Smooth skin, over hard muscles.

Wrapping around me, as the world

Closes in on me.

Comfort encases me there,

Safe and warm.

Soft lips, against my head

Sealing a promise.

Protection, love, trust

Pressed into me

Through this simple act.

Strength radiates from him

Pulling my soul

Into his.

I've found it.

My safe place

Right here,

Within these arms.

By: C.R.Williams

Hund. Son of Dog. First of his name.

Thicc boi. In neck, in body, in mind.

Wants to fetch stick. But won't bring it back

Thinks there is endless supply of sticks.

What is personal space? Something for lesser dogs

Everything is a seat for Hund

Feet, lap, couch, car, table, shoes.

Sporty guy. Loves to run, loves to swim

Loves to hunt rats in the kiwi vines

For the sport and also his human's 'GOOD BOY!'

Best friend is Luna. Brown Kelpie with underbite

She's cute and loves to wrestle and swim in waterhole.

Life on the farm is full of adventure

So many things to bark at - Hund is a big security boy

Human doesn't always appreciate high level of security

This bamboozles Hund.

Likes to jump. In human's arms, back of ute

Will climb avocado tree, 'cos that makes human laugh

Rides in car are fun. The vet is not fun.

Please no more vet for Hund.

Favourite thing is barbeques

And parties. And sticks. And pats. And swims in waterhole.

And running. And bones. And dinner. And cuddles.

And chasing the car. Or tractor. Or motorbike

So many favourite things. Life is good.

Brown, slightly lumpy

My oldest friend

With one leg longer than the other

My aunt sewed her

And presented my bear to me

On the day I was born

(Or so my mother told me)

Her musty fur is soft

And has been soaked with many tears

Breakups, disappointments, sadness

Fearful tears when my parents shouted

Her round ears hold all my secrets

All my confessions

All my pride and shame

And yet, I have never disappointed her

That curved smile is always there

Sewed onto her kind brown face

Rain, hail, shine

Whether I squeeze her in a fierce hug

Or throw her against the wall

Her steady eyes always stare

With love and understanding

One day, my brother tore off her arm

He laughed and pretended

Her arm was a poop

I cried and screamed at him

He couldn't understand what he'd done

How he'd hurt her

How that hurt me

But my teddy understood

She sat quietly as I threaded the needle

And sewed her back together

Her arm was never the same

Pinned to her side with jagged black stitches

No longer able to rotate

But she never complained

Her smile never waivered

Her eyes held no recrimination

When I went overseas, I stored her

Packed into a cardboard box

No room in my backpack for my oldest friend

And she's waiting still

I hadn't thought of her in months

And now my arms itch

To draw her into a fierce embrace

To once again soak that fur with my tears

To feel that rare feeling

The one friend who I will never disappoint

Who will never think I have let them down

No matter how long they have waited

Crammed in a dark cardboard box

Starved for air and light

I know that when I pull her out

Her smile will be just as bright

Her eyes just as understanding

So blessed am I

To have an aunt who sewed

Her love into a teddy bear

A bear for no-one else but me

A decade of being less than.

breaking away from bonds that carved deep into the skin.

rage, anger, deceit.

a fire that licked my heart of stone.

melting it, softening it.

the fire swayed from empty to full. consumed me.

rebirth.

smoldering.

and rising from the ashes.

I crumple in my chair, staring blankly at the window pane and let out a deep breath that seemed like I’d been holding in for ages. There’s a feeling of defeat trying to overtake me. I have a sense for the need to get away, but I know right now this is impossible. My fingers run aimlessly over the keys on the old typewriter. I fling the window open and feel the warmth of the gentle breeze just on that edge between spring and summer. I can hear the noise of the cars in the distance and children laughing as they play. The smells of grass and flowers permeate the air and take me back to a time where there was much more hope and freedom in my life. It wasn’t because of lack of problems. It was because I knew where to go.

I begin tapping the keys and writing what I recall. I’m transported to the days I could disappear for hours, taking in the views of the reservoir and surrounding trails. The scent of pine fills my nostrils and happy processions of geese, proudly displaying their new goslings behind them, waddle out of my way. I can feel the sunshine on my face as I look around at the wonder of countless flowers popping up in obscure places along the rocky shores and banks of the water. Birds are flitting about the cattails and I hear the plops of turtles jumping off the fallen logs into the water as I pass by.

This is where I could let out all of the stress and uncertainties plaguing my mind and really tune in to the voice of my Beloved. I can hear His voice speaking sweet words of love over me. With each word another burden is lifted off my shoulders that they were never meant to bear. As I speed up my pace into a run all the hurt and anguish well up to overflowing tears, but when they hit the ground more weight falls off. Around every turn I take I feel lighter because I hear Him clearly say, “Accepted, cherished, wanted, chosen, treasure, protected, desired, provided for.“

I’m shaken out of this precious memory when I feel the wetness from my tears dripping down my face onto my hands. The warm breeze gently blows against my skin almost wiping the tears away. I can hear my Beloved whisper, “Come away with Me. I Am still here. I’ve never left you. You’ve just been too busy and taken on more burdens that you couldn’t hear me.”

More tears well up in my eyes and spill down my cheeks.

“Give them to Me again. Won’t you let me carry them for you?” He says. “The rest you seek, the escape you need, is just a breath away. My hands are open. My shoulders are big enough. My love for you is strong enough.”

I hold out my hands and release everything I’ve been carrying and once again I’m on that trail running through the dirt and gravel, but now the hurt and anguish are gone and I am free.

Briers and thorns bar the narrow pathway.

Weedy vines entangle and wrap around my feet, making it impossible to move forward.

Bitter roots seek to choke and defile.

You come in with Your refining fire.

The blazing flames destroy everything that hinders.

The embers crack and pop as ashes float away in the wind.

The fire is painful but necessary.

The scorched soil is left looking black and marred.

All appears to be ruin and despair. A dark cloud hovers overhead, but a refreshing rain begins to fall.

Signs of new life start to spring up.

Your refining fire has burned away all the dross and made way for a fruitful garden.

Dear Dick,

I hope this letter finds you in a state of literary grace and grammatical correctness. It is with a heavy heart and a dictionary of synonyms that I tender my resignation from my position as Chief Wordsmith Extraordinaire, effective immediately.

Please understand that this decision was not reached lightly. It’s just that after spending countless hours crafting metaphors, similes, and puns, I’ve come to the conclusion that my true calling lies in the lucrative world of competitive Scrabble. I feel that my talents are better suited to arranging tiles on a board than rearranging words in a document.

I will fondly remember the days spent debating the Oxford comma, arguing over the pronunciation of “gif,” and trying to sneak “onomatopoeia” into every memo. However, my ambitions now lie beyond the confines of this office, where the only punctuation I’ll be worrying about is whether or not the triple word score was worth sacrificing all my vowels.

I assure you, this decision is not a reflection of the stimulating workplace environment or the copious amounts of coffee provided. It’s simply that I’ve grown tired of searching for the perfect synonym for “exhausted” and yearn for a challenge that involves more than just battling writer’s block.

I appreciate the opportunities for growth and creativity that this position has afforded me, and I will always cherish the memories of our team’s literary shenanigans. Please know that I leave with the utmost respect for you and the entire team, and I wish everyone continued success in all their future endeavors.

Thank you for your understanding, and may the pen forever be mightier than the sword (unless we’re playing Scrabble).

Yours literarily,

Mamba

Sitting by the fireplace, in my new space

Holidays had just ended

Finally headed to sleep

Partner rises, as I drift off

Wondering where my cat is,

Perhaps the closet

I hear something about smoke, but smell nothing

Even when I come out

See water being poured on the chimney

I believe it must be solvable

I then feel the wall behind the chimney

Flames burst through just after my hand retreats

Running back to find my cat

Electric pops turn off lights, searching becomes harder

Blind panic, I return to the room behind the chimney

Flames are everywhere, I go to grab a coat and it is consumed

I am untouched as flames surround me

Fleeing again to find my cat

Yet, knowing I won’t

Finally, partner convinces me outside of the fire

As I stand outside, a bitter January night

Watching in horror, no coat, not feeling anything but pure loss

Shrieking, “No!, watching all

Be devoured…

Two years later as I write this

A pit fills my stomach

I try to remember

Before the fire claimed so much of me

Aging me even more prematurely

I was not living

My cat died, and we did not

In these last few years

A fresh slate has been filled with continuous effort

Intentionally waking with gratitude

Constant effort to be the most authentic and kind person

For self and the world

I throw myself down on my mat

Kundalini yoga works with fire

Cleansing the body and soul with inner flames

Washing away old ways of being

It is the way out of the ashes

Throwing myself into a different fire

Allowing the flames to rise in me

Cleansing my soul, making room

For new possibilities

But some days, I still weep

For the loss of my friend

From the heaviness of being alive

And all it still takes to simply breathe

Hilary's hopes were suspended above her keyboard, ready to take on any challenge she chose to place on the blank screen above it. Her head was choked with thoughts, saturated like a sponge, overflowing with unwritten words. Her mind was drowning in a sea of letters that she couldn't unscramble fast enough to form into coherent sentences; sentences that were impatiently waiting for Hilary to create. The computer monitor in front of her was staring at her, demanding that she wait no longer to display her unspoken creations on its empty surface.

Hilary had been at the mall yesterday and had stood before a window display at a popular bookstore. Stacks of books from the 'New York Times Best Sellers List' crowded the space and were doing their best to stay upright. Notices of upcoming events, where 'you could get a signed copy' were randomly taped to the window. Hilary had been disappointed to discover that the authors' main purpose in choosing the title for his or her book was one that would attract the most customers in order to make the most profit - books about: 'How To Succeed In The Business World', Secrets From an Ex-Government Official', 'Hidden Affair of Local celebrity Exposed', 'How To Improve Your Sex Life'. Readers were waiting for the next bestseller to be published so they could have something to talk about with their friends and their colleagues over the dinner table; something to be displayed on their glass-topped coffee tables.

Whatever happened to the great American novel? Whatever happened to novelists like Faulkner, Steinbeck, Galsworthy? Lee Harper, Charles Dickens, or Joseph Conrad? Authors who wrote with such passion and in such intricate detail that you believed you had just passed one of their characters on the street, or perhaps he was a neighbor who lived at the end of the road you lived on. Perhaps you entered a building or someone's home for the first time and you knew what you would find further down the hall because you had previously visited it as a guest of the author.

The screen before her remained empty. And to think for a minute that she was capable of writing the world's, or at the least, the next great American novel! Well, that was just crazy, right? That was just hilarious. Hilary began to laugh uncontrollably, and then she began to cry.

The soldier's breath was heavy

As the lids above his eyes

He sprawled beside the levee

With his mangled, bloody thighs

The bullets and the shouting

Were fading to the west

And silence was approaching

In the air and in his breast

The field was draped with remnants

The limbs and bones of boys

Those that breathed begged penance

Or screamed an awful noise

The air was thick with torment

The breeze, it stank of death

So many lay there dormant

They'd breathed their final breath

Our soldier groaned again

All shrapnel pocked and still

As blood ebbed from his vein

And on the earth did spill

As he prepared to die

On that lonely, foreign field

He contemplated why?

What result would his death yield?

Then suddenly a face

Appeared before his own

'We'll take you back to base'

it said. But he could only moan

The blessed blackness claimed him

As they moved him to the cot

That day he lost a limb

Which on that field would rot

His artery was oozing

A torn and bloody mess

There wasn't too much choosing

The surgeon did his best

The options were all dire

And time was growing thin

To seal the wound with fire

To cauterise the shin

The blade betwixt the flame

Til metal glowed white-hot

The surgeon took his aim

Then cleansed the crucial spot

The soldier whimpered weakly

As the fire seared his knee

The nurses watched on bleakly

Too much death they'd had to see

Perhaps that youth would die

Or maybe he would mend

But that shadow in his eye

Would be there 'til the end