The Whispers

The whispering grows louder after exiting the shaman's hut. If her words are true, the voices following me are not of my own making, but rather the lost souls of the long dead, clamoring for attention.

I'd thought I was the only one, but she told me they speak to everyone, though very few will admit to hearing them. Those who do are branded as heretics or clinically insane. In a way, I preferred believing that I was unique, but perhaps knowing the truth will lead to acceptance from my peers.

I do, however, regret killing all those people now.

Contrast

A painting pulled me from across the room. Past spectators scrutinizing other exhibits. Past a man commenting on contemporary art.

I wanted to meet the artist and ask what had inspired him.

Hut alone in a field. The dark evening sky contrasted with flaxen wheat. No people or animals.

“Do you like it,” a man asked me.

“Too depressing,” I answered. “Looks familiar.”

“It’s the toolshed on my parents’ farm. As a boy, I took shelter there during a sudden storm.”

“So, you’re the artist,” I exclaimed eyeing him.

I left the gallery realizing we were once classmates at school.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.

Crumble Life

After the day’s hard work I returned to my hut. In the corner slept my 9-year-old daughter, abused recently by rich boys. My fisherman husband had strayed far into the sea. Hungry I walked to the corner of the hut. There was a tomato and two slices of stale bread. I made a soup. The bread, I broke it down to crumbs. Counting one for one suffered sorrow, I drowned it in the soup. I and my girl sipped it as long as possible, in silence, wishing all the sorrows would drown the same way in this crumb of life.

From Guest Contributor Thriveni C. Mysore