I Heard A Mother Scream

I hear a mother scream. She is haunted by the ghost of all the empty tomorrows, the house that doesn't creak in the night, the silent graveyard safe from superstitious breath.

The desolation of her scream, so familiar, pierces into me. We're both tormented by the life still left to live, unable to excoriate the soul from the skin.

She seeks consolation in her refusal to accept the well meaning lies of those unable to withstand true despair.

I too have that scream inside me, its silence continuing to bounce off the walls, the pain reverberating both inside and out.

The Lost Notebook

I looked for it everywhere I could think to look. Under chairs and beds. In the clutter on the kitchen counter. Behind cushions. No luck. I’ve lost my notebook or had it stolen. The notebook is nothing fancy, a simple assignment pad like the ones we used in school. But I might as well have lost my soul. The notebook contains notes for poems and explosions. I’ve been unable to proceed without it. Words won’t obey like they once did. I’m a mirror without glass, a rocket ship without blastoff, a donor heart without a box to put it in.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry collection, True Crime, is scheduled to be published by Sacred Parasite in early 2026.

Dirt

Dirt and dried mud clung to every surface of the house, a layer of grime so thick it suggested years had passed since any cleaning had been undertaken. Yet the inhabitants, their own clothes equally soiled, acted as if everything about the situation were normal. Their sunny dispositions and politeness in the face of even the rudest insinuations forced the consideration that exterior appearances were, at least in this situation, misleading.

When the discovery of a mass grave was discovered underneath their domicile, conclusions were again revised. Contamination of the home is indeed a sign of contamination of the soul.

The Walk

Spring is here. The annual renewal of the town means that colors abound, including in the faces of every passerby. People say hello to each other in a friendly manner that hasn't been seen since the previous year. The smiles are contagious.

Stephen, the town priest, is perhaps the only unhappy soul to be found. He sulks from the portico of the church as the healthy and eager parishioners who remain alive celebrate as if he weren't there.

Business was much better during the plague. For once in living memory the townspeople actually welcomed his ministry instead of the doctor's.

The Right Thing

When I stepped into the cold of the night, the wind against my face, there wasn’t a soul in sight. I walked the streets in desperate need of an answer. Those files I found would ruin the company and probably cost me my job but inevitably save lives. I wish I hadn’t come across those documents. At least I wouldn’t have insomnia.

After what seemed like hours, I had an idea. I’d go in tomorrow as if nothing happened. No one would suspect a hard working every-day man like me would do what I decided.

And that’s the right thing.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Home

The muffled voices from outside the closed door play behind every memory. The echoes of arguments filled my ears each night as I fell asleep. The stinging sliding down my face and the taste of salt along my lips fills me with comfort. My frowning face in the bathroom mirror, as I rinse the dried tears from my cheeks, is a clear picture of me. Home is a safe place. I feel safe behind those doors. I feel safe tucked in my bed. I feel safe as I cry myself to sleep. Home is the familiar noise of troubled souls.

From Guest Contributor Selah Mantravadi

What In Hell Is A Soul?

The super highway of data flowing back to the Dyson Sphere brought several questions to mind. Are all the math numbers being crunched supposedly from bitcoin to dogecoin just souls caught in the Mandela effect? Seemed illogical. And yet?

The more one reviews the simulator of life. The more questions one has to think about. Does thinking make anything right? No.And often times thoughts bring about new ideas. The question is any of this real?

Then the realization even if this was not real. Here I am today. And here you are too? Which begs the question in hell.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

The Statue

The old master carved the tortured limbs and anguished face out of the stone.

Christ on the cross came from his very soul, he who had witnessed war, massacres and the plague that had taken his wife and dearest daughter, his whole life seeming one long crucifixion.

He cursed the God that had forsaken him and the bishop who had commissioned the artifact for the new cathedral. Tired and sick, he died a few days after the statue was completed.

For centuries after his death, visitors stood in awe before his creation that spoke of suffering and, to some, redemption.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Scarlett And Phineas: A Love Story

Scarlett looks away. "I will pray for your soul, Phineas."

Phineas smiles. "The trees pray for me every day when I walk past them. The vines, the grass, every creature around pray for our souls when we are dead."

"I pray you will fall to the ground, decompose and be used as fertilizer, causing the land to flourish. And since you are an honorable and chivalrous man, you may even be the savior of the many creatures, some of which you love dearly."

"Thank you, Scarlett. I can only pray for your death similarly. It's the least I can do."

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Gold Leaf

The Egyptians used ocean-faring vessels during the height of their empire, and modern Peruvian fishermen still use similar reed boats. One's design is to transport a balanced soul into the afterlife, and the other is to sustain the body in life, a means of transport for a trip through time into a world of unimaginable outcomes.

It's the most exquisite vessel I have ever seen, and I stood there admiring its craftsmanship before I continued my assault. As the sun rises and illuminates the boat's hint of golden design, depicting Osiris's ascent from Hades, my wrath has reached its zenith.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster