HomePosts Tagged "lydia ondrusek"

Printed in recognition of the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.  Breakwater by Lydia Ondrusek Break, water on stones lifting from the sea, earth’s very arms, hands cupped; and we, small birds, held safe. Break, water, on. Truth obeys no tide, we cannot change it, only try to understand - only sit on truth, together, looking out across the water. Only sit on truth, our feet wet, dreaming of the sky. Demitasse by Lydia Ondrusek If I believed in reincarnation, she says, I’d think I used to live in New Orleans every cast iron railing makes me think of home my hand remembers flowers twisting, muscle around bone when I bite into a moment, she says powdered sweetness drifts hangs in the air, sparkling like this rain it settles on me anoints me as a child of God Listening to her I hear a paddlewheel stirring water and the clop of hooves the car horns become a jazz symphony no one hears but me and maybe her She raises her umbrella as the light changes; hips swaying like a dancer, sashays to the other side Lydia Ondrusek lives in Richardson, Texas, and often writes about Southern experiences and locations. She has had fiction and poetry published online and in print since 2008 in a diverse range of publications that include Flash Fiction Online and Falling Star Magazine. Her new story "Help Wanted" is included in Beast Within 2: Predator & Prey

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by Lydia Ondrusek She combs the seaweed from her hair and sings them home from everywhere — her children, riding memories, and bearing swords of saints. Sings “yes, the waves roll out so far, my dear ones, and my, the sea is very large to roam; and oh, the waves are very tall, my darlings – but look – they are forever rolling home.” She combs the seaweed from her hair and sings her ancient song – her children sail through hurricanes to bear her magic back, ere long; in hopes they fill, with tears of joy, her emptied crescent moon. In hopes they’ll be there, dancing, the next time Nola sings. Lydia Ondrusek lives in Richardson, Texas, and often writes about Southern experiences and locations. She has had fiction and poetry published online and in print since 2008 in a diverse range of publications that include Flash Fiction Online and Falling Star Magazine. Follow her on Twitter @littlefluffycat.

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by Lydia Ondrusek He takes the hatband off, unspools a Mississippi of black grosgrain; too long alone in the dim back room, he talks. Tells about learning to make hats, shape them to fit people to whom it was important, a good hat. A sign of who and what you were. Tells how gents wore boaters once, all summer, cool and shady. “Punched the tops out when the season ended!” I put my boater on, with its new black ribbon; tip it to my grandfather, watching from the past’s dusty mirror. He raises his own black-banded boater in salute to summer, and to me. A good hat is important. Lydia Ondrusek lives in Richardson, Texas, and often writes about Southern experiences and locations. She has had fiction and poetry published online and in print since 2008 in a diverse range of publications that include Flash Fiction Online and Falling Star Magazine. Follow her on Twitter @littlefluffycat.

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by Lydia Ondrusek As we pass the hand-painted sign offering Cajun delicacies round-the-clock God- wry photographer- shines clear shadowless light on a weedy cathedral, just 14 miles outside Opelousas, Louisiana. Look- a stand of green Marys support their broken sons, near offerings of car trash left by the faithless on a muddy grass altar. The standing trees, patient, still cradle their fallen, still hope for resurrection, 14 miles outside Opelousas as the heron flies. Lydia Ondrusek lives in Richardson, Texas, and often writes about Southern experiences and locations. She has had fiction and poetry published online and in print since 2008 in a diverse range of publications that include Flash Fiction Online and Falling Star Magazine. Her upcoming work will appear in GUD and Apex.

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