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No Soul, by Ian Fletcher

18/6/2018

“What’s your rush?” she says.

“Gotta get back for the England match!”

“A poet like you watches twenty-two men chasing a leather object around a field?”

Not too different from me arranging words on a page to achieve something beautiful, I think.

“Well, I’ve loved football since I was a kid,” I’m cowed into replying.

“Time you grew up,” she says.

I cannot express to this bullying rationalist how the crafting of a sublime goal, the pulse and rhythm of a game, is a kind of poetry in this world available to all, for clearly this woman has no soul.

Bus Depot, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

18/6/2018

In the waiting room, folks alongside fancy luggage slobber over sandwiches stuffed with drippy fixings. Drink soft drinks or coffee. Rumbling sounds and fumes from buses continue all day.

Late evening, when the line of travellers dwindles, brother and I would make our move. Before maintenance staff arrive to empty out full rubbish bins and wash sticky floors. We scoop up partially eaten decadence discarded with plastic wrappers. Sample foods not served at soup kitchens.

We are hungry. Our walk through the intercity bus depot is the only ride we can afford. Where people travel to, we couldn’t care less.

At First Glance, by Martin McConnell

18/6/2018

Another dusty breeze, another smoldering hot day, and then she dropped in.

The cold but playful stare in her eyes, the smooth contours of her feathers, the sharpness of her beak.

She chirped; I chirped back.

The sun sets with a rising moon, and we’ll build a nest together soon.

Happy Father’s Day From US, by Sankar Chatterjee

17/6/2018

The same chill flew down Bob's spine.

He was traveling through Canada. The day’s newspaper had a front-page image of the lifeless body of a little Syrian boy. He drowned while the dingy boat carrying his fleeing poor war-torn family capsized in turbulent sea. Waves finally brought him to mighty Europe.

Now, a photo of a crying little girl dressed in a ruffled red dress appeared in a major US-newspaper. She was begging a border-guard to let her detained mommy go. The poor family crossed the border of this superpower fleeing poverty.

“Do children ever have voice”, pondered Bob.

Three-Quarter Time, by Chella Courington

16/6/2018

I watched a woman shape bagels at the corner deli. Day after day the window revealed her long fingers looping dough around her hand and rolling it on the counter until a round tube twirled in on itself and she dropped the circle into a pan of steaming water. The dough rose swollen and wet. Through her I saw faintly a girl in dark braids at a Wurlitzer turning pages faster and faster until the paper floated up in flakes, my hands holding to the treble clef, swinging above brick and tile through altostratus clouds, a red disc dimly visible.

Dimple in the Chin, by Marjan Sierhuis

15/6/2018

I remember the first time I saw you at school. For me, it was love at first sight. I was mesmerized by your blue eyes and the dimple in your chin. If you had looked my way, you would have seen an eight year old with blond-hair, pigtails and braces on her teeth.

When I turned nineteen, I saw you again. This time I was without braces and the pigtails. And you noticed me. Our one night together was magical.

If you had lived, you would have loved our son. He has a dimple and the same beautiful blue eyes.

That Sinking Feeling, by Adam Smith

15/6/2018

The mud was thick and I was sinking in, faster by the moment.
I could not reach a nearby vine.
The mud rose to my waist and eventually, my chest.
I could think of only one thing to try.
I splashed mud with my palms, ejecting clumps beyond the rim of the pit.
It dried quickly on the shore and I continued to splash handfuls onto the growing mound.
I aimed with perfection, building the mound, extending it toward myself.
When I could reach the hardened outcropping, I carefully gripped with both hands and slowly pulled myself to freedom.

The Long National Nightmare, by Gordon Lawrie

14/6/2018

One day early this week: for everyone else born on June 14, 1946.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. The President had affairs with hookers but replied that cheating on his wife wasn't illegal. He antagonised his nation's closest allies and made friends with its worst enemies. And nobody could stem the bilge spilling from his mouth.

Joe awoke screaming. Had it all been a nightmare? But a voice called out, "It's no dream – you're inside the President's head defending his brain."

"But... I don't see any brain."

"Yeah, they all say that, but don't worry, it's not for long – he fires his entire staff every month."

Picture: YouTube

Myth of Never Again, by Sankar Chatterjee

14/6/2018

Max Boot, a WWII-hero couldn’t believe what he had just read. Currently, US-administration separated more than ten thousand children from their border-crossing parents fleeing poverty, crime and religious persecution. A chill then ran through his spine: those innocent children being held in prison-like facilities!

He was in the front-line of liberating Auschwitz death-camps at war’s end. Surviving little children wearing striped prison-suits and holding on to razor wires welcomed them. Nazis had allowed them staying with parents, except the ones sacrificed by evil Dr. Mengele for his macabre experiments.

Drowning in deep sorrow, Max pondered about the myth: “Never again.

A Night to Remember, by Russell Conover

13/6/2018

“Hey, baby. Like what you see?”

Tony's jaw dropped as he gazed at his wife. She was wearing some rather intimate clothing, which looked perfect after Teddy's hard day at work.

“Tell me how much you love me, and I'll give you a night you'll never forget.” Sheila smiled seductively.

Tony grabbed his favorite instrument, and began an impromptu bongo solo about his wife. He went all out, with lyrics and drumming, but she just stood in shock.

“I ... don't know what to do with that,” Sheila murmured.

Tony grinned. “You're welcome. Now, about that unforgettable night?”

This one was inspired by a scene from “The Big Bang Theory” where Sheldon gets bongos (available on YouTube).

A Fellow Poet, by Ian Fletcher

12/6/2018

“Hey, I liked the latest poem you got published. I’m glad you post them on Facebook,” my colleague says.

“Cheers. Poetry’s just a hobby for me actually,” I say, not quite sincerely.

“I write poems myself,” he says, to my dismay.

“Can I email you some?” he asks.

My heart sinks.

“Sure, send me a couple,” I reply.

Later, I receive a few hundred.

I shudder at the spelling mistakes, the mangled grammar, their triteness, their unpublishability.

Truly this man should never put pen to paper.

“Well, did you read them?” he asks.

“Pretty impressive stuff,” I say, quite insincerely.

Everyone Has a Story, by Eric Smith

12/6/2018

I picked up a hitch-hiker—tall, heavyset, soaked leather boots, probably from dew. Before entering the morning traffic, I asked his destination. It was near mine so no problem.

He started talking. “Last night my wife and I got into a screaming fight driving to a club. I jumped out at a red light. Two girls picked me up; we partied at some crazy-ass apartment miles away. This morning, the girls and my wallet, with four hundred bucks and two credit cards, were gone. But the sex was good and they left me my clothes.”

What a bullshitter, I thought.

The Ownership of Souls, by Elizabeth Wing

11/6/2018

I found a soul on a park bench. It fits so it’s mine. I’m replacing the alien smell with my own. It hurts to reinvent.

Tourists fall in love in Atlantis. They build each other up with hypodermic needles, duct tape, screws, claim to be sunken cities ready for resurrection through coloring books, therapy circles, hypoallergenic diets.

But really, it’s like putting up condos in the Gobi.

And so I tried to leave this soul on a picnic table. But they chased me shrieking,"You forgot something!"

"Me?"

It’s yours, isn’t it?

Bleeding at the seams. It hurts to reinvent.

The Cat in the Window, by Sharon Hill

10/6/2018

The eventide casts my silhouette in shadow as I meander the dimly-lit lane and notice a cat in the window of a shop on the opposite side. I feel the magical powers of the talisman as a hypnotic stare penetrates through emerald eyes and the Moorish pattern of the fur coat appears as a cryptic message in a forgotten language. The cat is reminiscent of a connection to ancient Egypt and the eternal mistress of domestic felines, Cleopatra. It lays the length of the windowsill and appears as a mythical guard, the mighty Sphinx. Intrigued, I walk toward the shop.

OMG OCD, by Adam Smith

8/6/2018

Bob’s finger touched the wall. Then four more times. The compulsion was strong; everything in fives.

He opened the door; three, four, five times, then exited the building.

Arriving home, he pulled into the garage and made sure the tires were straight and aligned with the crack in the floor.

The brief case in his left hand, he laid his jacket over his left forearm. Then he felt the need to adjust it. Again. Again. Again. Again.

Entering the kitchen, his wife smiled, “How was your day, Honey?”

He sighed, “Long.” Then repeated in his head, “Long, long, long, long.”

Only Time Will Tell, by Sankhar Chatterjee

8/6/2018

American Bill Smith with local guide Hassan was crisscrossing Morocco, a small country at the tip of North Africa. Following conversation begun on the highway to Chefchaoun:

Hassan: Passing by Volubilis, Romans were here.

Bill: Seriously?

Hassan: From first century CE. The land was fertile and close to water. Ruins are still here.

Bill: Let’s stop then.

Once inside, Bill explored “Triumphal Arch”, Corinthian columns of “Capitoline Temple”, and well-preserved colored mosaic floors. Throughout, history-lesson on the civilization’s demise kept on resurfacing. Suddenly he got a chill realizing same scenario appearing within his country.

Bill murmured: Only time will tell.

Megaburger and French Fries, by Marjan Sierhuis

8/6/2018

Heidi pressed the accelerator with the tip of her shoe when the car hit the pavement. Her goal was not to let the man out of her sight. Giving her vehicle full throttle she kept her eyes peeled on his rear bumper as he decelerated before a curve in the road and then accelerated on exit. When he signaled and pulled into a fast food drive, she was still on his tail. With her window down she listened intently while he ordered. All bets were now off. The megaburger, cola and french fries wasn’t allowed on her husband’s diet plan.

Editor's note: edited after a complaint from a certain burger chain with a Scottish name. "Megaburger"® ©M. Sierhuis & G. Lawrie

The Pirate on the Deck, by Sandra Orellana

8/6/2018

An old, wrinkly, bitterly, belly-dried, elderly man was sitting on a slovenly torn deck. He stared deeply at the lonely, unlively, unclearly, dirty, blue ocean. There wasn't a sight of a lovely beauty to watch.

Lost in his barely, wackily hollow-mind, he recalled the past while sorrowfully, regretfully holding on to his broken, ridiculously-cheap cane. Realising his ghastly act he comprehended that he really was a parasitically unkindly man, instead of that bravely, courageously youthful captain he thought he was.

He ended up as a lonely, unworthily rundown pirate. He wasn´t usefully active to anyone in his worldly digusted life.

Big Brother is Watching You…? by Fliss Zakaszewska

8/6/2018

The screen was on, adverts for stuff I’d already bought strategically flickering around the edge. Jeeze! I’d only looked at that mealworm site for a mate. Now, squirming little beggars wriggled all over the right-hand-side.

I walked to the open window as the church clock struck. I counted, absentmindedly. “One… two… three…” The church was no longer used for prayer. “Seven… eight…” Second-hand luxury cars one side, homeless shelter t’other.

“Time for Wheetie-pops!” screamed the screen. I pushed the Off button.

“Shut up. “Eleven… twelve… thirteen… “

George Orwell come true or just the moon pulling away from Earth?

Secateurs, by Gordon Lawrie

8/6/2018

He leaned forwards towards the TV camera. You'd love him in your own garden.

"Deadhead plants that have served their time." The camera zoomed in as his secateurs cut back spent rhododendrons and lilacs. "Pruning back makes the rest grow stronger."

The previous night, those same secateurs had been used in the dark city streets to 'deadhead' a rough sleeper and a prostitute: a quick clip to the cartoid artery saw each off. Didn't even break the skin. James 'deadheaded' three a week, but the police were baffled.

James smiled at the camera again. "Cut back hard. Don't be scared."

Lydia's Birthday, by Guy Fletcher

7/6/2018

I cannot stop these thoughts like a poisoned fog swirling in my head. It's my nineteenth birthday and 1920, the beginning of a new decade.

My mother has bought me a stunning turquoise skirt and friends have invited me to a soiree this evening. I will attend but only for the alcohol to numb the pain.

I'll visit George this afternoon if he'll allow me. My horrendous images are nothing compared to his. I wonder if he'll ever be free. He insists I find someone else. I cannot. I try to smile at my mother...but it's too painful.

The Fixer, by Mark Kuglin

7/6/2018

I shouldn’t have been surprised by the disaster, it was just like Beatrice to give up in a state of complete disbelief. I’d smoothed things over for her so many times, I’d become her personal pavement contractor.

Well, I’d finally had enough, it was time for a permanent solution.

When the police came to question me about Beatrice’s disappearance, I was sitting under an umbrella– on a chaise lounge– enjoying a cigar on my brand new patio. When asked if I knew her whereabouts I responded, ” I have no idea but I miss her desperately. She’s my rock and foundation.”

A House Divided, by Sankar Chatterjee

6/6/2018

Ms. Julie Charm was raised by liberal-minded parents, even living within a conservative constituency. Today, she was graduating from high school as the valedictorian for over-all excellence (academics, athletics, leadership, and societal justices).

She profusely thanked her parents, teachers and classmates. Then she proceeded to chart her generation’s future amidst the nation’s current divisive upheaval, quoting an unnamed leader: "A house divided against itself cannot stand." Conservative audience assumed it came from current leader, thus breaking into thunderous applause amidst standing ovation.

Ms. Charm paused, looked around, and announced “That was a quote from our past US President Abraham Lincoln.”

Lump, by Eric Neher

4/6/2018

It's a strange thing to know that you are dying, and to be forced with enough time to learn to live with it. This stamp of termination is not even courageous enough to come by way of violence; there is no sound of crushing metal, followed by the searing pain of engulfing flames That would be too comforting.. too quick. Or to just be able to suffer the panic of exhaustion setting in, as the water begins to take you down..much too kind. It seems unnatural, really. The measure of its success is based on how quickly you die.

My Wish is Your Command, by Yusriy Charles

4/6/2018

Trapped in the middle of insanity and imagination.

Giggling monkeys jump around me while carnival music blares, emitting out of the atmosphere itself.

Bubbles tangible enough to throw hang airily; when not flung at me in jest by tree-dwelling primates.

Crescent suns and moonsets in and of themselves are not uncommon, along with feeling everything and nothing all at once.

There is no end to it.

I double over, heavy, the air dense, and there’s fog in my lungs. Deep breaths now. I’m trapped here perpetually, waiting for someone to rub my lamp so that I may see daylight again.

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