this is dangerous

House of Heart

The professor was always

watching me,  chasing after me,

whispering warnings as though

he were my father.

Still I tore at those wounds,

those itching scabs of words

until I ripped off their secrets.

At night he played piano in a

sleazy bar  singing about revolution

in his ragged jeans smoking weed

and preaching anarchy.

When the soldiers tortured him

he told them about my treason,

writing poetry at night while

he was sleeping.

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Stop Fighting

Sarah Doughty

“I am a survivor. So why would I
ever stop fighting now?”

Perhaps this is where my story comes to an end. When, after all these years of battling wars against myself, just trying to survive, I’ve finally reached a place of contentment. A place that felt like an unreachable Utopia. Until now. I could try to accept that my life is what it is and give up everything I’ve done to bring me to this very moment. I could say, I’ve done it, my war has ended. But I cannot. Not until those whispers in the shadows stop telling me who I was supposed to be. Not until the memories of all I endured are safely in the past, not threatening to carry me back in time to relive them over again. Not until I have beaten everything that was ever done or said to try to break me…

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exotic fruit

The Lonely Author

exotic fruit

fluttering island skirts
flash silky thighs
feeling an urge for sin
I feel the rhythm
before the music begins
palm leaves sway
along with enticing hips
mango and passion fruit
linger on inviting lips

some cravings
are as irresistible
as the pull of the evening tides
my desires ebb and flow
memories fall
fantasies rise

a dreamer or a fool
surrounded by exotic fruit
longing for a taste of
only you

Photo taken by me.

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Daily Quote

Jo Hawk


Editing is an arduous process and reading the draft I wonder who wrote the words. It makes my headache and my stomach churn. Each occupation has a process which is unpleasant or uncomfortable and oh so very un-glamorous, and I consider editing to be a nasty piece of business. I push forward, deleting, rearranging and tweaking the piece.

Editing, I realize is an integral part of the writer’s job. It makes the words shine and flow. Done well, editing renders the words a secondary consideration. They become the tools used to tell the story. It is the story which moves the reader, transporting them to the world of the writer’s imagination.

How do you know when your editing work is complete?


Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

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