The Nomad

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…he must do. He’s a cog in a clock, a mindless cog in a clock with the wrong time. The thought makes her chuckle, her clock is the sun and moon; the days of the week mean nothing to her.

She is free to bumble along, finding opportunity in the discarded possessions of these busy, scheduled people.

She knows she is old, but she doesn’t count her years any more, it is pointless to obsess over numbers that hold little meaning if an hour matters so little; then why should a day, a week, a year? One day,…

By Baart Groot

Website: http://baartgroot.wordpress.com/

Twitter: relctntidealist

Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/thereluctantidealist/

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On Segregation and Saushilyam

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…who till the land must not elevate their eyes to the skies. Shambhuka is an untouchable. Rama is casteist.

*                      

School had a great hall of sorts, where people gathered for various things. It was a long, wide, rectangular building made entirely out of hollow-blocks, crowned with a wooden frame on top like an inverted keel of the ship covered with red-oxide roof tiles. The windows were a leafy green and the walls, a slowly-fading-into-dusty-yellow white. Red for passion, white for peace and green for prosperity. The colours of human values. 

We gathered in there for every morning for prayer…

By Sindhuja Veeraraghavan

Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/sindhuja.veeraraghavan.9

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Bobby Dope & The D-Zuu-Wabba

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So I came to this bar it was dark and loud
When I entered the door I was hit by a cloud
It was D-Zuu-Wabba I knew it right away
Sickest dope on the planet straight out of Bombay

A rare dude came to me said he's name was Bobby Dope
White Russian in his hand, long hair and wearing robe
Had he's peak early 80s, nowadays in decay
Then he offered me the Wabba. Holy smoke it made my day

Now the D-Zuu-Wabba maybe not be known to you
It's an Indian blend from a root named D-Zuu
First they chopped it up, then they…

By Zycuna Cress

Website: http://zycuna.com

Twitter: zycuna

Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/zycuna/

https://youtu.be/G1cV7GKCeeQ

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One Man's Karma

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The dead man sits in the small room
without sustenance or light.
There are no books or windows.
He cannot speak, yet even if he could,
there is no one with whom to do so.

The only things he has been given are his memories,
Strong, vivid.
The only time he leaves this place
is when his soul enters another's body
at the height of their fear and agony.
He leaves again at the moment of their peaceful death,
Returns back here to relive what suffering has just occurred.
So many instances:
A black man lynched in Alabama,
An old Vietnamese woman torched alive in a hut,
A blind, one legged, starving Kabul child stepping on a land mine,
A Detroit three-year-old gunned down by cross-fire
while playing in the front yard,
A small, terrified terrier
being used for bait in a dog fight,
A 911 plane passenger,
Syria.

The karmic wheel spins for him.
It never slows, just ticks off each offense,
It holds no grudge, just reflects what is due to him.
It's scary how relentless and unforgiving
this wheel is to this man.
Wherever there is evil,
he has no power over it.
It controls him as he relives the horrors of others,
even beyond madness.
It's happening again.
He knows it's time,
The voice calls to him,
“Adolph, come.”

By Linda Imbler

Website: http://lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com

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Just One More

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Now I want you to know

The process is not long.

It’s just one line.

But what is your limit?

How far can you push?

I can keep going

But I don’t know if you can.

Yeah, I’m talking to you right now.

It’s only one line but that is fine

If you can’t keep going.

I think if you believe

You can do anything.

Just remember that it’s just one line.

How much do you love me?

Because if you love me with all your heart

Then you will keep pushing

And snort this cocaine.

By Maddy Cakes

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Artwork of Cats

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...ruined my life,” I look down at my hands watching the blood drip and as each drop of the blood hits the floor it makes the puddle deeper. Surrounding my feet is a puddle of my cat’s blood. “The stupid cat I killed, by stabbing its little body eighteen times, was named Tiny. You see the problem with Tiny was that she loved to use her claws and dig them right into my skin. Which normally I didn’t mind but tonight wasn’t a normal night. It was prom night.”

“I hope you don’t think this is the first cat that I’ve killed. Let me show you the inside of my closet.” I walk towards a white, almost brown closet that towers over me, “it looks like it is rotting and slowly killing itself. It probably is. It is tired of being my hiding place for these little furry dead cats of mine. Well I can’t exactly lie to you and say these little cats are furry. I don’t want to start our relationship on the wrong...

By Maddy Cakes  

Twitter: @MsTidbits

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Reparation

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…filled with virtual money to buy the precious Mallenite ore from the independents. Most of the autonomous Owner-Captains were perfectly above board in all their dealings but he was looking for a reprobate, a dubious Captain who didn’t mind taking on crew even with the most shadowy past. Axel Fendar spotted Captain Luigi Balucci by a drinks dispenser.

The Captain kicked it twice and checked the tray. There was no drink. He proceeded to swear at the machine in an impressive display of both vocabulary and profanity.

Axel introduced himself. “Hello Captain Balucci. My name is Axel Fendar I heard…

 By Simon Garfield Bown

@SimonGBown

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Cracked, But Not Broken

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...triple chocolate chip cookie out of the brown bag and hand it to her. I lied about my dad packing two, because I want Miss Hodge to have it since she is always so kind to me.

She takes a nibble and smiles, reminding me of a cute chipmunk. “You like your cochlear implants?”

“Yes. I hear so much better than I did with my hearing aids, especially in crowded places.” I bite my lip. “But I don’t like being made fun of because of them, or having big idiots like Jordan Blake yank them...

 

 

By Krystle Duke

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Lost

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A poignant look back at happier times. The story received a positive response from my writing group. I also write various prose articles and space adventure stories.

A tear rolled unchecked down my cheek as I think about my Edward. Making it clear to the lovely coffee ladies that I wanted to be alone for a while, I sat nursing my cup of tea. It has been a normal Sunday service but, by chance, one of the hymns was a favourite at weddings. In fact, we chose it for our own wedding service. It was just last Friday I knew I had lost my beloved husband.

We met in the summer of '57. New to the village, I lived with my parents, caring for them and working in the nearby town. He had just been demobbed from National Service. Grasping the opportunities that National Service had given him; his life had been transformed. Leaving his small Berkshire village to travel to live in Yorkshire was an exciting prospect and combined with learning a new trade proved irresistible. On his return he was delighted to see who he thought was a pretty young woman not there when he left....

By Karen Hedges

Website: http://karenhedges.co.uk

Facebook: karenhedges

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The Portrait From Hell

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"I am writing a memoir called 'Standing on Broken Glass'. My writing is mainly non-fiction about and for men. This memoir breaks away from that and looks at life events." - Graham Reid Phoenix

 

He held the painting and wept inside.
As a portrait it was raw and beautiful in its authenticity, its honesty. It captured the pain in the face with such depth it tore him apart. There was an inner beauty in her face, beaten and so debased. It captured the moment with a power that was in contrast to the simplicity of the artist. 
It was a full face portrait of her, painted in oils in a rough style that conveyed so much energy. She was looking straight out from the....

 

 

By Graham Reid Phoenix

Twitter: grahamrphoenix

Website: http://grahamreidphoenix.com

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