The Rose

That vibrant scarlet striking against the snow like a bell ringer striking a bell, reverberating through your body, taking up your entire being. She entices me with her beauty, but her thorns tell me not to touch. The wind sings and she dances with grace. Her perfume is like the smell of the green earth that reminds you you’re alive. I love her beauty, I love her fragrance, I love her grace. I would like to take her to my wife. If she could see this rose the way I see it, then she'd understand the way I see her.

From Guest Contributor Kyla Syner

Motherhood At Starbucks

Motherhood at Starbucks.A boy of 3 discusses his day's activities with his mother.While enjoying his cookie.In a moment of grace, he offers his mom a bite of his treasure.His prize for perfection-- His cookie.She accepts knowing that this perfection may not come again.They discuss their plans that are meaningful only to them.I am amazed at the fluidity of their grace and their understandingOf one another.I wonder what our lives would be like if we were so blessed.Except on holy days when angels guided us home, happy, in love.And sacred.

From Guest Contributor Sandy Rochelle

Sandy Rochelle is an award winning and widely published poet, and filmmaker. Her Documentary film Silent Journey is streaming on: http://www.cultureunplugged.com/storyteller. She is the recipient of the prestigious Presidential Literary Award. Publications include: Dissident Voice, Wild Word, Verse Virtual, Indelible, Haiku Universe, Every Day Writer, Poetic Sun, Ekphrastic Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, and others.

Regrets

I write my own praises, dictating stories to muckrakers. Advisors insist on it.

I ran for office to serve. Tragedy. Much is given, much is expected.

I spout platitudes with such grace, it scares me.

Advisors expect me to conduct myself with grace. Don’t show feelings.

Constituents expect a shining prince, savior of liberalism.

I drink copiously, the moon as my witness. I can’t contain the weight of demands, desires.

I wake up on stairwells and in closets, hangovers uniquely my own machination.

I feel failure pirouetting, a taunting ballerina. She’s right to taunt.

But I’m not allowed to regret.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri.

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. He is the recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train. His story, "Strangers," was nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Mir-Yashar's work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as (mac)ro (mic), Runcible Spoon, JAB Fiction and Poetry, Unstamatic, and Ariel Chart.

Emigration 2.0

The latest Derry crowd had established quite a community inside Grianan Fort, refugees from a Northern Ireland under British administration, ostensibly governed by a partnership of Republican and Unionist parties.

Tory privatisation of social housing, using the ubiquitous Brexit scapegoat, had only been introduced three years before a combination of it and repeal of benefits had forced Jimmy’s family, and thousands like them, across the border.

He pitied those who hadn’t escaped the shutdown..“Lights out!” Someone called from the ramparts.

Pointless warning. One way in and out. Guards knew the drill.

Jimmy reckoned they’d have a week’s grace.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid