Shine

Scrub scrub scrub the floor. Make it sparkle. Make it beam. Kneel on the floor, wash the tiles. Use the rag. Soak it up. Use the brush. Clean the cracks. Use the sponge. Get rid of the spot. Quick. Go quick. Before they come, before they notice. Faster. Go faster. Before it smells, before it stains. Scrub scrub scrub. No! No, there is still red! Pour more bleach. Make it shine. There should be no trace of dirt or dust. No trace of blood or guts. Ah! Finally. Clean. Shiny. Spotless. No one will know. Now, deal with the body.

From Guest Contributor Alexa Hulmes

Locked

Depression lives with me. Locks my mind in a formidable place. It allows limited interactions with the outside world. Pushes aside the people who love me.

When I feel ready to emerge, it tempts me to abandon the thought. I’d peer out of windows opened to the world and sniff the air. Then, recoil. Preferring the comfort of what I know to something new.

Today, its hold is difficult to resist. A backpack filled with textbooks stays put in my bedroom. The bed becomes my refuge. The pillow, a sponge for tears.

The lock on my school locker remains locked.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.