Thirteen (or, if it's Tuesday it must be new lit day)

There's a new litzine in town -- THIRTEEN. Edited by the Michelle Elvy, Walter Bjorkman, and John Wentworth Chapin, Thirteen is dedicated to the 52 best flashes under 250 words generated in the weekly themed 52/250 Flash a Year challenge.

And what gorgeous, eclectic stuff. Stories (and poems) about strange worlds, terror, red meat, smoke in cars, and space camp. Indulge yourself in these petite treats. I'm honored to see my poem Partly Revealed (theme = cartography) in the company of such fine stories. Scroll down and read my Biography when you have a chance -- it's different, I promise.

Thank you to Michelle, John, and Walter -- you three have created marvelous community and an elegant new journal.

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For an entirely different experience, grab some popcorn and head over to At The Bijou for tonight's feature presentation WELCOME TO INTERIM. Truly a collaborative work, Welcome to Interim is told in four voices, played by Salvatore Buttaci, Laurita Miller, Anthony Venutolo, and Yours Truly (I'm Mimosa, in case you can't figure it out). Thanks Kate for hosting us -- hope we don't wreck the place!

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Tickled pink that Camroc Press Review will run A ∩ B (an original 52/250 flash) and Last Time in October. Whew! The dry spell is over. Thanks Barry!

And that wraps it up for today. Live well, write well, love better. Peace, Linda

Partly Revealed

If I look close enough
in the mirror
I see softly trampled lines
leading from my eyes,
so many tired circuits
relaying books read,
poems written,
tears shed.

Closer still, lines
surround my lips,
carved canyons of past belly
laughs, false and true,
of smiles held for you,
child’s play, day lilies
before they spend themselves
in sweltering summer sun.

If I dropped my robe,
I could touch the crescent
scar under the clavicle,
left from dog’s teeth;
the roughened skin
that failed to take
after the burn ran us
from the farm; the
indent, too small to see
by the aureole but
certain to touch, souvenir
of the biopsy; or the cleft
beneath where once
I linked to my own mother,
where son, then daughter
bellowed forth.

The mirror tells all;
these things I witness,
map of my life, meager, full.

I wonder - do you see my same history?



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Prompt: Partly ________



Peace, Linda