Bearded Writers Association!

I have a new Facebook page known as the “Bearded Writers Association”. Here’s the rules:

  • Have a decent amount of facial hair
  • Write or have written stuff

That’s it. It doesn’t have to be a book. It doesn’t even have to be in English. 

Step up, my bearded fellows! You too can be part of this epic community, standing as a proud bearded writer just as Ernest Hemingway, Walt Whitman, Herman Melville and Charles Dickens did many years ago. 

I Noticed You

I met you long ago, but you met me first. 

You were shy, and I didn’t notice. 

But quietly, you noticed me. 

You noticed

Sketches of worlds that had not been made,

Stories untold 

And places never to be trodden by human feet. 

And I didn’t notice. 

It took some time, but I would notice. 

I noticed you first when you spoke. 

I noticed you again when you laughed. 

I noticed you when you were passionate, 

When you were swept with intense fervor 

Like the ocean tides swaying under a full moon. 

I noticed.  

I notice you still, when you say silly phrases, 

Whispering strange nothings 

As we laugh under evening lamplight. 

I notice 

When you speak of lofty things, 

Things mankind was never meant to understand. 

But you try your best. 

I notice you. 

I see your deep gazes reflecting mine,

Pools of green 

Covering the pathways into your soul. 

I see you. 

I see your hands interlock with mine, 

Clasping hard,

So that maybe I won’t let go for a while.

I don’t. 

I see your quirks, 

 your hand gestures,     

  your beautiful smile,        

   your fantastic teasing.

I see you and I notice.

And every day I notice more.

I align myself to your patterns,

Walk beside your newly trod paths,

And pray with a madman’s hope

That I can continue walking them for a while.

     -Gabriel Penn

Short Story Saturday: Striking Midnight

Genre: Poetic Prose
Rating: Everyone
Time of Writing: December 2013
Image from livescience.com

There stood a man, all dressed in black
On New Years Eve (we’ll call him Jack).
While inside his house he stood so warm
Outside there toiled a winter storm,
And while outside the winter storm toiled
Inside his head he’d decided he’d spoiled
The year he’d been given, this twenty-thirteen. Continue reading “Short Story Saturday: Striking Midnight”

Publication Opportunity

thewritershelpers:

Phosphene, a journal for “the new and the wild,” is looking for submissions for Issue Two!

Phosphene Literary Journal is a not-for-profit literary magazine offering young writers of high school and college age the chance for their voices to be heard by a wide international audience. Our staff and contributors come not only from the US, but also from countries like Russia, Bahrain, Canada, and the UK. Our first issue includes work from Foyle Young Poets, Scholastic Art and Writing winners, and an associate of the American Academy of Poets.

The deadline for our second issue is July 31. We accept poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, and other experimental writing.

Our site and the first issue can be found at <www.phosphene.co.nr>. If you have any questions, feel free to message us through Tumblr (<phosphenelit.tumblr.com>) or email (<phosphenelitmag@gmail.com>). Thanks, and we look forward to reading your submissions!

Cheers,
Hannah Miao
Editor-in-Chief

LOOK AT THIS. EVERYONE LOOK.

In the Morning

The sun has come to rest;

The day has all but ended.

And laughter speaks of zest

And spring’s last day impended.

Furniture fills the hall

As my hall mates start to clean,

And talk of the next fall

And the year that had just been.

The rooms all look empty

As college boys come and go

And say with somber glee

“See you next semester, bro.”

But while spring’s end can’t be glummer,

In the morning starts the summer.

In the Morning

The sun has come to rest; 

The day has all but ended.

And laughter speaks of zest 

And spring’s last day impended. 

Furniture fills the hall 

As my hall mates start to clean, 

And talk of the next fall 

 And the year that had just been. 

The rooms look so empty 

As college boys come and go 

And say with somber glee, 

“See you next semester, bro.” 

But while spring’s end can’t be glummer, 

In the morning starts the summer.