The Silken Parasol

Elethea needs rest—there is no peace—looking for a place to hide, she's found it. A good deal of space inside the umbrella, so she lay there with her face turned up towards the light. She cannot help but dream as she admires the firefly-lit lantern from the lamppost on the corner. Above all others, it is virtuous in golden light. Down, down, down into the darkness of the silken parasol. So gently it goes as she settles in her bitter bed. Several people walk by, uninterested in her. None of them bother to look in through the silk.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Molded Reality

A tap on the shoulder a jolt back to reality, not reality to an abyss. Weary as someone falls on the ground blood everywhere. Running and screaming in vengeance. The puddle grows sticky I melt into the floor, watching time slow down. Put on a pedestal not to adore or admire but to pity. Voices behind me question our reality. Time slowly tick-tocks by. A car ride later, bright lights and people dawned in blue hovering over me. Green silk and glowsticks draped with fresh blood dripping on the expansive white linoleum floors. Going back, I see a molded reality.

From Guest Contributor Bandit Taylor

Bandit is a student at Pikes Peak Community College. He Is only 16 and is loving going to college for education. He is currently working on a novel based in Leningrad, Russia during the Cold War.

House Of A Hoarder

The stench of stale tobacco hangs in the air. You treat your house like an air-tight Tupperware; you think your hoarded items could be destroyed by fresh air, so you never let me in. You ignore the smoke that settles on those decaying maps of ancient civilizations.

I walk into this careful messiness. The smoke accumulates on the loose silk threads of my dress. You study my face as if it were one of your maps: tracing the lines of ancient feelings in the wrinkles of my skin. I replace the roughness of your scrutiny by leaving. Can't hoard me.

From Guest Contributor Suhasini Patni

Suhasini is a second year undergraduate at Ashoka University, in India, studying English literature. She has previously published a book review in The Tishman Review and a micro-fiction piece with A Quiet Courage, and hopes to publish many more. She is new to the publishing world but loves to write.

Jane And Pedro

Jane and Pedro met at the local dance hall. He was too shy to ask her to dance, so they chatted by the bar. Pedro was handsome and impeccably dressed, with his silk shirt and leather dance shoes and his hair slicked back in the latest fashion. Jane wore a long skirt and talked incessantly about her work with learning disabled orphans. They found they shared a passion for artistic endeavors and smoking cigarettes.

They were both married to other people, which was a shame because they fell in love with each other about five minutes into that first conversation.