minnesota (except for Wisconsin and Michigan), resulting in brackish poetry that mixes the Mississippi River with the Great Lakes, Atlantic Ocean, and everything between. Her poems have appeared in a range of journals and anthologies.

ants on a stick — Photo by Prabir Kashyap on Unsplash

Mob

1 September 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Irena Praitis

I can’t see what’s at the core of it—all the wriggling lines,

characters massed around this point. Was it once

alive, pinned to concrete, stuck now, in the light, or a

splotch, the dark wedge in a green sea of dripped

mint-chip cone, the sugary life blood so compelling

as to draw this group core-ward, to inspire their energetic

massing, their ganging up, piling on, stripping it

down together, fire, fire, fire— the text gone viral,

gather, tear, spray your poisons, the compassion nowhere

to be seen, the drive to feed running free?

There are 2.5 million ants for each human, an

estimated 20 quadrillion—there are 20,000 trillions in 20

quadrillion.

We could stomp and spray and fumigate and not

decrease our per capita of ants by much.

Still, their numbers and those of other insects now

decline. Even in the quadrillions, you don’t always

have it your own way.

Irena Praitis is a professor of creative writing and literature at California State University, Fullerton. She’s currently serving as department chair. Her poems and translations have appeared in more than 100 literary journals and her most recent books are Rods and Koans and Cage of Bone.

rocks shaped into a heart in shallow water — Photo by John Cardamone on Unsplash

The Gift of Your Voice

1 September 2026 / Editor

Nonfiction by Stephanie Shafran

[Trigger warning: contains reference to suicide]

Hello children, this is Daddy. Have you been good children while I’ve been away? I hope so. I just got off the big airplane after flying in the sky, all the way from Florida to New York. First the plane climbed up and up into the clouds and after a while it straightened out and zoomed along faster than you can imagine. Then it dropped slowly down and down until safely landing and letting all the passengers climb down a ladder and walk into the airport. That’s where I am right now, and I miss you both so much. I’m coming home tomorrow and can’t wait to hug and kiss you hello.

Muted for sixty years, your voice comes alive for the first time tonight, on this self-recorded “Voice-o-graph.” No gift could ever top this one.

You recorded this message at the airport, on your way back home from a business trip in Florida. Were you homesick? In the middle of the small record, a label, in your handwriting, reads: 11-16-54, New York arr from Melbourne Beach Florida, To Stephy & Lee.

I’d have my fourth birthday in a month. Lee had recently turned seven.

You’d end your life just six and a half years later.

Stephanie Shafran retired from a long career as Spanish teacher and school counselor. Her writing has appeared in journals such as Earth’s Daughters, Slant, Persimmon Tree, The Bluebird Word, and The Sun; in anthologies such as Ophelia’s Mom, by Nina Shandler, Ed.D. Stephanie published a chapbook Awakening in 2020.

Editor’s Note: September is Suicide Prevention Month. Resources are available through the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) and also on the International Association for Suicide Prevention (IASP). Raise awareness, reduce the stigma, and encourage action to help others.

closeup of white duck down — Photo by Jude Infantini on Unsplash

Just Another Ordinary Magical Day

1 September 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Barbara Wiedemann

In the month of June in Moab
the temperature easily reaches ninety-five.

But in the nearby La Sal Mountains
it’s cooler, maybe seventies.

But still it’s a surprise to see inches
of freshly fallen snow on the tree-shaded trail.

The fluff floats down from the aspens
so buoyant, balancing in the air

like dust motes or snowflakes
before gently touching the ground

joining the white already there—
like snow only not snow

but tiny seeds transported by cottony fluff.

After a career in academia, Barbara Wiedemann, the author of Following the Snow Leopard (Kelsay Books, 2005) and four poetry chapbooks, spends summers living in her van in the mountains of the West, her only companion her energetic blue heeler. Her poems focus on the natural world.

blurry close-up photo of smoke on a black background — Photo by Daniele Levis Pelusi on Unsplash

Girls Who Smoke

1 September 2026 / Editor

Nonfiction by Xinyi (Mel) Song

Julie was clumsily unwrapping a pack of Kent No.4

… in the back alley outside a 7-11 in Shinjuku, Tokyo, when I saw a man with long, dark hair in a black cardigan unwrap his adeptly under the streetlight. He knocked the box on his palm, and one cigarette fell accurately between his fingers.

Julie’s fingers were slender, pale. She delicately held the cigarette, took a drag, and coughed into the air. I laughed at the way her nose wrinkled up when she tried to spit out the bitterness in her mouth.

“Why do people torture themselves with this?” She asked with her eyes squinted.

I didn’t have an answer. People torture themselves in various ways. As I traced the shifting grey line on her face – half of it dipped into the darkness, the other half looked tender under the moonlight – I felt a glare from behind. As soon as I turned around, it dissolved in the street’s yellow, fluorescent light.

My friend Chrissy was busted smoking

… in the girls’ bathroom in a Chinese high school, but we all knew she wasn’t a smoker. It was during class time when the principal walked in unexpectedly and found Chrissy and another girl whispering, giggling, and bantering in the stall near the windows.

The principal dragged them outside. Without much hesitation, that girl took out a box of cigarettes. They received detention for a week for smoking. No one ever asked why the box’s plastic wrap was still intact, or questioned why the girls didn’t smell like tobacco but like peach gloss. That was the story they decided to tell, a story less threatening to the school.

Chrissy offered me a cigarette

… outside the airport, two years after graduating from high school. We were flying back to college. She was going to Vancouver, and I was flying to New York. She offered me a cigarette, and I took out my lighter. She laughed at me, saying,

“I thought you hated smokers.”

I did. I couldn’t breathe in the clouds of smoke in the room where my father and uncles used to play mahjong. I was told it was a nasty habit for girls but a rite of passage for boys. But there wasn’t much I could hold on to growing up, so I was beginning to fidget with a cigarette in my hands. A habit might be bad in the eyes of onlookers, but it doesn’t betray you; it doesn’t ask you to change. I was moving from city to city, country to country. Trying to hide the Chinese accent, trying to love who I was supposed to love, trying not to be so different. Smoking is like a safe but moldy blanket for grown-ups.

Julie took her last drag

… while the cackling sound of the burning cigarette echoed in the alley. There was no one around us anymore. I could hear the stub rolling towards the direction of that long-haired man’s silhouette.

She took a deep breath, exhaled, and mumbled,

“I don’t understand the appeal of smoking.”

“It’s ok,” I said, taking over the cig from her, finishing the rest. It tasted like honey peach.

We walked back to our hotel in silence. Our shadows lost in the lights that were like a bright mist. It was 1:00 a.m., but the city was shrouded in a halo. I wanted to tell Julie how I felt, when I smelled the soft scent of tobacco radiating from her icy earlobes. In my hesitation, she threw away that pack of Kent No.4 and swore to never touch it.

She probably wouldn’t have known then how many cigarettes we’d gone through the night, in a few years, when she told her mother about the girl she was in love with; I probably wouldn’t have known then how much I wished that night in Tokyo was longer, when I learned that the girl wasn’t me.

Xinyi (Mel) Song is a bilingual writer. Born and raised in Sichuan, China, she moved to the United States for college and is now based in Boston. Her writing explores family, womanhood, and identity. Her essay, “Everything Is in the Meatball Soup,” is forthcoming in a Pangyrus food anthology.

The Bluebird Word

Page 2 of 71

The Long and Short of It

My Father’s Love Letters

blue herons

I miss my mother on summer nights

I Believe in Purple

Holdfast

Mob

The Gift of Your Voice

Just Another Ordinary Magical Day

Girls Who Smoke

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