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A wintry wind whispers among bare branches In upland fields, a gale howls through frozen hawthorn A mad east wind storms and screams in frenzied fury over abandoned graves and broken crosses Sleet sweeps across Alpine pastures In the fold the sheep bleat pitifully Icy rain incessantly rattles a broken window Snow falls lightly on a transformed landscape Moonlight is filtered through a sea mist throwing dappled light on dark waters Waves dribble up cold, wet sand Sea ice roars

Guinevere knew exactly what her breaking point had been in her wretched marriage to Charlie, which had seemed like salvation then only to end up like a curse. Girls who come from bad family situations are often scooped up by men who seek them out for their vulnerability, their lack of protection — not to save but to exploit them. She knew for a fact she had never loved Charles. But she wondered if Charles had loved her — not her, but who he had thought she was. Because she

In the barn the cattle’s breath floats, a warm mist touched by the smell of dung and straw. In the fold, the sheep huddle, their rhythmic bleating, softly reassuring. In the farm kitchen a red glow throws shadowy flames flickering across the walls. Wet boots dry out on the hearth. The sound of snow, softly reassuring. From the warm parlour the notes of a piano sound out over the white wilderness; old, familiar tunes, softly reassuring. BIO Sarah Das Gupta is a poet from Cambr

Spectra’s hands shake as she opens the mysterious envelope. She nearly ruined it with the dirt from her shoes. It is on the floor as she enters the Victorian flat she shares with her aunt in Notting Hill. Someone must have hand delivered this? She slips the opal tipped silver letter opener, a gift from her alma mater, the British Academy of Paranormal Investigation, like a surgical instrument under the seal to preserve the wax and the image stamped on it. She holds the seal

When I was a young girl, I was convinced that one day, I would fall in love. There was no question in the matter. It was a fact. A truth of life evident from every movie and TV show I entertained myself with. I started off with Disney princess movies. My favorite was Sleeping Beauty for a while, and then it was Beauty and the Beast. I’d watch these and then play make- believe, pretending I was a princess being rescued and wooed by a handsome prince. Then came Disney Channel s

When what we called the Marital Sabbatical was over and done with and I hit the couch with an aching heart, my therapist asked me to describe my marriage. On paper, and to all outward appearances, we made a great couple. Late thirties, well-educated, healthy and attractive, good jobs. Jim as a handsomely paid associate in a top law firm, me as a conservationist at a top art museum. (“We’re the tops,” I once sang to Jim, a little drunk on both Cole Porter and Veuve Clicquot.)

Decades after her death, Dorothy gets a headstone. Born during a hurricane, she was writer, poet, satirist. Dorothy (writer, poet, satirist) was born during a hurricane. Decades after her death, she gets a headstone at Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx, Her epitaph: Leave for her a red young rose. In the Bronx, at Woodlawn Cemetery, leave for her a red young rose, her epitaph. A hurricane threatened while gin was sipped from flasks; as Parker’s very pretty dust finally came to r

Someone’s set my soul loose; I can’t get her back. She’s out there, dancing wildly, wonderfully released. Prior craziness now seems justified—those midnight escapades to the underworld, hoping (like Persephone) to be rid of earthly chores; the foolhardy fearlessness that bared its teeth at friend and foe alike: all symptoms of an overheated heart, surging upward like a volcano, spitting out sparks and toxic fumes from a core of molten energy, the creative source within. It’s

The seats on either side of me appear empty, but I know my mother is sitting in one of them. The scent of her perfume, (why didn’t I ever ask the name? ) blends with that of the white flowers banked on either side of the bima. I can sense her eyes shining with tears. (I cry easily too; we share that.) There was rarely any physical contact—no hugs, no gentle touches–I always wondered why, but I can imagine the soft skin of her face, unlined and glowing even as she turned nine

Her tiny fingers grasp my hand; dark pools of eyes follow me. The first light creeps beneath the curtains. Black curls like tendrils wind round shell-like ears with rose-pink lobes. Outside the world waits impatiently. The dew on the grass is burning off. In the distance, tongues of surf, lick lazily up the wet, smooth sand. Out at sea, white horses fret and foam. I lift my daughter gently from the cot. A tentative smile hovers on puckered lips. My hands support a strengtheni

In a metropolis inhabited by millions, Liz expects to avoid seeing anyone too familiar in her happy space, away from the cacophony of noise in New York City streets. She often escapes into stories finding solace in the pages of books, and making peace with being alone, a single- family unit. She strolls along 34th Street bundled in a Burberry scarf wrapped around her neck like the muffler her mother used to tie when she was a little girl. Entering Barnes and Noble, Liz smells

Lounging on the back patio in the shade of the cool evening, I soak in the relief of the heat dropping away. My attention drifts from the dogs playing in the grass and the tall, cool glass of lemonade in my hand to the story of my past. I can’t help but pinch myself. How is this my life? I didn’t come from a family with a back patio. Instead of watching dogs play in the grass, I’d often hide from a pack of strays fighting on an asphalt road chock-full of potholes. And I never

My former lovers send me many things: old photos, art, mementoes of our lives; if we had wed, they’d give me diamond rings, but nothing of true value still survives. My former lovers praise me to the skies; say that we should’ve married, but instead, we faced the truth, which was to realize that our relationships were, frankly, dead. The Monday morning quarterbacking hurts— why grind this axe, why plow this tired row? Why keep on sending stuff in fits and spurts? Just get it

The lights of the room are too harsh, the pale blue walls swallow any other color, and the cold tile floor is life sucking. The familiar...

Hallie's truck seemed to lean into the music just the way she did, on those last miles of the paved road corkscrewing up into the Sangre...

The Spiritual Practice of Girl DinnerI believe in bread the way some people believe in prayer. In the quiet of a late evening, when the...