Tuesday, May 31, 2016

Wire, F. Feldman

Telephone Wires
by Frederick W Feldman

Doctor Alphonse Muskovodere had to tend the carnivorous plants, or else he would die.
In the greenhouse, where he practiced, he strolled past the exotic species, stopping at each one, occasionally palming a leaf or inspecting a sprout to ensure that they were well.
He was not expecting his next patient for another hour.  At the moment, he didn’t have to worry about it. When it was time, his secretary Nona would remind him and give him warning to prepare. She sat near the door, partially separated from him by means of a slap-dash wall he had put in and behind which she functioned as the front desk. She had allowed a spattering of potted houseplants to accumulate in her domain, in an effort to get into the spirit of working in a greenhouse, but she retained her aversion to heat, so she also brought a constantly humming dehumidifier and three continuously busy electric fans that were positioned directly at her head, from different angles. Her thin hair was always whipping around above her head in the embattled airflow.
He called out to her from the other room. “Have the ants been delivered?”
He waited for a response, but none came. As usual, she couldn’t hear him over the noise of the fans.
“Into the whirlwind,” he muttered, and trudged out to her desk. The beating fans made a tremendous racket. She was hunched over her Personal Computer, with earbuds in her ears.
“Did the ants come in?”
She continued typing away.
“Nona! Did the ants come in yet?”
She finally looked up at him and pulled out her earbuds. As they swung from her hand he could hear the tinny sound of pop music coming from the speakers.
“What?” she asked.
“The ants,” he shouted over the fans, “was the shipment of ants delivered?”
“Yes,” she said. “I told them to leave the box in the corner of your office.”
“Oh, alright. That’s good. Thank you, Nona.”
She called it his office, but it was really just the most immediate part of the greenhouse that he had cleared and in which he had set up some medical equipment. He found the box right where Nona had said it would be, with the cardboard flaps open. He cut open the rest to reveal a case swarming with a rare species of ant that had been transported from Africa.

Mortal, K. Comber

Warning Labels
By Katy Comber

Caution: Mortal Not Made for this World


Mix Colors, Sun Dry

Attaches Easily. To Release,
Tie Up All Connecting Strings.
Reattach at Your Own Risk.

Breakage May Result in
Strengthening or Weakening

Guarantee Unavailable

Limited Warranty

Monday, May 23, 2016

New Beginnings, Kelly Estes

New Beginnings
Kelly Estes

Freak, Katy Comber

Old Friend
Katy Comber

“Freak.” The word was dangerous. The word was a sword; I jabbed with it anyway.
“Freak.” I whispered again to the girl... no. That’s not right, the woman, standing in front of me. I couldn’t meet her eyes. If I did, there would be hurt. Pain. Regret. I’d rather stare down an oncoming train than glance up at this… person.

“What did you say?” My eyes locked on the familiar white floors under my fuzzy slippers. The hem of my robe swayed over the fine blonde hairs tangling down my shins. The chipper voice had startled me out of, well, whatever it was that I was doing. Thinking? Inner-dialoging? This conversation is between A and B, so C ya.

“What’s so funny, Joy?” The voice was weary in it’s fake optimism. She knew better than to ask. I laughed harder just to annoy the voice. The voice sighed and was replaced by a clacking of heels. Clack away little voice.

Freak, freak, freak. The word rolled around. The boy who said it weeks ago appeared. His red backpack. I liked his coat. I stared. What are you looking at, Freak? He had asked. His friends laughed. One laughed, but his eyes said he’d rather not be laughing. His eyes leapt toward me. Hugging me with their remorse. The eye-hug stung more than the laughter. The eye-hug prickled and tugged away at something inside me. I am different from you, the eye-hug said. I feel sorry for you, the eye-hug moaned. I remember who you used to be, the eye-hug acknowledged. I put on my sweetest smile in return and flipped up my middle finger. The eye-hug ran from me. Good. Go away, eyes. Go away. Run to your normal. Run, as I cut my way here. Here, to white floors, fuzzy slippers, and no sharp objects for less hairy legs. Run.

“Joy? I see you are ready for your exercise! Nurse Bea told me you were standing here in a rare mood today. I’m usually lost in the land of Passive-Aggressiva, but I’m assuming that means something. Now. Have you looked yet? I see you shaking your head. Joy, I need you to say yes or no here. Now. Have you looked yet?”

“N-n-no. I tried. But, no.” I kept staring at my feet. My toes wiggled with anxiety. Fuzzy slippers dance on white floors. These wiggling toes are not my own. Dr. Kinder (rhymes with tender, not minder though the latter would be an accurate representation of the person) was trying to get me to look at the person I called a Freak. She probably wanted me to apologize, or--something.  

“How about it? Are you ready?” Dr. Kinder asked the woman in front of me. She had a mouth, but no voice. She studied her slippers as well, and slightly nodded. Dr. Kinder did not make her use her words. Dr. Kinder knew not to.

“Okay. Now, before you face each other I want you to visualize an old friend. Someone you want to see when you look up.” Someone. An old friend. The boy. The guy. The man. The person who laughed but did not want to, who remembered me from before, who knew why we are different now. He had been a friend. A friend before the woods, before the thing that took my voice away, before…  my eyes are stinging now. Don’t cry, Joy. Not in front of her. Focus on the friend. The friend playing tag. The friend holding my hand on the first day of school. The friend who tried to stand by my side after the woods, after the thing, after… Focus on the the friend. The friend. The friend. A memory came, and I latched on. “Ready, Joy?”

“Ready.” My voice was clear and strong. I jumped from the sound. Dr. Kinder did not laugh, but I could sense her smile.

“Okay. Now. Look up.”

The person before me beamed from the thought of an old friend. She was radiant. She was beautiful. My hands reached up to touch her smiling face. She did the same. My fingers ran over her shimmering eyes and traced the line of tears down her cheeks. I had not seen her before this. I had not known her to be a friend. Now, we looked at each other with love. We saw the person the old friend remembered.

“Joy. Meet, Joy.” Dr. Kinder’s voice cut through my reverie. I looked at Dr. Kinder, then back to my reflection. The spell had broken. The woman before me was no longer a luminous girl with glittering hazel eyes. The woman before me aged quickly with realization, but for a small glimmer of something-- love? Hope? Respect. We had survived. Freak. I mentally shot the word at her, but this time the word meant something new. We began to laugh.
Monday, May 16, 2016

Two Poems, Katy Comber

These are two FreeCreate Friday poems. I'm currently trying short and dream-like poetry that center around desire and loss.


By Katy Comber

I want to get lost with you 
in the land of Muir
feel young and small
among ancients...
I want to get lost.

just you, me,
and the redwood


by Katy Comber

A linear path taken
by a meandering soul
caused unrealized
that could only be ignored 

the dominos would fall
and mice would rule the world.

Mirror, Fred W. Feldman

The Hotel Mirror
By Frederick W Feldman

I see myself in the bathroom mirror,
naked against the tiling on the walls,
pale and thin in a place to me unknown.
But the shower is peaceful, away from
the noisy radio and the chatter
in the room. The water is warm and good;
drops stick to the walls and spray off my arms,
and the soap lathers across my shoulders.
Perhaps the only pleasures are those that
can be felt by the body, for what have
I found in dreams and contemplations of
the Other Realms but fear and confusion?


Tethered to a destination – weighted
in dead air – spinning like a whirligig.
The hotel room is ascetic: books and
work to keep out the boredom – the things that
are me are not here. I see the natives,
and, to each other, we’re less than human.
And who am I? I’m only passing through.
I’m not sure how to fill the empty days;
they never end, and when I go home I’ll
return to them, in the places I’m known.
But for now, I’m clean and lost in headphones –
I can’t escape a sense of well-being.

Monday, May 2, 2016

Secret, Katy Comber

The Dream House Chronicles: The Roses
By Katy Comber

Mark peered through the kitchen window and frowned. He thought of the day an unknown Uncle Adam died and a lawyer handed him the keys. How fortunate they were to get a retreat away from the city. Away from the distractions. Away from people. Mark and Mona could finally focus on themselves, the work that they wanted to do, and the family they had always wanted.

Years went by without Mark or Mona aware of time. Mark wrote his novel and retired at the age of 27. The novel was his one thing. Mark dedicated the book to the farmhouse: To my retreat and the stories it whispers. Mona walked and wandered and thought. Somehow the chores were always done, the house maintained, food grown, prepared, and eaten. At one point, the couple vaguely noticed a baby girl had joined them.

And time went by…

FreeCreate Friday Series, Kait Masters

Time Lapse Painting
Kait Masters, artist and founder of Larkspur + Laurel

To see creations by Kait Masters and shop her store for originals, prints, pendants or to request custom pieces, visit:

Photo Series: Joy, Phyllis Feulner

by Phyllis Fuelner