The Cycle Repeats

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.

He dares me with a narrowed glare, and I shrink a little more. I bite my tongue to stifle my fear. The spiral deepens. He said, I was worthless. He said, I was stupid. I am all those things.

I wait, holding my breath until the deafening silence has passed.

Then he smiles. I can breathe again.

Until the next time.

From Guest Contributor Violet James

Criminal

He had been marked as a criminal as a young boy. The branding itself was not especially painful, not physically at least. The stigma that he now bears has, however, made life nearly unbearable these past 20 years.

There is a relativity that applies to all things in all times. A crime, for example, may in fact be a heroic act under the right circumstances and in the right culture. To ignore the possibility of nuance means that everything becomes black and white in a world full of color.

Yet there is nothing relative about the brand on his face.

Ignominy

The oppressive dryness from the onboard heating joins forces with the mid-carriage intensity of the bus engine to agitate my Nor Loch-purchased nausea. I glare up the aisle at the convex miniature of the driver’s face trying not to think of anything stomach-related...or liquid...or food.

My teeth are Publius Horatius at the Sublicius Bridge: facing off against a more dreaded force than that of Clusium.

But bridges span rivers, and the guy next to me sipping spring water from a bottle of ostentatious brand summons images of the Tiber and spilt blood.

Bile breaks through and brings friends.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid