The Manufactured Clarity Of A Warm Bath

Rachel held herself tightly and rehashed all the bitter memories. The water soaked into her skin and she wished the gentle lapping would wash away her regrets and better-left-unsaids. Yet her mood only darkened as the wrinkles formed.

She blamed herself for everything. For the aborted pregnancy, for the bruises on her cheek and back, for the bitterness that forever clung to her. The alternative was too overwhelming, that the world is full of assholes, or that happiness is difficult to acquire and nearly impossible to hold on to.

She'd rather claim the responsibility. At least then there is hope.

I Hear Voices

“Roses or Lilies?”

“Lilies, the orange ones, please.”

The wedding was all they talked about. It was a hurried event and they were planning a small affair but it seemed to be driving them crazy. His parents had refused to be a part of it.

Money was tight and they knew it would get tighter still. If it wasn’t the wedding they were talking about, it was the move to the suburbs.

But they’d made the decision to accept him.

Eight months and a few days and he would be able to put faces to the voices he’d been hearing.

From Guest Contributor Shruti Verma