By John L. Malone
I’ve come to mistrust the little guy inside my head. He used to be calm, dependable but over the years he’s become a little loopy, his thinking transgressive. Now I hardly know him. He’s a loose cannon, an IED waiting to be stepped on.
Look, I say, let’s be reasonable. You can’t say that! And you definitely can’t do that! You want us to end up in prison? Sometimes I give him drugs to quieten him, talk him down, get him to see reason. I love the little guy. I just wish he was more like me.
John Malone is a South Australian writer of short stories, flash fiction and poetry
By Maja Bodenstein
I am fetching a glass of water when the walls of my house crumble around me. Before my eyes the clutter of my daily life reverts to its natural state: my ankles sink into the dirt that was once the floor as the house’s support beams shoot up into the sky, trees once more. In this primeval forest, I am the intruder; I have no choice but to sink into the morass and surrender to decay. But even as I dissolve into the sticky, primordial ooze, I sense life begin anew as a solitary bud sprouts from my little toe.
Maja Bodenstein is a Chinese/German screenwriter, obsessed with language and mythology. She lives in London, UK.
By Sarah Alam
I sit on the sand where waves rush in. The warm water lulls my heart and refreshes my mind.
I sit where I see no one else is.
There are those rushing in, slashing the surfless waters.
There are others sitting on dry sand, solar-powering themselves.
The sea is enough for all. For those who dunk, or swim, or stand. For all differing needs that one sea is enough. Like love. Or fear.
I sit where no one is. Waiting for the sea to renew me with each coming wave.
Sarah says, “Writing has been my solace and strength. Working as a columnist, then a first-grade teacher, and now a content writer for a software company, stringing words together has kept my sanity and spirit.”
I promised myself after my nursing home breakfast, I’d write a little drabble, however short or long.
The lifeless, colorless food was an indicator of a future I wouldn’t accept: old, cold and tough as the patients surrounding me. “Get better or stay forever.”
My pinkie dipped inside the rim of a plastic coffee mug and recoiled, telling me not to bother. What happened to the cook’s pride?
Mrs. Yates sits behind me, coughing a dry throatful of arsenic-dusted powdered sugar cookies her kids prepared. The same Godforsaken breakfast with her Godforsaken greedy children, and their perfect fricking cookies.
Michele Fox has published one novel and several short stories and poems.
She is alien to me now,
This woman who bore me.
We speak as strangers,
Politely discuss her trip,
What we’ll eat for dinner,
Who died, the movies
We’ve lately seen …
Like jailbirds: tense, edgy.
Walking in the yard,
Out come concealed
Weapons. “Tell me,
She says, “was there ever
Anyone you truly loved?
“Oh, yes, “ I answer,
Secretly counting the days
Left of my sentence.
Dianne Moritz dreams of publishing a collection of drabble one day. She writes poetry for kids and is a frequent contributor to Highlights children’s magazines.
By Wolf Stahl
I’m just a watch with two big hands
moving slow, then fast, never right on any day,
I say things I can’t understand, and I love you
in an incomplete way,
but I’m trying.
I think everything worth having is worth burning.
Better to weep in ashes than be buried under snow.
The look in your eyes, a hundred miles away,
makes me hate myself for the things I know.
The pressure in my head is disastrous
Rivets bursting like machine-gun fire
I tell myself I’m better off without you,
I tell myself I’ve never been a liar.
Wolf Stahl was born on a farm and never recovered.
By Megha’s World
Every small step counts. Every small gesture matters.
Kindness comes in all forms. Accept and embrace it when you see.
Pass it forward. It is like the flowing river, shaping and changing the lives of those who come along its way. Keep flowing and Keep growing.
Life never stops from growing nor from making mistakes.
You stop and stagnate like the ditch of stinking water.
Flow like a waterfall. A beautiful sight in its glory.
Life is movement.
Change is a necessary transformation.
Ask a child, ask a butterfly.
Megha Sood is a contributing editor at Whisper and the Roar and Ariel Chart. Her work has been featured in 521 Magazine, Visitant Lit, KOAN, Mojave Heart Review, Nightingale and Sparrow, Fourth and Sycamore, Pangolin Review, Paragon Press, Dime Show review, and featured in anthologies We Will Not Be Silenced, (Indie Blu(e) Publishing), All the Lonely People (Blank Paper Press), and RECLAIM Anthology. She won first prize in the NAMI Axelrod Poetry contest.