Former Glory

She sits in a worn wheelchair, slightly swaying to the raspy and sultry melodies playing on the radio behind her. Drunkenly sloshing the dark brown liquid in the bottle she’s nursed throughout the night. Her eyes are as heavy as her heart, drooping with sadness and weeping with grief. Taking another sip, she sighs as the liquid scorches down her throat. She hums along to the music, reminiscing times when she played the same syncopated rhythms on stage. Her knobby and wrinkled fingers dance in the air on her ghost piano while swallowing sobs, thinking about her glorious old memories.

From Guest Contributor Sa'Mya Hall

The Fade

There wasn’t much to see, wasn’t much to be seen, and he knew it. He knew every inch of the room; had taken its inventory a million billion times, day in and day out since his sentence had begun. Nothing but crumbs and dust and a bed he’d never made.

He hadn’t heard a thing but his own thoughts in ages, and even they were beginning to fade. Mostly all he had these days was the memory of sound: screams, sobs, and the slamming of doors.

The only face he’d seen was his own, smiling, on the tattered magazine cover.

From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette

Ron. Lavalette’s debut chapbook, Fallen Away (Finishing Line Press) is now available at all standard outlets.

The Cycle Repeats

There are no bruises. No black and blue markings. The damp pillow muffles my sobs. Berating me with silence, his brand of torture is debilitating. I cower in the dark. The smaller I get, the more his power swells.

He dares me with a narrowed glare, and I shrink a little more. I bite my tongue to stifle my fear. The spiral deepens. He said, I was worthless. He said, I was stupid. I am all those things.

I wait, holding my breath until the deafening silence has passed.

Then he smiles. I can breathe again.

Until the next time.

From Guest Contributor Violet James

Her Little Plum

The plum blossoms dance in the spring breeze like pink snowflakes across the yard.

A boy again, mother lifts me into the limbs to pick ripened fruit. “Be careful, my precious squirrel.”

“Ready, dear?” my wife asks.

“Yes,” my voice chafes. I inspect my dark suit, adjusting my tie in the window’s reflection. Wipe my face and rub wet fingers together.

“Your speech is in my purse.”

Words. An inadequate parting gift.

My mouth waters as mother sets down a steaming plum pie.

After her funeral, floodlights illuminate wreckage of the fallen tree. A brittle heart splinters. Sobs erupt anew.

From Guest Contributor Eric Schweitz

Inconsolable

When Daniel heard the first notes of the song begin to play, he immediately broke out in inconsolable sobs. The best efforts of those around him only made his hysterics worse. The tears ran off his cheeks and began soaking into his collar and tie.

"I'm sorry," he kept repeating between desperate breaths. "It's just...that song...always does this to me."

"Pull yourself together, Jones. This is no time to blubber."

Daniel looked around, first at his boss, then his marketing associates at the conference table. The clients were there as well. Indeed, this was no time to blubber.