Rain

The rain pelted my windshield, and the wipers provided minimal vision. My heart pounded and my hands gripped the steering wheel. I drove at a slow pace and prayed the weather would calm down and hoped the next exit would be soon.

“Lilly, remember how terrible the weather was on our first date. We watched the raindrops from the restaurant window, and you commented on how nature can get angry at any time. That’s when I kissed you for the first time. Your raspberry lip balm tasted so sweet.”

I glanced at the empty seat wishing she were still alive.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

August Drops

It's not fall yet. It's still light ‘til eight and the kids want to stay out past that on the trampoline that squeaks now with every bounce, its round net keeping out the cucumber-loving mosquitoes, the raspberry-loving bees, the cool night-loving spiders. The sky goes sherbet and then gray and raindrops fall but stop just before you get them to come in and then the sky is bright on one side, and the baby is jumping and pointing: light! (spin) dark! (spin) light! (spin) pink! And it's time to do pajamas and kitchen and bills but you don't.

You jump.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook is the author of Only Flying, a Pushcart-nominated collection of surreal poetry and flash fiction on paradox, rebellion, transformation, and enlightenment from Unsolicited Press. Her work has won contests at Loud Coffee Press and A Story in 100 Words, and it has appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror, Soundings East, The Alien Buddha Goes Pop, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. She is a founding editor of Blue Planet Journal and a professor of creative writing. Read her work and learn more about Only Flying at https://brook-bhagat.com/.

Night Skies

Raindrops fell softly with a hiss. Each drop shatters like diamonds when it collides with the earth, leaving a dazzling path that leads back into the darkness. Through the obscurity of night, the city lights are shining.

The air was thick with anticipation for what was to come next, leaving a sense of mystery in its wake.

As I stood there, eyes open to marvel at the majesty of the night sky and the glories of the heavens that filled my view, it felt as if time had slowed down, giving me a moment to breathe and think of home.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Best Friend

Candy crawled behind the battered settee, where nobody could find her, and held her knees tight to her chest. Sleepy raindrops smashed at the window, echoing like someone rapping at the door. Someone who cared.

“Rain will be my best friend now,” Candy resolved.

She didn’t need anyone else. People grumbled she had the shape of a baby elephant; people rolled their eyes and tsked tongues like she took too much space in their lives. Even her darling Beckie said she looked ludicrous.

She turned to the dotted window. “You don’t think so, do you?”

It tapped a little harder.From Guest Contributor Malvina Perova

Malvina is a warrior writer, creator and illustrator from Ukraine, the amazon from https://goamazons.tumblr.com/ and an artist at https://www.instagram.com/goamazonsart/

His Girl

He returned to their place, behind a shrub. Where they as teenagerswatched practitioners exit a church. Where he kissed away her tearsafter her father walked out, showering affection on a stranger.

She, the girl he played tag with in childhood. The one he datedthrough high school. The one he wrote to after he moved out of thecity, and her letters stopped abruptly.

He watched between raindrops clinging to leafless branches. She exitedthe church on the arm of another man. Wedding procession followed.

Rainstorm may have passed, but the storm in his mind had only intensified.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Sheresides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband and stuffed animals andmany friends.

The Scent Of A City

She hasn’t unpacked yet. The clothes still smell of Paris. No, not of butter and cigarettes. Of that indescribable smell that is the smell of the City of Light.

Cities are redolent beings, each one with a distinct indescribable scent. Indescribable because Bombay doesn't just smell of sea waves caressing concrete, raindrops infusing with sweat on a monsoon day, or fried green chillies consorting with vada paos. Bombay smells of Bombay.

She needs them clothes now.

They didn’t tell her that you can carry a smell across 7,000 kilometers but there’s simply nothing you can do to make it stay.

From Guest Contributor Sheena Arora