Ophelia Takes A Bath

Ophelia under the water; kneecap mountains poking out dwarf the dipping hills of her breasts. The ragged, brown seaweed strands of her hair move gently as her hot kettle sighs ring around the steam-shrouded bathroom.

She finds brash or delicate things expose her madness—the rough lyrics of a Pogues’ song or the fragrance of a flower bomb. Silver chains on her thighs, bright relics of dejection, shackle her to the past but aren't enough to save her. So she piles his words as pebbles on her heart and in this way she doesn't float away—at least not today.

From Guest Contributor Adele Evershed

Ireland's Descent

Niamh clambered down the rocks, grasping grass to ensure balance. Her eyes widened with adoration each time she peered over her shoulder espying tides crashing carelessly against bustling coral. To others it was an empty beach clinging to the base of Irish pastures, but to Niamh her struggle over the roughened pebbles opened the gates of Eden.

Her lens captured what she saw; pulsating amber beasts clinging to years of compressed life, silvery fish darting around with grand families and crabs working hard, hunting. Emerald weeds flowed through natural pools capturing the life of the sun. Images she trapped forever.

From Guest Contributor Kerry Kelly