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Flip A Coin
The shining coin slipped through his
damp fingers and into his sweaty palm. He
closed his fist around it and held it tight.
He looked at his brother standing
next to him. His white shirt had long since
darkened and torn, but it had once been well
made and bright.
He knew he must have looked very
much the same- a weary, weather-worn man
bearing little resemblance to the noble one
he had once been.
“Are you sure, brother?” he asked,
he asked clutching the coin even more
tightly.
“I’m ready. I accept the
consequences, whatever they may be.”
He loosened his grip on the coin and
let it fall between his forefinger and thumb.
It was the last coin between them both.
“Heads or tails?” he asked, readying
the coin. He may as well have been
asking “Life or death?”
His brother gripped the hilt of his
sword and looked out over the
hills. “Heads.”
The coin tumbled through the air
and landed back on his palm. He
immediately closed his fist and looked up at
his brother. There was nothing to say
between them.
He put the coin on the back of his
palm and uncovered it.
“The Machinery Man” by: Jenna Tramonti
There goes the old Machinery Man
in his uniform; tattered, stained brown
His gaze is fixed on the road ahead as
his mouth wears a small, intent frown.
My memories of whistling Machinery Man
are recalled through the eyes of a child
as he’d show me and teach me and fix and
build
with a shine in his eyes, sweet and wild.
He would mend and restore and sort
everything
from broken toys to broken hearts,
And one trusted things fixed by Machinery
Man
would never again fall apart.
In the chest of my youthhood, I can still feel
he and I, him and me, hand in hand.
For the Machinery Man, so dear to me,
brings me memories, cheerful and grand.
Though he now walks with a choppy limp,
though the glimmer in his eyes is dim,
I will always remember Machinery Man;
talking, laughing, and learning with him.
Prisoner of War by: Alana Goodinson
Overcoming the shadows.
How long will it last this time?
Overcoming the darkness.
How much longer ‘till I break?
I open the blinds.
False Expectations?
The light comes in.
An imitation?
I’m warm.
My imagination?
Birds fly across the horizon.
Physics?
Ankle bound.
Prisoner of war?
“Dancer” by: Jenna Tramonti
She is moving. Always.
To the sounds and
subtleties of daily life.
Twirling:
Even as all around her
is a blur,
she hears the swaying
string of notes
in her mind
as they spin,
drawing her in.
Walking
in graceful steps:
The world is hers
to discover by the
lead of her feet,
the flow of the beat.
In the dimly lit street,
she appears.
Dancing
