She was sitting on the bed, crying and feeling “something’s wrong, I should be asking for help,” but she couldn’t remember who or what she should be asking. Everything in her brain was white static. Secretly she wanted to see beautiful color, a purple that vibrates at the very end of the spectrum. Anyone observing her would have probably concluded she would never get away – away from clock faces with Roman numerals, the tyranny of structure, all those people going about their day on a busy street. When something needs water, you water it, you don’t just hope for rain.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s latest poetry collections are The Death Row Shuffle (Finishing Line Press, 2020) and The Trouble with Being Born (Ethel Micro-Press, 2020).

Rachel’s hands icy cold and legs so frail she could hardly stand, she gagged from her own body odor. The babbling of the malnourished became constant and she tuned them out. Her skin was riddled with bug bites, her teeth loosed from lack of nourishment, and her lips craved water. Rachel’s crime was being Jewish, and the suffering had only begun. She didn’t know where the train was going, but knew it was bad.

In the last minutes of her life, when she and the others breathed in the noxious gas in the dark enclosed chamber, she adhered to hope.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

HUBRIS CONTEST:

I’d better wait till she’s four.

From Guest Contributor Patricia Gable

The forest had darkened with overgrown conifers. At a fork the man made a guess taking the less trodden trail.

He raised a bottle of water to her memory, vowing to try again. He’ll find that bench. The place of memories. Where he took restful breaks and she, his retriever, would wait at his feet.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.

NATURE SUBMISSION:

As I sit with my feet up sipping a cold glass of water, I say a silent prayer that the pandemic ends, and we are free as the birds flying this earth.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher

NATURE SUBMISSION:

I watched as the minute breaking waves climbed the gentle slope of the beach, trying to get as far as possible. As the surf receded, complicated patterns formed in the tawny sand. The pendular movement repeated itself, together with the characteristic sound of the advancing and retreating water. But the smell of the shore at low tide, the taste of the salty spray, the feel of the breeze and the warmth of the early sun were missing. I tossed my mobile phone away and sighed – no video will ever replace the soothing experience of a simple walk by the sea.

From Guest Contributor Miguel Prazeres

NATURE SUBMISSION:

“Certified organic?”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband, stuffed animals and many friends.

Robyn rolls down the car window and breaths in the fresh air. It is warm, but not enough to sit on the beach and take in the sun, or swim in the water.

The woman on the dock is gone.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

With muzzles lifted towards the sky, they gather on rocks long dry. The sun touches down where water no longer passes by. Sable tips wash to marbled tails that tell of a time in the distant past. As wind sifts the sand nearby, it slowly edges them away. A golden plague bears their memory with a single name and details of their cause. For now, they pause as a simple thread meant to knit its way into today. When clouds darken the light, rain falls and remembers the familiar trails. It brings with it a mending unearthed by the dawn.

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.

We all got off the coach and headed for the beach. The couple who’d sat across from us stripped to reveal their swimsuits, like a superhero duo. I told Dad on the sand, but he seemed distracted, staring into the horizon.

The water was warm, like a bath. That was our second clue. ‘Don’t worry,’ the news anchor had said at breakfast. ‘Hurricane Katrina isn’t expected to cause much damage.’

From Guest Contributor Robert Keal