Saturday, October 23, 2010

Golden Apple Ezine; Issue 1 - October 2010


Welcome to the first issue of Golden Apple Ezine!

Loyal to our words, we have come up with a few very young writers, of whom one or two are at their first publication.

We sincerely hope that our visitors will be very patient and positive towards their writings; we need not forget that many of the more established writers themselves started very modestly.

We just hope our first issue proves to be enjoyable indeed and plays on a couple of strings in your heart. We hope that you’ll leave as satisfied and marvelled as we are by the poems and stories you’ll find here. A big thank goes to all our contributors.

If you have any questions or comments regarding this present issue, please feel free to contact us at:


Note that our next issue will be purely on Christmas. We will start accepting submissions as from November 1 to December 5, 2010. Find our guidelines at Golden Apple Ezine Guidelines. The issue is open to everyone and already sounds more exciting! Do try to weave some magic and submit to us.

Warmest regards and happy reading,
Golden Apple Ezine Team


Back to School Trilogy by Phillip Maguire

The Garden of Eden by Sarina Hao

Living with Einstein by Peycho Kanev

Wedding Time by Jags

Fireflies in a Jar by Wanda Morrow-Clevenger

Guardian’s Lament by Katherine Deatherage

Winning the Mauritian Elections by Amit Parmessur

Memories by Lakesha Wickner

The Dog of Poetry by Peycho Kanev

Unanswered Questions by Anastasia Stewart

Her Grief by Terry Collett

Just a Breath by Adina Harris

Nature Glue by Richard L. Williams

Turn Me ON with Your Words by Liza Vassallo

Rivermarsh United by Swan Morrison

Shades of Red by Emily Kerr

Who is God? by Sasha Marino

Allen Weitzer finished cleaning his coffee cup and hung it on the hook beside the pot in the faculty lounge. Allen had been a science teacher at Montrose High for all of his twelve teaching years. He had a reputation for being a “tough teacher” because he expected - required - best efforts from his students. And as a result he was also one of the best teachers at Montrose.

“So, Allen, is this a new suit?” Charley Ambrose asked, running his fingers along the lapel.

“No, Charley, it’s the same suit I’ve worn for the first day of school for the past five years. Isn’t that the same slacks and polo shirt combo you wore the last day of school last spring?”

“I heard you’re looking for a job at Arlington Academy.” Charley missed the jibe and also his mouth, dribbling an inverted exclamation point of coffee down his yellow polo shirt.

A short pause passed before Allen answered. “Tom Cahill is retiring at Arlington and I’ve applied for his position. If I’m hired it won’t happen until next school year.”

“Well, we’ll miss you if you leave.” Mary Buford swivelled her chair to face him. “Who’ll teach science then?”

Allen felt the weight of all their eyes and became uncomfortable. He looked at his watch, adjusted his tie and said “Well, folks, it’s Showtime.” Then he opened the faculty room door and stepped into the hall.

* * *

“Jennifer! Jennifer!” Michelle Haller ran to the bus stop. Her backpack almost fell from her shoulders, making her stumble and nearly fall. Breathless, she reached Jennifer Woods.

Although Michelle and Jennifer were friends they were very different. Jennifer was a middle child with two sisters; Michelle was an adopted only child. Michelle was socially awkward. Jennifer was naturally smooth and fluid in social situations. Jennifer was one of the top ten students in her class. Michelle couldn’t buy a “B” with Euros. Jennifer always said the right thing; Michelle didn’t know the difference.    

“Jennifer, where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you all summer.” Michelle pushed her tortoise-shell glasses back up her nose and blew a strand of blue hair from her face.

“I was at my sister’s college taking advanced placement courses. I got an early acceptance to Washington University Pre-med.” Jennifer smiled, her clear eyes sang with achievement.

“College! You’re accepted at college? Wow. That’s great. How’d you do that? You didn’t finish high school yet. How are you in college already?” Michelle barely breathed between words.

“I’m not in college yet. My acceptance is contingent on maintaining a B average this year. And with Mr. Weitzer for chemistry I’ll have to work extra hard. He has a reputation for being tough on giving good grades.”

Michelle prattled on as they got on the bus and took their seats.

At the next stop a sullen boy with a black backpack, whose name Jennifer couldn’t remember, got on the bus.

* * *

Ben finished packing his black backpack, zippered and shouldered it before hurrying out the door for the first day of his senior year at Montrose High.

“Bye, Mom,” he called up the stairs.

“Bye, Ben Boy. Have a great day,” his mother yelled from behind the bathroom door.

I’m not a boy anymore, Ben retorted to himself.

Alone at the bus stop Ben reviewed his high school years. He had been the proverbial “little fish in a big pond.” He was anonymous in a sea of geeks, jocks, beauties and achievers. His consistent D average brought him no fame and no scrutiny. I’m invisible, Ben mused.

The school hallway was noisy with students and teachers talking, laughing and slamming locker doors. Ben dropped his backpack and withdrew the guns: a Glock 9mm and Walther 380. As he levelled the guns and fired, Ben thought: I’m invisible.

The first bullet exploded a crimson boutonniere on the science teacher’s lapel. The second round caught Jennifer Woods in the neck as she took books from her locker. Surprised, she grabbed the gushing wound and turned to run but the next shot struck her in the upper back, knocking her to the floor. The sound of repeated shots echoed and ricocheted form the lockered walls as screams and cries rose from the scattering, crawling students.

Outside the late summer’s crickets and cicada rasped the air as morning mowers droned and crawled across the still dewed grass and a waxing sun slewed through cirrus clouds.

Phillip Maguire is an emergency medicine physician living in South Central Pennsylvania. His lovely book Thunder Under Water is available online from Amazon
(, Barnes and His hobbies include gardening, cooking and bicycling.

Away from the smoke, away I go,
Away from the noise and the black snow.
No more will I labour before a machine,
Instead I’ll work outside in the green.

Leaving behind the boring monotony,
I’ll go and find a life of beauty,
For I will once again be in freedom,
Like we started, in the Garden of Eden.

Sarina Hao is a teenager from Sydney, Australia. She is primarily a playwright and short story writer, but she also tries her hand at poetry. Often punished in class for writing her stories and poems, she insists on a career as a writer of some sort.

Though he scrapes everyday on his violin,
making me angry; he is the right man for roommate.
It is fun to have him around. Always snooping in the sheets
of paper that I am writing, always saying: The neutrino,
my friend, right now goes through your brain and through
your artsy-fartsy poetry! In the rocking chair with his pipe,
listening to the birds outside or to some Italian operetta on
the radio, he is likeable. At dinner eating this enormous
amounts of vegetables, mocking at my steaks or chicken drums,
he is not irritating. Along the way I learned not to use words
like: Bomb, or Jew, or Desk job, or even Newtonian. But
today I told him I will study theoretical physics, he slapped me
across my face and screamed: “Stick to your poetry, my man!”

Peycho Kanev has been writing poetry for the past 10 years. His poems have appeared in more than 400 literary magazines, such as: Poetry Quarterly, Welter, The Shine Journal, Ann Arbor Review, The Catalonian Review and many others. His work is gathered in numerous print and online anthologies too. His collaborative collection “r”, containing poetry by him and Felino Soriano, as well as photography from Duane Locke and Edward Wells II was published in the spring of 2009 by Please Press. Also in 2009 his short story collection Walking Through Walls (Ciela), and in April 2010 his poetry collection American Notebooks (Ciela) both were published in Bulgaria. His new poetry collection Bone Silence was published in September 2010 by Desperanto, New York.

Animals are dancing frantically
on a fountain of flowers.
The rainbow is showing its colourful hues.
The sky is now blindingly multi-coloured.
The earth is spreading its fine fragrance.
The valleys are showing their love.
The smart sun is shining gorgeously,
while birds are playing melodious tunes.
The rivers are flowing with tears of joy.
The weather is showing its approval.
This small forest will soon become famous
and every soul is happy as
the ant and the elephant are getting married.

Jags is the pen name for Leelkanth Parmessur. He is a very young writer and prefers to use simple language to convey important messages. Still a college student, he has recently developed a sudden and unexpected love for words. His hobbies include chatting and music.

First time I saw him seeing me I was in the backyard laying in the sun, wearing the tiniest bikini I’ve ever owned. Played it real cool in that solar scorch – nada acknowledgment. A triumph considering I could feel him squirming from forty yards away. I knew how good I looked in that bikini, and from behind sunglasses revelled in the sadistic torture.

Wasn’t physical, per se. Not that he wasn’t handsome in his own way. He was an unexpected tug at my senses, one I responded to with an uncharacteristic tease. Sane elucidation eluded then as it does now.

An everyday man, blue collar all the way, same as every other dime-a-dozen guy – but there upped the ante. Why did I always go for the scruffy-road-crew, minimum-wage kind? What was the insistent draw to the underdog? Wasn’t like I hadn’t seen options, I dated some suits in my time. Even slept with a few. The suits just didn’t do it for me, though. Not like a pair of faded jeans and a worn T-shirt did.

This folly bypassed all the usual circuitry. No introductions were made, no witty cocktail banter exchanged – a straight bead from eye contact to static charge. The same crackly, hair-raising sensation that warns of danger before lightning strikes. I’ve often wondered what force of nature, science, or fate locked onto my path – some outrageous joke, or a sardonic test of morality?

I wasn’t flirting around for attention. Quite happily married. For all practical purposes my radar was down and permanently out of commission. I hadn’t seen this coming; don’t think he did either. Maybe we were caught in a supernatural maelstrom or a black hole that only rocket scientists can fathom – explains the blank stares of respondents in divorce court, the genuine inability to expound lapses in judgment. A cosmic phenomenon, it seems, we humans aren’t meant to comprehend, only flee from or succumb to.

He was single. I could understand his lack of self-control; he didn’t have anything to lose. Might’ve tarnished his rep a little, big woo. I, on the other hand, could’ve blown everything sky-high. Despite the obvious danger, the flow of current moved fast. In a blinding flash I was on fire, the draw too fierce, the connection too powerful. Lost in smoky confusion with no clear way out, it was beyond my control to find the off switch.

And so it went, years passed. He eventually married and we each raised families. We continued to live physically in our individual worlds while oddly conjoined on a separate plane. Our lives crossed paths often and at each meeting sparks kindled anew. A glancing hold of eyes, greeting across the yard, shared smile, kept the hot energy alive. Its sizzle singed the tips of my nerves.

Then, at a holiday party with fireworks exploding above us, he reached out in a friendly gesture. Placed one hand on my bare shoulder, leaned close, innocently asked, “How’s it going with you?”

“Oh, we’re all fine.” I maintained nonchalance while his fingerprints embedded.

His hand lingered a fraction longer than necessary, long enough to send a message. The line between thought and action was crossed, the final coupling made.

Chance meetings became more frequent, him following when I took a walk. Yet, only offering a wave when catching up, always the gentleman – never overtly forward. When least expected he appeared, a big smile at the ready. And finally, oft random opportunistic contact: fleeting brush of skin on skin momentarily linking us, forging new surge. Two fireflies trapped in a jar.

When or whether the electricity between us will break is not something I want to consider. To pull the plug is to cast us both into darkness.

Wanda Morrow-Clevenger lives in Hettick, Illinois. Twenty-three pieces of her work embracing the human condition appear in: Storyteller; Nuthouse; The Nocturnal Lyric; Up the Staircase; Flash Fiction Offensive; Leaf Garden; TheRightEyedDeer; Every Day Fiction; Matter Daily; Short Story Library; Clockwise Cat; The Short Humour Site; Long Story Short; The Ultimate Writer; Conceit Magazine; Forthcoming in Falling Star Magazine and Daily Flash 2011: 365 Days of Flash Fiction.

The rain hides my helpless tears
The thunder hides my sharp cries
My heart bleeds and bleeds for you
That is why it storms so much

The wings on my back are too heavy
The water dripping off them
The power flickering off and on
in sync with the lightning

The rain is washing the blood away
Washing away the deep pain
If all I’m supposed to do is help
why do I hurt so many?

My wings shouldn’t be mine
They should then be yours!

Katherine Deatherage is a senior in high school. She is the vice-president of HOSA, a medical club. Right now, she is working towards becoming a Licensed Practical Nurse. She is also engaged, but not in any hurry to get married. Her other works can be found at

I have just got Scarlett Johansson’s reply and I am so eager to open her letter! My heart it seems is about to stop.


Last month, believing that the public had to have a wider choice I decided to contest the general elections. I gathered up enraged dogs, ill-treated cats, hungry bulls and thirsty camels. Not that I was a leader of animals; these were humans, a bit like Young Fortinbras sharking up lawless resolutes in Hamlet.

In Mauritius, there are 2 major political parties: LAlliance Sociale and MMM. For people, the final victory was surely for one of them. Small parties include Parti Malin (Clever Party in English), MDN, FSM, Lalit (The Fight) and Parti Tireurs Disables (Sand Excavators).

After expertly dispersing my candidates in the 20 constituencies I announced that I was tired. My candidates who wanted an extensive, mind-blowing and profound campaign were obviously not happy. Strongly against money and energy wasting, I dismissed them and their useless adjectives.

“Go home and sleep!” I told everyone, pointing at my sleeping puppies.

After all our party’s logo was a woman sitting on a tombstone, the Renaissance symbol of patience. Everyone left brooding, unconvinced. One remarked that I should’ve put a sex-bomb instead of an old hag on the tomb. I waved away his protest, gave him some popcorn and invited him to watch Titanic with me. O! How I still love this film. So profound and mind-blowing.

As the elections approached, my tensions decreased. Every party was busy criticising and swearing at each other. ‘Vote bloc!’ could be heard everywhere. Mind you this is the most famous slogan during election times in our small Mauritius, telling you to cast all your 3 votes on the 3 candidates of a single party in your constituency.

Money and dreams were spread in every street. “Vote bloc!” MMM would shout. “Vote bloc! Vote bloc!” L’Alliance Sociale would shout. “Vote bloc!” Parti Malin would plead. I enjoyed seeing them all on television each night.

A couple of parties were so funny and had such bizarre promises that I would roll on the ground laughing and spilling peanuts all over the carpet. My party was nowhere in this electoral commotion and cacophony.

Days before D-Day I took my BMW out for some sunbathing and sight-seeing, jodelling My Heart Will Go On. I had to switch off my phone as my candidates would call me to bark about our lack of canvassing. I was already annoyed at forgetting my new Ray Ban sunglasses at home!

That night I called a meeting and told my stupid candidates to stay at home until the results. I menaced to be the deadliest creature if I were to see anyone out. Everyone left unconvinced and brooding.

When the results were announced we were runaway winners. The other parties had made people’s choice too clear. A few journalists wanted to remove my brain for analysis.

I had to run away.

In the heat of the elections everyone had forgotten that my anonymous party was called Bloc. My first official job was to write to Scarlett Johansson. I was impatient to replace the old hag on our party’s logo.

Amit Parmessur lives in the busy and lovely town of Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius. He was first published by UK’s Scoop The Loot, now known as The Short Humour Site. He has since been published by Long Story Short, Postcard Shorts, Eunoia Review, Orchard Press Mysteries, in Swan Morrison’s People of Few Words and Shalla DeGuzman’s Black Canvas; Shakespearean Follies; Mannequin Walking and locally.

Your love poems
Crumpled on the ground,
The words I threw at you,
I hope they hurt.

Don’t you hear that sound?
That’s the sound of my heart breaking.
You broke it in three seconds,
Can’t you fix it just as fast?
If you really knew me,
You would know that it hurts.
The piece you stole from my heart,
I would like it back,
But you have already broken it.
Take some tape, fix it up.
Why won’t it stick?
Use some glue, fill in the seams.
Why won’t it fill?

Take your cheating ways,
Take your memories,
I don’t need them.
Take these photos,
I don’t want them.
Take these songs,
I don’t read them.
The tears and pains you cause me,
Take them all away.

The rain pouring down my broken face,
I’m living without my heart.

Your cold glassy stare,
My heart in your cruel hands,
You squeeze it and I scream.
I shout and I kick.
You walk away,
With my dead heart in your hands
The sweet memories gone,
The pain not forgotten.
Someday I’ll see you.
Someday I’ll hurt you.

My breath fades,
My lungs choke,
I’m dead,
I’m gone.
Gone forever, in your painful eyes.

Lakesha Wickner enjoys reading, writing and drawing. In her free time she writes poems which she later shares. She models for Perfectly Petite agency and is also a tennis player. Find more on her at and

Here I am. Hear me out! I am
Sitting here, finishing this poem,
To the last line, the last dot, and
Then leaning back, lighting my
Cigarette. Enjoying the moment
Of quietness. Suddenly my dog
Jumps at the desk and grabs
The poem from the typewriter.
Running toward the open door,
The white sheet waving in his ugly
Mouth and then through the open
Door, outside where the sun is
Smiling. And now I jump and run.
Ugly mouth and beautiful words;
The black tail is waving. No chance,

Peycho Kanev has been writing poetry for the past 10 years. His poems have appeared in more than 400 literary magazines, such as: Poetry Quarterly, Welter, The Shine Journal, Ann Arbor Review, The Catalonian Review and many others. His work is gathered in numerous print and online anthologies too. His collaborative collection “r”, containing poetry by him and Felino Soriano, as well as photography from Duane Locke and Edward Wells II was published in the spring of 2009 by Please Press. Also in 2009 his short story collection Walking Through Walls (Ciela), and in April 2010 his poetry collection American Notebooks (Ciela) both were published in Bulgaria. His new poetry collection Bone Silence was published in September 2010 by Desperanto, New York.


Can you feel the pain written in these words?
Can you see the little happiness I have left in my soul?


Why do I always end up all alone
even when I am surrounded by an entire world?


If there is so much love in the world,
why do I feel so cold and misunderstood?


They say a better and sweeter tomorrow.
Well, it never comes and now I am
sitting here wondering who is to blame.

Anastasia Stewart is 14 years of age. She enjoys writing poems, singing, hanging out with her friends and of course a bit of partying like most teenagers.

She thought he’d be there always,
took it for granted,
never imagined that death
would come so suddenly,
so unexpectedly and take him away.

She still expects him to come home,
to come through that door,
his face lit up, his eyes having
that same brightness, his voice breaking
through the silence like the sun at dawn.

Even the funeral and the priest’s
words and blessings haven’t
removed that expectation.
She still waits at night for him
in bed, for his arms to embrace her.

You’ll have to mourn for him a decent
while before you chase another,
said her stern mother.
There are other fish in the sea,
don’t linger in black for ever, her sister said.

She imagines she sees him on the street,
sees him in buses, trains, in people passing,
and in the eyes of others she may meet.
Time’s a great healer, said her father,
give it time, occupy your mind.

Work is a fine way to forget, he said.
But she, waiting in bed or by the door
or looking out at the passing throng at busy
stations or streets or crowded shops still
thinks she sees him and all her world stops.

But it isn’t him, just a different man who
has his hair or walks or sounds similar.
Grief is very lonely,
she says in her weak head, there’s no
poorer company than the silent dead.

Terry Collett has been writing from 1971 and has been published on and off ever since. He writes poems, plays and short stories. He had two slim anthologies published in the 1970s. Living in Sussex, England, he is happily married to his wife Pauline and has eight children and seven grandchildren.

Just a breath, now feel the hush.
My heart is alive, pounding in my ears.
Trembling hands can you stop?
No, not now, they say.
Dark eyes like stars permeate my soul,
overtaking my every thought,
the smile that loves me, superseding all.
Too late for me, I have fallen.
Fear, forgotten, left far behind,
the embrace of heaven covering me,
drowning me in love as I take just a breath.

Adina Harris resides in Bothell, a suburb of Seattle, Washington. During her childhood she would write poems and give them to loved ones. Over the years, she has deeply enjoyed writing more poems, stories, essays and song lyrics, simultaneously nurturing her love for artwork. She now spends her time raising her three inspiring children, never forgetting to enjoy life and writing.

If you’re about to fall to pieces,
if what was one becomes a few,
when soul and spirit come asunder,
there’s always something you can do.

If troubles snap you into segments,
if you’re a four above a two,
when you become five ways from Sunday,
go out and gather nature glue.

It is adhesive, found in sunlight,
a mending substance for the pain.
It can be culled within the moonlight,
or even in the driving rain.

In aspens or a fog-filled valley,
a desert or a mountain lake;
the sunset binds us with its glory -
it’s there if you’re about to break.

Some nature glue can put together
what falls apart right at the seams.
For it is Spackle found in maple...
Aurora Borealis beams!

So if you find yourself divided,
if everything seems broken tears for you,
reach out and pull yourself together;
go out and gather nature glue.

Richard L. Williams began writing in 1989 and has had a number of poems published in small presses in the USA. Born in Youngstown, Ohio, in 1951 and currently living in Struthers, he is a structural engineer by training, having graduated from Youngstown State University in Civil Engineering. He keeps being involved in technology, something which is sometimes reflected in his writing. Nature is also very predominant in his writing. Richard is also a veteran who served in the Air Force.

Want to turn me ON?
Don’t tell me who I am
Tell me who you are
Ask me what you want to know

Don’t tell me what to do
Show me what you do
Ask me what I can do

Don’t tell me how to do it
Show me how you do it
Ask me how I may do it

Don’t tell me what to think
Tell me what you think
Ask me what I think

Don’t tell me what to be
Tell me what you are
Ask me what I want to be

Don’t tell me how I am
Tell me how you are
Ask me, how are you?

Don’t tell me yes
When you mean no
Say nothing
Do these things for me
I will do the same for you

If you want me to act
Learn how to
I promise not to tell you
What to do
Who to be
How to be
Where to be
Without your request or permission
Because all those demands

are a TURN O F F to  M E

Liza Vassallo writes to understand and be understood. Writing has helped her in enjoying a better and more stable life. She proudly feels being the author of her life, each day as a page turner where new chapters get to fill up with adventures. Writing is her favoured form of expression because its practice gives her the chance to treasure the divinity of life. Find more on her at

George Jenkins called to order the one hundred and twenty-fifth annual general meeting of Rivermarsh United Football Club. ‘I’ll begin this meeting with my report as chairman,’ he said, ‘and then move to the matter of the sale of the Club.’

‘Last season,’ George continued, ‘the “Marshes” finished last in the Southern Hampshire Sub-regional Football League for the eighteenth consecutive year. Once again we failed to score any goals. There was, however, encouraging improvement from last year in that just five hundred and twenty goals were scored against us in the twenty-five games we played.’

‘That was despite being hit by sickness and injury,’ enthused Eric Henderson, Club Coach. ‘If more than two of our players had turned up for the game against Winchester, their team would never have scored in treble figures.’

‘Nevertheless,’ George pointed out, ‘we continue to have the poorest record in English football.’ He glanced at the meeting agenda. ‘I will now move to our second item which relates to the potential sale of the Club. Can I ask our Treasurer to explain?’

Henry Baker, Club Treasurer, lifted a letter from the table. ‘We’ve had correspondence from the Russian billionaire, Vladimir Gangstervitch,’ said Henry. ‘He’s offered two hundred thousand pounds for Rivermarsh United.’

‘That’s loads more than it’s worth,’ noted Eric. What does he want with the “Marshes”?’

‘Wealthy foreigners have bought Premier League clubs,’ answered Henry, ‘and then paid millions for the finest players. I gather Mr G wants to invest forty billion pounds to create the most successful team on the planet. He wants an established team with a long history, but I believe he also thinks it would be amusing to transform the country’s least successful club into the world’s best.’

Eric looked worried. ‘He’d want to get involved with team selection, then?’

‘He intends to field the greatest international players.’

‘So he wouldn’t want Nobby in goal anymore?’

‘Probably not alongside Rooney and Ronaldo.’

‘But Nobby’s been playing in goal for forty years. Now he’s in his eighties, getting out of the old folks’ home on Saturdays to play for the “Marshes” is all he lives for. It’d break his heart to be dropped.’

‘It’s likely the whole team would change,’ confirmed Henry.

‘Even Stanley?’

Henry reflected nostalgically, ‘I remember when we got special permission from the FA for Stanley’s guide dog to join him on the pitch, but Mr G may want someone who isn’t blind in the centre forward position.’

‘It’s not just Nobby and Stanley,’ pleaded Eric. ‘There’s Bert with his arthritis and Walter with his Alzheimer’s…’

‘And there’s also the ladies of the village who do the refreshments,’ interrupted Mildred, George’s wife. ‘We can manage tea, sandwiches and cakes for thirty people, but I doubt we could cope with a hundred thousand seater stadium.’

‘The village would never be the same again,’ concluded Henry.

‘Perhaps we should put this matter to the vote,’ said George. ‘Those in favour of selling Rivermarsh United Football Club to Mr Gangstervitch, please raise your hands.

No hands were raised.

‘Those against?’ continued George.

All hands rose.

‘Can you write to Mr Gangstervitch, Henry,’ said George, ‘politely declining his generous offer.’

George consulted the sheet in front of him. ‘Now for item three on the agenda, preferred fillings for after-match sandwiches…’

Brian Huggett lives with his wife and two cats in Hampshire, England. He writes Short Humour under the pen name of Swan Morrison. He began to write Short Humour in 2001 when he managed The Booger Prize for Short Humour on the Scoop The Loot competition website. Since then, his Short Humour has appeared in many magazines. Brian also writes captions for humorous greeting cards produced by Paper House. His amazing compilation of one hundred pieces of Short Humour, A Man of Few Words, is available from major online booksellers. He is the editor of The Short Humour Site found at

The colour of lust bold and hot
Radiating sultry lips of crimson
Which pucker to temptation’s call
Beckoning with covetous hunger
To devour desire with sweet red tongue
Which moistens fully luscious lips
Parting for whispers of deep-seated longing

Shades of heat rising through warming blood
Pumping hard through veins of arousal
Circulating cherry tones of grinning seduction
And raising goose bumps along Peek-a-boo flesh
To awaken senses of magnetic provocation

Skin glistens like dew-covered grass
With beads of sweat rolling down like pebbles
Over tantalizing curves swelling with unbearable need
To a bed below so soft with moss, cooling steamy flesh
Of desire so ripe, rippling out in a wave of pleasure
To caress the universal hunger with blazing tongues of fire
And evoke that animalistic craving of satisfaction

With scarlet lips plumped with lust
And the cool motion of a slender finger
She beckons all to taste her sweet flesh
Planting kisses of blossoming roses
Along the soft pale skin of a goddess
As fine silks fall away like feathers
Like the feathers from the stroking wings
Of the seducing angel, the smirking temptress.

Emily Kerr is a very young author from Ontario who has been writing ever since she has had the strength to hold a crayon. She has been previously published in an anthology entitled No Apologies and more of her work can be found at

Among the young writers (as an incentive to them), this piece is placed last as our golden pick of issue 1.

If a thousand years for us is like a day for Him, then perhaps God is a spoiled kid, an only child who was given the earth as a birthday present to keep him occupied and out of trouble for a day.

So we’re robots then, figurines of all colours, shapes and sizes on a game board? He plays with us; plays nice and wicked games, loves us then tortures us, and chooses among us with the biases of a troubled being.

He gets tired of us, and smashes us, blows us up, rips our heart out and decapitates us. Yet, he cares for us, makes us kings and queens and protects us from his wrath.

Having a short attention span, he forgets about us, then our battery runs out and we die.

Does he recycle us?

Who knows, perhaps one of these days he’ll get a new novelty toy and throw us all in the trash!

Sasha Marino is a Gerontology grad student in Maryland. A member of the National Association of Personal Historians and the moderator for, an online autobiography/memorial database, she loves listening to and recording the life stories of everyday people for future generations. She often goes out and about town holding legacy preservation workshops or providing ghost-writing services to the elderly.


Golden Apple Issue 1 - October 2010

Jump to December 's issue 2  and enjoy!