I Heard A Mother Scream

I hear a mother scream. She is haunted by the ghost of all the empty tomorrows, the house that doesn't creak in the night, the silent graveyard safe from superstitious breath.

The desolation of her scream, so familiar, pierces into me. We're both tormented by the life still left to live, unable to excoriate the soul from the skin.

She seeks consolation in her refusal to accept the well meaning lies of those unable to withstand true despair.

I too have that scream inside me, its silence continuing to bounce off the walls, the pain reverberating both inside and out.

Survival

The bombs are exploding, but I don’t look back. My son is screaming, so I grab hold of his hand tightly and run.

Bullets riddle around us and people collapse to the ground. 'Keep going' my mind tells me and I do just that. The boat isn’t far, we just need to make it to the border.

“Hurry,” I say to George as he looks at me wide-eyed in fear. “There’s the boat he promised us. Quickly, get in.”

The rower says nothing as he helps us. His expression is of despair and loss.

We are the fortunate who survived.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

A Boy In The Torn Jacket

The horror of an early morning bombardment urged the boy in the torn jacket to seek his mom. Out of debris and rubble, he most needed the dearest soul to hug him tightly.

I stood and watched the scene in despair. Out of nowhere, a social worker appeared, took Ian’s hand, and asked his name. I tapped the man on the shoulder and offered to adopt the boy.

“Are you sure you’d cope?” the man reacted in disbelief.

I have never regretted my choice. Ian has substituted our once-unborn-child, ‘the diamond in the sky,’ as we call him with Liz.From Guest Contributor Taras Bereza

Taras is a professional lexicographer at 'Apriori Publishers' with 10 published dictionaries. He has worked as a contributing freelance writer since 2006 and wrote for Bacopa Literary Review and Freedom With Writing.

Voice Of Despair

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

Kevin didn’t hear at first. Mabel did. Sensing the scratchy sound originated outside, they opened the front door. Before them stood a feline pulsating a ferocious “meow.” Seeing the humans, he stopped.

“He’s staring at us,” Kevin noticed.

The cat turned to go back to the sidewalk.

“Let’s follow,” Mabel figured.

They ended in a backyard. The cat went through a pet flap in the house. When he reappeared, he stood on a table by a bedroom window.

Kevin propped himself up on a patio chair and peered inside. Sprawled on the floor was the lifeless body of their neighbor.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada.

Montana Woman

I didn’t know you were dying until I saw what your grown daughter posted on Facebook under your name. For a minute, I wondered if I should “Like” the post as a way to convey my sympathy. Probably not, right? It was the sort of dilemma that once would have had you shaking your head in amused despair at me. Your daughter says that now you mostly just sleep. Where I am, some 1,900 miles from you, yellow daisy-like flowers that shut at night as though sleeping or even dead open at the touch of morning, bodies exploding from coffins.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).

Under The Rainbow

For an instant, just before noticing the new bank of threatening clouds conspiring on the darkened horizon, it seemed like everyone knew how to think, knew what to think; everyone knew how to feel. No one could take their eyes off the rainbow until it faded—as all rainbows always do—and the first few burning drops of the new and far more furious downpour, promising only flood, destruction, and despair appeared.

By the time the storm reached its new-found fury, everyone had given up seeking shelter. No one had any recollection whatsoever of anything even vaguely resembling a rainbow

From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette

Ron. Lavalette’s many published works, including his debut chapbook, Fallen Away, can be found HERE.

Deaths In July

On 17th July, Adhakanta’s twins Tompi and Shompi were found hanging from the tamarind tree their forefathers had planted outside Dhemaljote for the demons to rest in. Both had been national-level Kho-Kho players. Mairong Sarkar, their distant uncle, also an ex-KLO turned social worker, supported them as their father's 0.07 decimal land was engulfed by the malicious river Balashon.

The scene ignited Mairong's innermost despair and he took to the jungle again. Their father dead since last July, he untied the dupatta around his daughter’s neck.

Next July, their mother Meera eloped with Kanai, the infamous sand mafia of Balashon.

From Guest Contributor Nabanita Roy

Layers

Her mind acts as warden, keeps her in her room most days.

She confesses to me that one week straight, she huddled in the dark base of her closet. She had built a nest within, its four tight walls comforting her like an eggshell: no demands made upon her, no chance to fail.

I ask what she will need if she comes home. She cannot answer, and so I build a table with layers of blankets both over and under it, where, like the Princess, she can feel despair creeping in even if it is the size of a pea.

From Guest Contributor Laura Lovic-Lindsay

Awkward

It was another one of our awkward silences. We stood their staring into the distance, afraid to make eye contact. We sedulously avoided entering each other's personal space. We danced around each other with delicate steps, on tiptoe, a deeply ingrained choreography learned after years of rehearsal.

Words only came painfully, weighed down with uncertainty and despair. The forced cohabitation doomed us to this daily ritual at least twice a day, and though our encounters were always brief, a few minutes at most, the memories of them lingered.

The question always hung between us, why we ever agreed to marry.