Ophelia Takes A Bath

Ophelia under the water; kneecap mountains poking out dwarf the dipping hills of her breasts. The ragged, brown seaweed strands of her hair move gently as her hot kettle sighs ring around the steam-shrouded bathroom.

She finds brash or delicate things expose her madness—the rough lyrics of a Pogues’ song or the fragrance of a flower bomb. Silver chains on her thighs, bright relics of dejection, shackle her to the past but aren't enough to save her. So she piles his words as pebbles on her heart and in this way she doesn't float away—at least not today.

From Guest Contributor Adele Evershed

Afterthought

Suddenly aware that he might at any moment glance down at her waist and thereby notice the steely tip of the long-handled knife that was peeking out of her shoulder bag, not truly obtrusive, but visible enough nonetheless, with its dark, coagulated blood and a few long strands of blond hair clinging stubbornly to the blade, she deftly angled her lithe body so that the sheriff’s green eyes bore rather unmistakably into the depths of her cleavage, swaying and full of promise, beneath the silky crimson blouse she had tossed on in the morning as a now greatly appreciated afterthought.

From Guest Contributor Jody Hart Lehrer

The Warrior's Path

The warrior sharpened his sword every day by slicing individual strands of grass. He started in the front of his house and worked his way, patch by patch, blade by blade, towards the back. When he finished the last corner, the grass in front had grown long again. Without pausing, he would get to his feet and return to the starting point, ready to start over.

In this way, his weapon remained sharp, always ready to draw blood. And in this way, time had nothing with which to compare itself to and became lost.

Such is the path to immortality.

Irish Eyes

Marie stared in the mirror, her azure eyes gazed lovingly at slender curves. She shook her head wafting strands of dark hair about her waist. A grey tracksuit clung to her physique mounted above designer trainers.

She waltzed out of the house, across the field in view of the adoring workmen, and down to the muddy cliffs onto the sandy beach. Her feet clomped to the rocks, where she climbed the coral.

At the summit she perceived a clear pond. Therein, beyond the sea creatures' majesty and waves of seaweed, perfection shone back. Fixated, even when the tide came in.

From Guest Contributor Valkyrie Kerry Kelly