His Touch

Staring out of the frosty window, Samaira inhaled the misty air. She was captivated by her onerous thoughts when, suddenly, an arm coiled around her petite waist. The touch of her stepfather suffocated her. She loathed the repulsive sensation of his hand brushing against her body. Still, she surrendered to the molestation silently so her dying mother could pass peacefully. Years after her mother’s demise, she’s no longer startled by such fondling. She feeds on the arousal ignited by the stroke of a man’s body against hers. These carnal touches, which earlier caused misery, are now her gateway to riches.

From Guest Contributor Hetal Shah

Hetal Shah graduated with her Bachelor of Commerce from SIES. She lives in Mumbai with her husband, son, and daughter. She rekindled her hobby of writing over the past year. She is the winner of Mumbai Poetry League 2020, and her poem was published in an anthology by Poets of Mumbai called Guldastaa A Bouquet of Poems. She also writes flash fiction, and has been published twice on 101words.org. She loves to read, and especially enjoys reading and writing stories of romance and everyday life. Besides writing, she enjoys cooking new cuisines, traveling, and singing.

Raking Leaves

Raking leaves

is an exercise in the good-enough.

You will never get them all.

You come to prize

the strong, steady stroke of the rake,

the appropriate armful that you lift

into the waiting wheelbarrow.

The maple leaves which from a distance

appear two-tone, red and silver,

reveal a soul-satisfying palette

from crimson to lavender.

A leaf falls in your hair and tickles your neck.

You cover the lily beds

with their winter blanket,

a gorgeous quilt

in five-pointed patchwork.

You’re no good at quilting, but it doesn’t matter.

Raking leaves is an object lesson

in Lamott’s “shitty first drafts.”

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Caesar

Cheryl lived in Paris, Tuscany and Sligo for 25 years; she earned her doctorate in comparative literature at the Sorbonne and taught literature and phonetics. She now teaches writing at Michigan State University. Last year she published over a hundred poems in the U.S., Germany, India, Bangladesh, Yemen and Zimbabwe, and won third prize in the Singapore Poetry Contest for her poem on global warming. Her chapbook Flatman: Poems of Protest in the Trump Era is now available from Amazon and Goodreads.

The Diapason

Before the stroke, Malcolm was obsessed with football.

Afterwards, Malcolm found a part of his brain that had never been used before was now actively engaged. In grade school, he had failed to learn even a rudimentary song on the piano. Now music was everywhere.

When it came to natural phenomenon, the wind, breathing, the setting of the sun, he heard their rhythms as a harmonious symphony. Machines and furniture emitted a cacophony of unholy clamor that caused waves of nausea.

Malcolm held the keys to the universe inside his injured brain. His new obsession was the destruction of God.