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Her raw fingers, bandage taped Weave the wet wood and reed Ply flat-bottom baskets Gathering, Shaker, and Bread Taking up residence Living in corners, on shelves Cradle yarn, peaches, picnics

I'm being watched. I feel it in my bones. Itchy. Ancient. Hungry.

Melee, short story, to be published in April. Watch for the notice or check in with Macrame Journal. Just like SPRING, right around the corner!

Afternoon light, Awash through the panes, Alters the soul, Bargains the brain, Afternoon light, Voices of age, Remember a time, History's page.

Have you ever been between awake and asleep at what seems like the same moment? And in the middle of a dream that needs a good ending? Lucid dreaming is the state where you try to control your dream from a semi-conscious state. It differs from daydreaming where your mind is too logical to let your escapism have its day.

The only good thing about doing the dinner dishes, on a gray and rainy night, is having your hands in hot water.

The train swayed and rumbled in the heat of July. Stately mansions appeared dull through rain-pocked, dirt-streaked windows, and the rhythm out of Philadelphia mesmerized mind-worn workers. The commuter stops were like a religious litany offered up by an old woman who passed her rosary beads between her knobby fingers, counting endless Hail Marys.

She saw a light pass through the windows of her house, The farm sat far back from the country road and the few cars that passed would be the postal delivery person - at eleven am on the dot every weekday, or the grocery delivery van - she bought her groceries in town, or the veterinarian - past birthing season, and he would not have come all the way from the University at night. There it was again. It had a pinkish cast to it when it hit the front windows and yellowish-green going out the back windows.

My Spring Surprise was over one hundred ducks hidden in the house. These 1/2" high pastel duckies were found in shoes, cupboards and cups, behind doors and in quiet corners of floors, inside a miniature greenhouse, under the bedsheets and in my shower, on picture frames and door frames, in pots and pockets, on the ironing board, behind books, in every cranny and nook. Still finding them! Thank you, Crew for a Fun, Fun, Day!

The daffodils bloomed early and profusely. Perhaps it was the fertilizer she buried beneath the bulbs? All that magnesium and zinc from the bones?

Five days, five ideas, five stories - Exactly 100 words each. We are led on this adventure by Nicole Breit. She is a wealth of knowledge on ways to get started writing, organize your writing, get past writer's block, and add all of those important feelings, senses, and details of place and time and weather and light. Thank you, Nicole!

Arianna Davis extensively researched Frida Kahlo's life, art, and times to bring us this book, subtitled A Guide to Living Boldly. Even Frida's letters are poetic. Here is an excerpt after her accident in a letter to her then-boyfriend, Alejandro: "A little while ago, not much more than a few days ago, I was a child who went about in a world of colors, of hard and tangible forms . . . . If you knew how terrible it is to know suddenly, as if a bolt of lightning elucidated the earth. Now I live in a painful planet, transparent as ice; but it is as if I had learned everything at once in seconds."