The Day I Didn’t Die

By Richard A Shury

It isn’t like you think it’ll be. For me, there was only a steel scream, a flash of colour, and nothing.

And then the long, lonely ache.

Sterile rooms, pale greens and blues. Cards and flowers, and people who melted away.
You never think you’ll have to learn to walk again, or figure out a knife and fork, or how a toilet works. But here I am.

This is just one of the days after, the day I didn’t die.

          
“I write because it hurts when I stop, because I am compelled to, both by the voices in my head and those outside it.” – the writer

Disappearing is Harder Than You’d Think

By Anonymous

First, you must shed the detritus of your life. The car will be the last worldly belonging to go: Donate it. Toss your phone in the river. Photo albums, love letters, diaries: burn them. Cash out your bank account, stuff the cash into your couch cushions. Drag the couch to the curb, put a FREE sign on it. Flush the pills. Tie your wedding ring to a helium balloon, wait for a gust, and let go. Don’t watch. Swallow the hurt.

Now, walk away and don’t stop until you’re gone.

The People-Watcher

By Tara

I’m what they call a “people-watcher.”
Certainly, an ironic statement, because I’m actually blind.
Contrary to expectations, however, I still see things dear to me.
Everywhere I go, I’ll see expressions, emotions, and the ambiance of the environment
Surrounding me like a wool blanket: the auspicious warmth of smiles and bubbly giggles.
and indeed, it’s a fleeting recollection; a beautiful moment.
(Oh, how it feels like home …)
Often times, I’ll sit on my lonely wheelchair on what seems like the edge of the world,
admiring the comfort and joy from a gentle distance.

         
Tara M. Pattilachan is a student journalist and poet based in Tampa, Florida. Her work has received accolades from organizations such as PTA Reflections, Scholastic Arts and Writing, and has been published in newspapers such as the Huffington Post. She writes with the intention of leaving the audience with a strong visual scene with her words.

Darkness

By G. Allen Wilbanks

“Why are you afraid of the dark? Darkness is the natural state of everything. It’s the light that’s unnatural. When God said, ‘Let there be light,’ he was imposing an artificial reality on a universe that had previously only know known total darkness and emptiness, and every force in nature is currently trying to drive us back to that original point of neutrality. Everything around us is temporary, and at some point in the future we will all return to that initial state of nothingness. It’s inevitable.”

“Maybe,” his wife admitted. “But, I still want you to replace the lightbulb.”

           
G. Allen Wilbanks is a member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA) and has published over 60 short stories in Deep Magic, Daily Science Fiction, The Talisman, and other venues. He has published two story collections, and the novel, When Darkness Comes.

Dog Poem

By Juanita Rey

I have a dog.
He whines for walks,
for me to toss a ball
so he can fetch.
He doesn’t beg for sex
or sympathy
like the guy he replaced.
Being needed has taken
a turn for the better.

           
“I write because it helps me to understand my life in this new country.” – the poet

On a Gravestone in Ireland: Died of Disappointment

By Sandra Arnold

It’s time to face the truth. Your story is abysmal. It’s trite. Overblown. It’s full of mixed metaphors and sloppy syntax. The characters are one-dimensional. The plot’s missing. There’s no beginning. No middle. No proper ending. Who on earth would publish it? It will never win awards. Bookshops won’t stock it. The critics will crucify you. They will say it reveals a lot about the kind of person you are. Take our advice and burn it. Think of the pain you’ll be spared. No need to thank us. This is the whole point of our Writers’ Support Group. Who’s next?

      
Sandra Arnold is a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions nominee. Her third novel, Ash, will be published by Mākaro Press (NZ) in 2019.

Depression

By Megha Nayar

I have 102 degrees of cabin fever. It happens whenever I marinate in could-haves and should-haves for too long.

Do little things, says my therapist. Take a bath. Make your bed. Walk. Call a friend.

Easy for her to sing that song.

I’ve lain here for hours now. I last drank water in the morning. My armpits reek of yesterday’s sweat. My scalp has sprouted little balls of sebum that I scratch and weed out when I’m bored.

This can’t go on.

Out I jump, as suddenly as I’d slumped.

I step away from the brink, into the shower.

“I write because it is the only kind of validation I know.” – the writer

A Spring Moment

By Mark Tulin

I often remind myself
how much I love the first day of spring.
It appears unexpectedly
when the world seems cold
and imperfect,
when my youthful soul yearns
for a blooming flower
in one fragrant moment.

The sun doesn’t have to shine.
The world doesn’t have to feel safe or stable.
Nothing has to be in order
or to make sense.
It is the first day of my favorite season
when I feel most grateful
to be a small part of a grand universe,
that gave me my first breath.

              
“Writing creates an intimacy with the world.” – the writer

Wildflowers

By Melissa Gill

If you find me

Growing wild

Please do not pluck me

Out of my element

Let me live

Among the wildflowers

Instead of leaving me to wilt

In the corner of your room

              
“I write to slay the monsters in my head, and to remember my grandmother’s smile on my birthday.” – the writer

Breakfast

By Kim Whysall-Hammond

Today I’ve arranged to breakfast with the sky
we haven’t been talking much lately and
so need some alone time together
in her lovely blue halls cushioned with fluffy cumuli
although blue is probably not her best colour
at breakfast, she’s more into yellow and rose.
Trouble is, she gets up so early and those of us who
don’t need to rise for work tend to sleep in …

I wonder if that’s why she’s been so distant to me?

              
“I write poetry because I have to, they come to me. I blog because it gets lonely sometimes.” – the writer