My clammy palms drip sweat and my icy feet shiver. I barely fit on this stiff, creaky bed. From the haunted murkiness, a shadow emerges and creeps around.

Moments later, he tenderly pulls it out and smiles. “Your baby is healthy.”

From Guest Contributor Hetal Shah

Hetal graduated with her Bachelor of Commerce from SIES. She lives in Mumbai with her husband, son, and daughter. She rekindled her hobby of writing over the past year. She is the winner of Mumbai Poetry League 2020, and her poem was published in an anthology by Poets of Mumbai called Guldastaa A Bouquet of Poems. She also writes flash fiction, and has been published twice on 101words.org. She loves to read, and especially enjoys reading and writing stories of romance and everyday life. Besides writing, she enjoys cooking new cuisines, traveling, and singing.

Silence.

A dark empty void encompassed him. Helpless, he hurdled in an endless tumble towards infinity. In the lonely darkness the unending quiet pulsed in his head. The terror of the inevitable quickly found his thoughts. Alone he fought to control his mind as he drifted aimlessly in space. His only partner the broken umbilical from the shuttle. The debris scattered around him a vivid reminder of the devastating meteor storm. An emergency alarm sounded though his visor. Fifteen minutes of oxygen left. His life now measured in minutes. Alone, he awaited his cruel fate.

From Guest Contributor Stephen Johnson

She did not say yes.

She never wanted marriage.
She never wanted this.

From Guest Contributor Anne Silva.

Anne is a student writer from Sri Lanka. She publishes her writing on social media as Poetry of Despair.
You can read them at www.instagram.com/PoetryofDespair.

“Do you want me to hold the…?”

Sometimes. It tickles.

From Guest Contributor Brennan Thomas

My father says it’s okay to be scared, but now it’s time to be brave. I trust and look up to him, so when he tells me to hide under the floorboard because the Nazis are coming, I do so.

My father is dead.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

There are no bruises. No black and blue markings. The damp pillow muffles my sobs. Berating me with silence, his brand of torture is debilitating. I cower in the dark. The smaller I get, the more his power swells.

Until the next time.

From Guest Contributor Violet James

In his office at the university, Professor Kudrow pounds on the computer keyboard. His research paper needs a rewrite, his ex-wife wants more child support and he feels a migraine coming on. He wants to go home and get drunk.

He turns to his son, “My son, a thief and cheat! I’m reporting both of you.”

From Guest Contributor Deborah Shrimplin

My fate had been decided and I’m not sorry. The hunger in the pit of my stomach was more important than the consequences. When I barreled my fist into the man’s face and he fell to the ground motionless, I took the bread with my sore, bloody knuckles and ran. Within a day, the sheriff apprehended me.

The sheriff led me outside to a chanting crowd, hands tied tightly behind me, to the noose that awaits my neck.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher

It was an old apartment. Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked at the window. He could see the blue sky and white clouds floating in it. He could see the birds flying high in the sky. There was silence in the room. His two deep blue eyes were filled with innocence and sadness. He was so young. So young to be this hurt. He sat there alone. He had never felt so lonely before. He turned his gaze to the door. It was still closed. His eyes moistened and a tear rolled down his face.

From Guest Contributor Sergio Nicolas

A road runs from the bare hills until it touches by the river. It dips among the summer sage and beckons leaves to faintly whirl. For those who lightly travel, an aged silence lures a calm desire. The old pine chants along and offers to stitch a tired wish. The sun murmurs warmly as it climbs to the last needle’s tip and chatters with so many dewdrops. Rummaging through fading prints, a low sigh rustles to a scattered impression. Here, it etches away brief moments of wonder and whispers a promise to follow when wings stray below to quietly suggest.

From Guest Contributor Kristi Kerico

Kristi is a psychology major at Pikes Peak Community College. She is studying to become a horticultural therapist. She currently works at a bookstore and volunteers at a zoo and nature center. She began writing after enrolling in a creative writing course at PPCC. She enjoys poetry the most, considering it’s brief yet complex beauty. She also loves writing with a focus on nature.