Cemetery Sentiment

in this silent graveyard,no one mentioned death.the hair on my arms stood at attention,like soldiers in the cold war.temperature below freezing,any moisture turned into iceand fell onto his eyelashes.just before midnight,we grabbed a bouquet ofplasticyellowroses.he quivered from the cold,but his smile never faded.vows spilling from his lips,like a waterfall made of his soul.his nose was cold against mine,after the final words of our connection.pulling away he looked at me,a shimmer in his eyes,knowing,that forever,he will always be mine.

From Guest Contributor Neyalla Ryu

The Sparkle On The Horizon

There was a sparkle on the horizon.

It was the only thing keeping him alive. He'd run out of water hours ago, lost his horse soon thereafter, and even destroyed one of his boots when its heel broke off as he attempted kicking through the cracked ground in search of any remnants of moisture. He'd probably lost his sanity at that point too, but who was keeping track?

Yet there was that sparkle. No matter how many steps forward he took, the sparkle remained in place, forever out of reach.

He kept walking anyway. Hope was all he had left.

Cement Road

The little girl stomps the yellow rain boots through the puddles, scattering the water that bled from the ground and collected in the damaged parts of the cement road.

She does not feel the moisture that has leaked into her woolen socks, or the place on her ankles where the shrinking shoes chafe. At this age, a child has such a narrow focus. She kicks the water around her until it has been redistributed across the dark pavement.

Once the puddle has disappeared, the patch of ground loses her interest, and she moves down the street, searching intently for another.

From Guest Contributor Caroline Meek

Your Lips

I can judge this only by looking at them, but I think you almost certainly have the most kissable lips I have ever seen. They look soft and your bottom one hangs out from below the top one slightly in a way that is so graceful and delicate that it fills me with an immense desire to kiss it—and bite it a little. They are always of the correct moisture too; they are never dry nor too wet. They seem to have that perfect amount which makes them look radiant and healthy. Desperately, I want to kiss your lips.From Guest Contributor Mark Beddard

There Is A Tiger Waiting For All Of Us

The rain fell lightly upon the pavement. Benfer was dry in the bus shelter, but he was trapped as well. He watched as the moisture slowly seeped closer and it wasn't very long before he'd been forced onto the bench.

Across the street, even in the dim light, Benfer could see the tiger. This was not an ordinary tiger, of course. It was the tiger that had been stalking him his entire life.

The difference between tigers and Benfer was that tigers weren't afraid of moisture. Benfer's last, sad thought was that he'd expected his story to end very differently.