An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

Tag: protection

The Power of the Circle

Poetry by Nancy Machlis Rechtman

The river was raging
But the herd’s only choice was to cross
So the baby moved even closer to his mother
Remaining under the others’ watchful gazes.

The storm had created a ravenous monster
Drawing the elephants away from the riverbank
On the other side
Like a Siren.

But they were powerful
And each purposeful step
Brought them closer –
Except for the baby
Exhausted by his attempts to move
As the current swirled around him
Pulling him away from the herd
And down towards the wildness of the rapids.

The herd was drained as they gratefully climbed the embankment
And only the mother and her baby were left
To fight the tentacles of the river
But just as the baby seemed to be safe and about to step onto the land
The current tightened its grip
And started to yank him away from his mother
But she wouldn’t cede her boy to the greedy waters
And she thrust her trunk under him and held on
So he wouldn’t be swept away
But the river also refused to back down
Now that it had the baby firmly in its grasp.

The other elephants turned and saw the struggle
And knew what they had to do
So they lumbered back down the embankment
And without hesitation stepped back into the ferocity of the river
And they surrounded the mother and baby with their power and strength
And love.

The mama took a step back to join the protection of the circle
Keeping the baby in the heart.
With renewed strength, together they pulled him out from the jaws of the insatiable barrage
And brought him back to the safety of the land
Where he remained in their center
And after a moment of renewal
They turned and made their way as one
Onto the next step of their journey.


Nancy Machlis Rechtman has had poetry and short stories published in Your Daily Poem, Grande Dame Literary, Fresh Words, The Bluebird Word (read her poem from May 2022), Discretionary Love, and more. She wrote freelance Lifestyle stories for a local newspaper, and was the copy editor for another paper. She writes a blog called Inanities at https://nancywriteon.wordpress.com.

The Color of Noise

Nonfiction by Sandra Marilyn

The noise seemed to have been born of the profusion of color that swirled around the hundreds of people sharing the streets on our first day in India.

It was as if one of the gods or goddesses said, “There will be too many of you and you won’t have much money, but I’ll give you an extra serving of color and it will define your brave spirits.”

Then the color rained down on them in great splashes making their houses lavender and orange, or outrageously crimson, making their lorries bright yellow each with an individual design of flowers on every paintable surface. The color even splashed on the horns of the garlanded cows occupying their rightful place in the streets.

 The temples rose steadily up into the sky with layer after layer of deities, demons, monkeys, elephants, cows, and garlands all painted in every vibrant shade of beautiful with none of the West’s concern about appropriate combinations. My heart flew to the heavens with the soaring temples as I stood looking up letting the colors shower me with their abundance.

In the markets women with long strings of flowers in their hair sold powered colors that were displayed in rows of perfect pyramid shaped piles. The cobalt blue, lime green, scarlet, gold, orange, violet of their saris wrapped around their bodies as if to protect them from the tediousness of the world. There were no black, gray, or brown saris. The women on pilgrimage together at the shore all wore vibrant orange and yellow saris and moved laughingly together like a giant orange flower with yellow borders on its pedals.

Cars honking, cows mooing, children laughing, motorcycles revving, people shouting. The noise that might have been jarring took on the life of the colors running together in an ecstatic cacophony. Even in the noise there was no gray.

When I returned home my old house looked much bigger, much more convenient, much more reflective of my privilege than I had noticed on returning from other trips. Yet, the lack of noise and color was unsettling. I stood at the window feeling a profound boredom settle into my bones. Most of the houses I could see were versions of beige; many were gray; one was actually black. There were no flowers painted on trucks or cars; there were no animals walking freely down the street; women leaving their houses for work wore predictably dull clothes. I wondered if I would be able to live with the cheerlessness of our normal.

In the next few weeks I pulled out the ladders and tarps and set about the long task of painting my house a considerably brighter blue, shiny periwinkle actually, than it had ever been before. All the while I scraped and sanded, lugged paint buckets, and dragged my weary legs up and down ladders, I was saying a sort of prayer for my old house.

“I will honor your soul with this magnificent color if you will protect me from the bleakness and harshness of the world.” She agreed, of course.


Sandra Marilyn, her wife, and a dog live in an old house on the side of a hill in San Francisco. She looks out the window at a view of the city and wonders about the lives of people who live in other cities. And she writes about them every day.

Below Beach Sands

Poetry by Ed Higgins

feeding sanderlings rush
along the tide’s wet sand

sand-colored mole crabs
burrow quickly below the swash

maximizing their escape—
like the burrowing crabs

I sink below sloshing surfaces
backward into ovid breathing holes

barely remembering which way
is up, wanting protection,

leaving few marks to reveal
my fears, eyes alert

as predatory birds plunge
their digging beaks


Ed Higgins‘ poems and short fiction have appeared in Monkeybicycle, Danse Macabre, Ekphrastic Review, and Triggerfish Critical Review, among others. Ed is Asst. Editor for Brilliant Flash Fiction. He has a small farm in Yamhill, OR, raising a menagerie of animals—including a rooster named StarTrek.

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