Mis-Taken, story by Shoshauna Shy (ME, AT 17 Poetry and Prose Series)

Mis-Taken
by Shoshauna Shy

It wasn’t like sleeping with the friend of a friend’s friend (which translated means sleeping with a stranger), because we knew each other, occupied the same circles, half-flirted now and then. But not enough spark on either of our parts to get a flame going, let alone a blaze. Then we found ourselves in sleeping bags away from the others, and in our chill half-sleep, moved closer together. We went skin-on-skin, and soon hit our heads against that cellar ceiling called No Chemistry, No Appetite, No Combustible Lust. I wouldn’t say I was offering myself, but more that I was borrowing from his better future. Borrowing him from the throes of some sweet lady. One day, she would want him very much.

AUTHOR’S PHOTO CAPTION: Me, at 17.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This piece of flash fiction is 122 words. I was 17 during the Sexual Revolution of the late 60s-early 70s when you did not wear a boy’s ID bracelet while going steady, or even go on dates.

ABOUT THE THE AUTHOR: Shoshauna Shy is the author of four collections, the most recent having won an Outstanding Achievement Award from the Wisconsin Library Association. Her poetry has recently been published by RHINO, Main Street Rag, Carbon Culture Review, and First Class Lit. A Pushcart Prize nominee, she was a finalist for the Tom Howard/Margaret Reid poetry prize sponsored by Winning Writers in 2015. Her flash fiction has been published by 100 Word Story, Fiction Southeast, Literary Orphans, A Quiet Courage, Sou’wester, Thrice Fiction, Crack the Spine, Microfiction Monday Magazine, Every Writer, Red Cedar, and Prairie Wolf Press Review. Read more at PoetryJumpsOfftheShelf.com.

Sunset Snorkel, story by Teresa Zemaitis (BEACH AND POOL Poetry and Prose Series)

Sunset Snorkel
by Teresa Zemaitis

She stood on the back of the boat staring into the crystal blue water. Everyone was eager to jump in. Not her. The Caribbean sun beat down the last of its rays on her face. She turned back to the guide and asked one last time, “You have no life vests?”

“No, ma’am. No life jackets here. Why would you take a snorkeling tour if you can’t swim?”

“I wanted to—and I thought there would be life jackets.”

Holding the small inner tube around her neck, she stepped off the edge of the boat. Instantly, water entered her mask. Her husband put his arm around her waist. She leaned on him so she could drain the water, took a deep breath to calm herself, and began to swim.

She was awkward trying to maneuver. The current fought her when she tried to look around. She saw a large rock covered with sea urchins. They looked like they were right at her feet, the ones at the end of her legs that were impossible to keep horizontal. She popped up, gasping for air. “You’re not supposed to touch those. They’re poisonous!”

“They’re nowhere near you,” her husband said pulling her forward. “I promise.”

The water was amazing—the perfect temperature and sparkling shade of turquoise. Fish of every color looked at her; she looked back at them. But it was hard to enjoy. I’m the weak one separated from the group, the one the shark will go after.

Letting herself bob back up, she waved for the boat that was following them. They’d been swimming for over a half hour. The current was exhausting. She told her husband to go explore with the group. She would ride back in enjoying the sights through the safety of the glass.

PHOTO: Photo of woman snorkeling from expedia.com.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:  This experience resembles many other similar moments in my life, times when I really wanted to do something, but was afraid. I never let fear stop me. You have to just jump in! While I didn’t love the experience, I can say I snorkeled in the Caribbean. I only wish I had more than 300 words. 🙂

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Teresa Zemaitis is a dog loving, creative writing teaching, tattoo sporting, ex-journalist, and ex-politician who is finally following her dream. Three credits away from completing her MFA, she finally decided to put herself out there and start submitting.  She was born and raised in New York and currently resides in St. Petersburg, Florida, with her husband and dog. Her work has been published in Foliate Oak Literary Journal, The Poeming Pigeon, and New Barker magazine.

The Archer, story by Leara Morris-Clark (MY IMAGINARY SKILL Poetry and Prose Series)

The Archer
by Leara Morris-Clark

I saw the path my arrow would take. Ricocheting off the large pan hanging in front of me, it would curve to the left, slide over the large boulder and angle upward into the tree. The shaft hitting a small branch would slant the arrow’s trajectory back toward where he stood. It would finish its journey by slicing through the apple atop his head and embedding itself into the tree behind him, a split second before my second arrow cut it in half.

Like Robin Hood, I tore my first arrow from the quiver, pulled back the string of my longbow, released, and just as quickly fired my second arrow.

The birds became silent.

I stayed my position with eyes closed and listened to the sounds as the arrow followed its predetermined route, pierced the apple, and lodged into the tree before it was also split in half.

I smiled at the scent of fresh apple as it fell in two pieces.

PHOTO: Robin Hood statue outside Nottingham Castle (England).

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I have loved archery since I was a child but never had the time to get good at it.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Leara Morris-Clark came to live in Massachusetts from Florida by way of Tennessee. She enjoys photography, voice acting, writing, drawing, and trying to sing. The ocean and animals inspire her and she plans to return to the southern shores when the time is right. She has two books in the works, Pieces: A Collection of Poetry and Do You Have a Minute: A Collection of Micro Fiction. She spends a lot of time on social media and would love for you to drop by: Twitter, Facebook, and learawrites.wordpress.com.

AUTHOR PHOTO: The author in Savannah, Georgia.

Miss Frizzle, story by Susan W. Goldstein (MY MANE MEMORIES Poetry and Prose Series)

Miss Frizzle
by Susan W. Goldstein

This is what you want to hear from your hairdresser:

“Stunning!”

“Gorgeous!”

“Perfection!”

This is what you do NOT want to hear:

—silence—

—heavy silence—

Then​: “Why didn’t you​ tell​ me you colored your hair???!!!”

I was at Erich, “Hairdresser to the Stars,” for my first perm. He styled all the senior managers’ wives at my office in Indianapolis. I was treating myself and couldn’t wait. Erich hissed as he unrolled curlers that had promised beautiful, bouncy waves. Why was he upset? I was frozen with apprehension. The answer became clear after he finished. My hair was fried. I looked like I had been hit by lightning. ​Twice​. Incredibly, ​he​ was angry at ​me​. “If you had told me, I would have used different chemicals!”

“Well, you didn’t ​ask​ me,” I was thisclose to tears. He was the hair professional. Not me. I stared in horror at my Bride of Frankenstein reflection, but my polite Midwestern personality was warring with the need to be assertive. I actually felt badly for ​him​, and heard myself reassuring this hair butcher that all was fine. I even tipped him, but refused to return so that he could “work” on it. I was never stepping into his salon again. I went home and made brownies, eating the whole damned pan.

My hair and I flew home to visit my parents the next weekend. Dad was waiting at the airport gate, and didn’t recognize this wild­-maned girl flinging herself at him. He looked stunned and was speechless the entire ride home.

Mom knew what to expect, having impotently listened to my hysterical phone calls. She pulled me into a big hug, whispering: “I made an appointment with my hairdresser for tomorrow.”

I held on tightly, so relieved to be home. Moms can fix anything.

AUTHOR’S PHOTO CAPTION: Egads, I must have destroyed all the evidence! This photo shows me at least two years later, still trying to grow out the perm. I wish you could have seen me in my split ends splendor…

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Good god, I really screwed up my social life for quite a while, waiting for this crummy, crappy, awful perm to grow out. There really wasn’t much that could be done, other than chop it all off and that was not an option. At first I hid at home, but that became too fattening. Since it was the Disco 70s, I just thought “Oh, well,” bought a ‘fro comb and soon was stylin’ as I hit the dance floor.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Susan W. Goldstein has led a peripatetic life, but found a true home in South Florida. A major in English from DePauw University always proved helpful, whether writing up marketing research reports or composing fairly decent emails. She is an active member of Women’s National Book Association, South Florida Chapter, and has been published in the literary blog Mothers Always Write. These are her baby steps as she grows into a published author.

Call for Submissions: LEARNING TO DRIVE Poetry & Prose Series

Most of us have a story (or stories) about how/when/where/why we learned to drive. We want to hear about your experiences as a neophyte driver in a poem or story (fiction or nonfiction), and invite you to submit your work to our LEARNING TO DRIVE Poetry and Prose Series. (Non-drivers can also participate by explaining why they’ve never learned to operate a vehicle.)

PROMPT: Tell us about learning to drive in a poem (any reasonable length) or prose piece (300 words or fewer). If you’ve never learned to drive, tell us why in poetry or prose.

WHAT: Submissions can be original or previously published poems or prose. You retain all rights to your work and give Silver Birch Press permission to publish the piece on social media and in a potential print edition.

WHEN: We’ll feature the poems and prose in the Silver Birch Press LEARNING TO DRIVE Poetry and Prose Series on our blog starting in March 2016 . We’ll also feature the work on Twitter and Facebook.

HOW TO SUBMIT: Email one poem or prose piece to SBPSUBMISSIONS@gmail.com as an MSWord attachment — and in the same file include your name, contact info (including email address), one-paragraph author’s bio (written in third person), and any notes about your creative process or thoughts about your piece. Please put all this information in one MSWord document and title the file with your last name (and only your last name). Write “Drive” in subject line of email. If available, please send a photo of yourself around the time you learned to drive and provide a caption for the photo (when, where). Photos with cars encouraged!

SUBMISSION CHECKLIST

To help everyone understand our submission requirements, we’ve prepared the following checklist.

1. Send ONE MS Word document TITLED WITH YOUR LAST NAME (e.g. Smith.doc or Jones.docx).

2. In the same MS Word document, include your contact information (name, mailing address, email address).

3. In the same MS Word document, include an author’s bio, written in the third person (e.g., Mary Jones lives in Ohio…”).

4. In the same MS Word document, include a note about your poem/prose or creative process (this is optional — but encouraged).

5. In the same MS Word document, include a caption for your photo (including where, when and/or date taken).

6. If available, send a photo of yourself at any age as a SEPARATE jpg attachment (not in the MS Word document). Title the photo with your last name (e.g., Jones.jpg).

7. Email to SBPSUBMISSIONS@gmail.com — and put DRIVE in the subject line.

SUBMISSION DEADLINE: Tuesday, March 15, 2016.

Wondrous Place, flash fiction by Cath Bore (WHEN I HEAR THAT SONG Series)

Wondrous Place
by Cath Bore

It is early morning and Liverpool is opening its eyes, ready to wake up, stretch, yawn, and welcome the day.

There’s a tune, a breathy bass riff. A voice, smooth and clear, high but not too much.

I found a place full of charms.

I hear the voice singing, and I know who it is. Billy Fury. I know the song too. Wondrous Place.

I know the singer and I know the song but what I don’t know is where it is coming from at ten to eight on a Tuesday morning in Liverpool city centre. So I follow the song. It takes me to a pub, the old boozer type, doors flung wide open. I near and hear singing, a voice on top of Billy’s. It is thin, slightly shrill, out of tune and time. I peer inside.

The pub’s cleaner in her apron is dancing with her mop, humming. Billy Fury sings to her from the jukebox. She’s seventy-odd with crab-apple skin, turned girlish. She’s smiling, eyes closed, slow dancing. It’s beautiful.

I wanna stay and never go away –

Wondrous place.

She dances with Billy Fury every morning, I think. I hope. Now, I do too.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Cath Bore is a writer based in Liverpool, U.K., currently writing a novel and lots of flash fiction. Her website is https://cathbore.wordpress.com.

Call for submissions: ME, DURING THE HOLIDAYS Poetry and Prose Series

For many of us, some of our most memorable times revolve around the fall/winter holidays (Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Christmas, and New Year’s). We want to hear all about your holiday memories in poetry or prose. If available, please send a photo of yourself at any age taken during the holidays.

PROMPT: Tell us your holiday recollections in a poem (any reasonable length) or prose piece (300 words or fewer).

WHAT: Submissions can be original or previously published poems or prose. You retain all rights to your work and give Silver Birch Press permission to publish on social media and in a potential print edition.

WHEN: We’ll feature the poems and prose in the Silver Birch Press ME, DURING THE HOLIDAYS Series on our blog starting in late November or early December (actual dates to be determined, based on number of submissions). We’ll also feature on Twitter and Facebook.

HOW TO SUBMIT: Email one poem or prose piece to SBPSUBMISSIONS@gmail.com as an MSWord attachment — and in the same file include your name, contact info (including email address), one-paragraph author’s bio (written in third person), and any notes about your creative process or thoughts about your piece. Please put all this information in one MSWord document and title the file with your last name (and only your last name). Write”Holidays” in subject line of email. If available, please send a photo of yourself — at any age — taken during the holidays, and provide a caption for the photo (when, where).

SUBMISSION CHECKLIST

To help everyone understand our submission requirements, we’ve prepared the following checklist.

1. Send ONE MS Word document TITLED WITH YOUR LAST NAME (e.g. Scrooge.doc or Kringle.docx).

2. In the same MS Word document, include your contact information (name, mailing address, email address).

3. In the same MS Word document, include an author’s bio, written in the third person (e.g., Clara Claus lives at the North Pole…”).

4. In the same MS Word document, include a note about your poem/prose or creative process (this is optional — but encouraged).

5. In the same MS Word document, include a caption for your photo (including where, when and/or date taken).

6. If available, send a photo of yourself at any age taken during the holidays as a SEPARATE jpg attachment (not in the MS Word document). Title the photo with your last name (e.g., Frost.jpg).

7. Email to SBPSUBMISSIONS@gmail.com — and put HOLIDAYS in the subject line.

SUBMISSION DEADLINE: Tuesday, December 15, 2015

PHOTO: Holiday photo from the 1960s purchased on ebay.

Diana loved sweets, story by Chella Courington (MY SWEET WORD SERIES)

Diana loved sweets
by Chella Courington

Fig Newtons, Hershey Kisses, Lemon Tarts, Twists, Jelly Bellies. Anything that tasted of being a girl again, running out the backdoor with Nancy and rolls of Angel Soft to paper the Walker’s pecan trees. Tissue like tinsel, thrown in streams over nude limbs, changed into moonlight dancers. In the shadows, Diana and Nancy. One day they would know life was a dream, but then bodies were perennial pinks blooming every spring. No matter what they did—Marlboro reds, nose candy, black beauties—nothing marked their leaves. Years later Nancy left a message on Diana’s cell phone. “I still hate math. Math still hates me.” Diana cracked a beer, remembering when Nancy passed her a note in tenth-grade geometry. “Math gives me leukemia.” It was March, and she never returned to class. Mr. Singleton fell for the stricken student and sent Nancy’s homework to her house always with a gift. Her dresser was stacked—Whitman’s sampler, Catcher in the Rye, a poster of Boy George. In June she went into remission and never mentioned geometry again. Holding the cell phone, Diana fell asleep. Her beer cans arranged like two isosceles triangles. Side by side.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The trigger for this piece was the death of a close childhood friend.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Chella Courington is a writer and teacher. She’s the author of three flash fiction chapbooks along with three chapbooks of poetry. Her stories and poetry have appeared in numerous anthologies and journals including SmokeLong, The Los Angeles Review, Nano Fiction, and The Collagist. Her novella, The Somewhat Sad Tale of the Pitcher and the Crow, was published in August 2015 by Pink.Girl.Ink.Press. Born and raised in the Appalachian South, she now lives in Santa Barbara, California, with another writer and two cats.

Licorice and a lolly kiss, story by Veronika Hørven Jensen (MY SWEET WORD Series)

Licorice and a lolly kiss
by Veronika Hørven Jensen

What they say about children not being able to fall in love is not at all true. Before puberty kicks in, before your limited attention span has to be divided and prioritized, in those precious years so full of imagination, intense emotion and guiltless enjoyment, you might have had your first crush.

I was about eight years old when we played the candy game. You placed the end of a licorice string in your mouth, the other in your opponent’s; in the centre, hung a lollipop. Placing your hands behind your back, you had to eat the licorice as fast as you could in a sticky race towards the middle.

As we were paired I realized that quite by accident, the boy I’d had a crush on for years was going to be my opponent! Waiting in breathless anticipation as the line grew shorter; I was blushing before we even began, and felt my cheeks redden more and more as we drew closer.

We reached the middle at the exact same time. And so it was that in front of our entire class, our lips met for the first time as they closed over the lollipop.

ILLUSTRATION: “Colorful Heart-Shaped Lollipops” by Michael Bednarek. Prints available at fineartamerica.com.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Veronika Hørven Jensen, born 1992, is an author, singer/songwriter and part-time florist, working in Oslo, Norway. Her first novel, Alan, was released in September 2012, the second is well on the way. She’s performed her own songs live both at John Dee, Rockefeller, and Mølla in 2014. Among other short works two poems are featured in the anthologyThese Twisted Roots by Oslo Writers League (August 2015).

PHOTO: Picking flowers in a forest in Norway, mid-1990s.

Sunday Sustenance, story by Theo Greenblatt (MY SWEET WORD Series)

Sunday Sustenance
by Theo Greenblatt

At Camp Bendito we wore uniforms on Sundays: gray Bermuda shorts and short-sleeved blouses with a red Camp Bendito crest on the pocket. My uniform was tight all over, budding breasts causing an unsightly buckle in my crest, though I was not yet nine.

We attended chapel, pointless to me, in a sunlit clearing in the woods. Other girls knelt devoutly on the prickly grass. I knotted bracelets from weeds and wild clover while the sermon droned on.

At home on a Sunday morning I would be cross-legged on the living room floor balancing a bowl of Cocoa Puffs, the smell of last night’s popcorn heavy in the air, the cartoons on whisper before anyone else was up. A shaft of sunlight exposing a galaxy of glistening dust motes between the tv and me.

At Camp Bendito, after chapel and the somber breakfast at long wooden tables, we were allowed to visit the PX to buy candy. Hershey’s, Nestle’s Crunch, Almond Joy. While my bunkmates played Tag and Mother May I, I sat cross-legged on my neatly made cot and devoured all my spoils at once, wishing I was the kind of girl who could make them last instead.

IMAGE: Camp Bendito postcard available at ebay.com.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Theo Greenblatt teaches writing at the Naval Academy Preparatory School in Newport, Rhode Island. Her work, both fiction and nonfiction, has appeared or is forthcoming in The Worcester Review, Harvard Review, Clarion, Pembroke Magazine, The Examined Life, and other venues. Her nonfiction piece “True but Incomplete,” in The Flexible Persona, was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Readers are invited to visit her web page at www.theogreenblatt.com.

AUTHOR’S PHOTO CAPTION: Another Sunday, Newport, Rhode Island (September 20, 2015).