Three pieces by Suzanne Cottrell
Whirligigs spun like in the movie “Twister.” Sirens blared. We dashed to the bathroom, wishing for a basement. Our property soon “Gone with the Wind.”
In Plane View
We pressed our hands to our ears. The hum intensified. We’re in a horror film, “Invasion of the Red-eyed Bugs.” The cicadas vowed to return.
Over the Edge
Sometimes in life you need a little nudge, but not when you are perched on a treetop obstacle course’s platform forty feet off the ground.
Suzanne Cottrell lives with her husband and one rescued dog in rural Piedmont North Carolina. An outdoor enthusiast and retired teacher, she enjoys reading, writing, hiking, knitting, Pilates, Tai Chi, and yoga. Her flash fiction has appeared in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature; Dragon Poet Review; Flash Fiction Magazine; Nailpolish Stories, A Tiny and Colorful Literary Journal; Dual Coast Magazine; and Inwood Indiana Press anthologies. She’s the author of two poetry chapbooks: Gifts of the Seasons, Fall and Winter and Gifts of the Seasons, Spring and Summer (Kelsay Books). www.suzanneswords.com
Purple by Prapti Gupta
Whenever I pass from here, I still remember that day we last met. How good it would be if I survived that accident with him.
Prapti is an 18 year old girl from India.
Hush of pink by Emalisa Rose
“Red stiletto,” through the night hours. When sunlight returned, he wanted her pale, blushed and innocent; pigtails in her hair. On his dime, Melissa obliged.
When not writing, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting and drawing. She volunteers in animal rescue, and tends to a cat colony in the neighborhood. She lives by a beach town, which provides much of the inspiration for her art. Some of her poems have appeared in Writing in a Woman’s Voice, Spillwords, Origami Poem Project and other spirited places. Her latest collection is “On the whims of the crosscurrents,” published by Red Wolf Editions.
Pink Bikini by Sara O’Brien
With the confidence that only comes with age, she stood on the dock choosing between her chilled wine and a plunge into the chilled lake.
Runner, traveler, book-lover and accountant by trade, Sara lives in Maple Glen, PA with her husband and two teenage boys.
Two pieces by Emma Foster
Butterfly Me to the Moon
“Little Butterfly,” Grandpa called her. She twirled in bathroom slippers, fluttering colors, constellations. Passing on, Grandpa’s words eternalizing, she kept his heart in the stars.
Sunday morning, we muse on life over chicken and dumplings. We joke over heartache, regret, because it’s over. We realize we were made into monsters.
Emma Foster writes as much as she can about monsters or innocence or both. She’s been published in The Cedarville Review, Voices of the Valley, Ariel Chart, and is forthcoming in Sledgehammer Lit. She plans on attending graduate school for creative writing in England.
Five pieces bySal Difalco
Night contains measures furthering otherness. The truly unhinged tend toward silence. Their demons deem it a noble alternative to the clanking chains or passing screams.
Topless and Barefoot
A reflection occurs in a surfeit of metal surface, whereas chagrin casts an elephantine shadow before it, followed by a scream from the troll bridge.
We offer a process—a whip or pail of bloody ice. Tinhorns and tinny drums confirm tone deafness. Beat the drum, Clown. Beat it now.
Strike a Rose
It hurts, adultery. But once the sinking feeling departs the chest puffs up and out. Yet his puffy sleeves are those of a man condemned.
Zoya Pixie Dust
Yes, it takes a queer intensity to preserve your equilibrium, fighting the same inarticulate fear you felt on the cuckoo bus to the county asylum.
Sal Difalco thinks he lives in Toronto. He refuses to paint his toenails.
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