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fiction and poetry contest

Her Things Become Her

She had been here, and now she is gone,leaving her mark like an imprint in snow.Her things are still here, but she has moved on.

Crossing Guard

Bruce Dethlefsen

when you diethis lady named alicebut probably karenwalks you across the street

I always wanted to be like the wild women in old movieswho have whole storm systems of electric hair,who are earthy and hotten things upand whose great talent is in letting themselvesgo, go, go. Oh, let it be me,

Poetry

Liturgy of the Swallow

Dion Kempthorne

While Cardinal Swanson flareshis satin sleeves on high to let flythe word of God, the little bird,swift and sweet as a stolen kiss,having lost its way in, seekinga way out, tries flying

Poetry

Interior Landscape

Judith Harway

In the window, hung on fishing line, three prismed crystal globescatch and refract whatever rays dive down between apartment blocks:kaleidoscoping stars of rose, blue, saffron light dance crazily

Poetry

The We of Two Horses

Jeanie Tomasko

Even one and one’s loneliness,the we of our cats or the we of

two horses in the autumn field,side to side, head to rump,

Fiction

A Day in December

Geoffrey Collins

The boy is walking about forty feet behind his mother. The two of them, the mother and the boy, are walking in the snow on the shoulder of a straight highway on a gray windless day.