For the Cicada with one wing
 

saved from
near-drowning
at the edge of
an algae-veiled pool,
 
Your life doesn't mean
much,
bulky body
becoming
skin soon enough,
 
Yet more charming
than some
creatures
 
For instance,
a damn Nightingale


* Melanie Browne has had poems published in various online zines including Word Riot, Pank and Commonline. She is a co-editor at Leaf Garden Press. Her first chapbook – Heaven is a Giant Pawn Shop – is published by Erbacce Press.

* Gerald England, as a writer and editor, has been around on the small press scene for some forty years. His website is at www.geraldengland.co.uk/ and his personal blog is http://ackworthborn.blogspot.com

Could Be Damn Near Magical


Even an expectant, bright-eyed face couldn’t mask it. All show, no substance. Standing at the top of the zigzag iron-rail fire escape bolted to the 100-year-old brick building, there is a theatrical hue to what could be damn near magical. Her face is in auburn-hair shadows as she bends to near full lean over the guardrail. From a gentle – almost sexy – smile made dazzling by pixilated sunlight, her lips move to what appears to be the forming of a word. She spits. A clear dollop of her essence hits an upturned face more accurately than a seagull spotting a newly-washed car.

            her soft sigh

            fills an empty space

            in a dream


* Jeffrey Winke is a haiku/haibun poet and public relations counselor. Recent publications include That Smirking Face, a haiku-art broadside collaboration with Matt Cipov (Milwaukee: Distant Thunder Press, 2008) and PR Idea Book: 50 Proven Tools That Really Work (Denver: Outskirts Press, 2006). www.jeffwinke.com
 

The Beautiful Octopus Club


who are my people?
where do i belong?

i'm going down to Deptford
the Albany
first wednesday of the month
"The Beautiful Octopus Club",

i'm going to be there
with my friends
back to my roots
hoots of laughter,
and Winston's grin,

draped from the ceiling,
each tentacle
a miracle of colour,
this is the place
i smile most,

dodgy disco
decks the evening out
with awful dancing
and laughter,

Pauline sidles idly up to the d.j.
says she loves him
and requests Cliff Richard
we all groan,

Cynthia is here
in her wheelchair
eyes light up
as "The Young Ones" blares out,
"Shout" follows quickly
and we're all dancing,

Winston takes the mike
mighty lungs ready
heart and soul,
he sings,
"Heart and Soul" the best band
in the world,

Kenny starts to pogo,
i still don't know
where he learnt that,
batters into
a couple of the "care workers",
evil grin
and he begins again,
like it's 1977,

Hester's wearing hotpants
of course,
"The Beautiful Octopus Club"
tub-thumping happiness,

i'm going down to Deptford
the Albany
first wednesday of the month,
to be with my friends,

these are my people
this is where i belong


* Si Philbrook says "I live in Brighton, UK. I am married with two kids and work in social care. I have written poetry since 1983. In 2007 I started posting on Myspace. Over 200,000 people have viewed my blog at www.myspace.com/jo_nobody.com

* Chris Major is a regular contributor to IS&T.

Dreamspinner


A sound like a snapping guitar string. She looked up; the curtains were open, the flood of orange fluorescent cascading across the windowsill and down onto the carpet.

The sound came again. Tucking her bookmark between the pages, she stood and moved to the window, pressing her face to the cold glass and cupping her hands around it to shut out the glare so she could see. A car was backing into a driveway, but nothing else was moving.

A movement in the bottom corner of the window caught her eye. For a moment, she thought it was a moth fluttering against the glass in desperation before falling to the sill, exhausted.

She scooped it up, thinking she would open the window and coax it to freedom. As it fluttered against her fingers, she realised that it was glittering. Like a moth it had delicate wings, but they appeared to be made from tiny fragments of crystal strung on invisible wires. One of the wings was mangled, and despite its best efforts it could not get airborne.

She turned her hand back and forth, watching the light refract through the wings, casting rainbows across her fingers. “What are you?”

“It's a dream.”

She started so hard she almost dropped it. Her head jerked up as a pale hand reached out, long fingers plucking the dream from her palm. He was tall, so slender that his black clothes hung from his shoulders as if from a coat-hanger. His skin was so close to transparency that his veins were easy to track around the curve of his jaw and down his throat.

He raised the dream to his black eyes. Only a tiny spark of violet light in their depths showed he was alive. His free hand ran through his shock of black and white hair absently.

“What?” she said.

“A dream. Only it's broken,” he said.

He inhaled deeply, brought the dream to his lips, and exhaled a silver mist across his open palm. The mangled wing shimmered, unfurled and straightened.

“Hold out your hands,” he said.

He opened his fingers and the dream floated from his hand to hers.

“Now,” he nodded to the window. “Set it free.”

She opened the window and watched as the dream glittered away into the distance.

When she turned back, the dreamspinner was gone.


* Stef Hall is a 30-something country girl living in the big city with her musician partner Paul and three bonkers cats. Stef writes short stories, some of which have been published, and novels, all of which have not. Yet. Although she says she does not write poetry, occasionally she does, and even more occasionally she does it well.

HOT AIR BALLOON RIDE

 

In that five feet wide four feet deep basket

the pilot and his wife argued

for the whole forty five minutes.

It was just the four of us:

Josie and I pressed against

the thin wall of the basket

roped our fingers together and

looked as far away as we could.

The farms were laid out all around

like a sheet of stamps.

The pilot made the fire roar

to drown out the sound of their angry voices.

We were too high

and sweating.

This is what they do:

travel from town to town

hauling that huge balloon

unrolling it and rolling it back up

for twenty years.

On the way back to earth

we barely missed some power lines

and descended into a herd

of scattering cows.

The woman walked across

the pasture crying.

The man drew out

a lukewarm bottle of champagne

popped it

and filled our plastic glasses.

He made an apology for a toast

and then asked if we wanted a photo taken

for five bucks.

* Mather Schneider says "I am a cab driver in Tucson. I came upon Ink Sweat & Tears while googling."

* Stevie Strang is a native Californian finally doing something with her photography and the million or so words that she has collected on bits of scrap paper ever since she learned how to write… not including grocery lists.

Finally, for the third of our earthier pieces, Dave Lewis writes about Bobby...

Bobby

 

we meet in

silence

in the city

 

you’ve washed

your hair

 

you turn

winter into

springtime

at any time

of year

at any

time

of day

 

you have

warm

skin

black

eyes

 

   glass

      balls

         dribble

 

down

brown,

brown

   breasts

 

sweat is pierced

   pink

 

tongued

 

we ooze

together

then sleep

 

until the next time

the cold

winter sun

 

has washed away

our faith

in the world

* Dave Lewis lectures IT & Photography. He also designs web sites, takes photographs and writes stuff. His first poetry collection Layer Cake can be bought on Amazon and he's just finished a short story and prose collection. He adds that his second book is one publisher short of a publisher at the moment. www.david-lewis.co.uk/write.html And also check out www.welshpoetry.co.uk

Continuing on from yesterday's theme, we now offer you some erotic flash fiction by Avis Hickman


In the heat if the Night

“I don’t usually go for all this kind of stuff.” I breathed huskily.

“What’s that then?” he asked me, skimming his hands around my quivering haunches, stroking and massaging me expertly with his long bony fingers.

I was mesmerised by glimpses of his body. Glistening and tanned, the skin over the hard lines of muscle was like smooth soapstone - velveteen to the touch. Suddenly, I was flipped over and balanced on my knees, and then his hands slowly moved up my back with a feather light touch until he gently brushed against the cords around my neck – binding me, keeping me a willing hostage.

“This stuff – the raunchy stuff. I’ve always been timid and quiet before. With you it’s different...”

“How so princess?” I caught the smile in his voice like a caress of warm chocolate slipping over my thighs and pooling at the base of my belly. Shuddering with excitement I stuttered:

“This raunchy style... I’m more of a missionary position type – wham bam and there you are. I normally don’t go at it like a rabbit – you know?”

“Bunnies eh? They have a lot going for them.” I caught the smile in the voice again, warm and melting, urging me forwards.

“I just have one request,” he whispered, his breath hot against my cheeks.

I sucked in sharply with anticipation and swallowed hard.

“Request?” I managed the faint echo.

“I want you naked and smooth. let me shave you – will you?” And he ran his fingers around my buttocks; cupping them possessively.

I gasped at his request, but was excited too at the prospect of so intimate an act. I nodded my acquiescence, moaning slightly as I felt him shift weight to reach for his tackle. The cold slap of the shaving gel made me arch in a fever of passion.

Then, with the gentle scrape of the cut-throat on my scalp, began my lover’s true foreplay.


* Avis Hickman says "I've had several goes at careers. Scientist, salesman, project manager, decorator, writer. I still keep an interest in all of them."