‘We should lose faith in….’ says the morning to every death.
 
Long ago there was a sunny kindergarten.
 
And the Time is a galloping train.
 
The crisscross.
The brown sugar on the forehead of every battle.
The unnecessary explosions in the womb.
The wet gunpowder smiles at the ancient posterity.
 
‘Is there no wrong signal in the development?’
 
A voice remembers the words of Satan.
 
‘Let it rain in the tent….’
The ignorance in the funnel.
 
The postcard meets the cuckoo in the middle of early autumn.
 
Since evening there has been no evening post for the dead telegram.

About the author:
Nancy Scott has over 990 bylines in magazines, literary journals, anthologies, newspapers, and audio commentaries. She won First Prize in the 2009 International Onkyo Braille Essay Contest. Her work appears in *82 Review, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Braille Forum, Chrysanthemum, Kaleidoscope, One Sentence Poems, Persimmon Tree, Pulse Voices, Shark Reef, Wordgathering, and Yahoo News.

I’m too young
that’s what I always thought
what I was taught
you don’t get sick when you’re young
 
It struck me like lightning
sparking through my body
leaving burns only I could see
 
Illness doesn’t discriminate
you can be given a life sentence
without committing a crime
 
chronic illness never saw
that I was barely an adult
that my life had just begun,
it charged in and took control
I didn’t stand a chance
 
“I’m too young for this” 
an almost convincing line
like a broken record ingrained into my brain
telling me I should be okay
 
'you can’t get sick when you’re young'
 
Yet you can never be ‘too young’,
age isn’t part of the equation
pain doesn’t ask for ID
and sickness doesn’t check your year of birth
a diagnosis doesn’t care
that your life has just begun
 
So I stand here now,
without a choice
learning to live with the life I was handed,
pulling strength from setbacks
and courage from downfalls
claiming a life that is still mine
unlearning the myths that society teaches

Each good day feels like a ticking time bomb,
waiting for the inevitable to explode.
They say lightning never strikes twice,
but maybe three, four, five times --
each hospital visit, another diagnosis,
each bolt leaving burns I never asked for.
 
The doctors call it chance.
I call it a pattern etched in static,
my body — a map marked with burns.
I used to think lightning was rare,
just a freak of nature.
Now I know it waits in silence,
and when it strikes,
it doesn’t ask if I’m ready.
 
They admire my strength,
but they don’t see my fear.
I’m more than the list they use to define me.
I’m a daughter, a sister, a friend --
I’ve got ambitions,
dreams that stretch beyond this storm.
 
When will it end?
I whisper to the thunder rumbling beneath my skin,
but even as I crumble,
I stand --
courageous, unbroken, and unashamed,
a fierce light with the strength to carry on.

Today, the pain wears pearls,
sits politely between my ribs.
I dress her in cardigans
and loose language:
"I'm just a little tired."
No one asks tired how it learned to limp.
 
At the pharmacy,
I forget
my own name
but remember
every pill by shape,
not color—color lies.
 
The woman at checkout
tells me
I don’t look sick.
As if illness should dress in spectacle,
as if my body forgot to audition
for their idea of broken.
 
Some nights,
my limbs forget they belong to me.
Memory peels away like wallpaper
in a flooded house--
who was I before the diagnoses piled up
like eviction notices from my own skin?
 People offer cures
wrapped in politeness,
like scripture:
drink more water,
think happier thoughts,
be grateful it’s not worse.
Sometimes I nod.
Sometimes I swallow
 their kindness
like a shard of mirror,
because even pity
can feel like attention.
 
I am the archive
of every
"you're exaggerating,"
every "have you tried yoga?"
every "maybe it’s in your head."
Yes, it is.
It lives there.
It eats there.
It sleeps curled beside my dreams,
drooling its fog into the marrow
of what I once called normal.
I carry absence in my spine.
It pulses when I smile too long.
I’ve buried friends
beneath my silence,
lovers in the shape of questions
they were too afraid to ask.
 
No one sees the room
beneath my skin--
where the lights
flicker                  
and all the windows are locked
from the inside.
I have written letters
to the version of me
they would believe.
She walks without flinching,
remembers birthdays,
laughs without consequence.
But she does not exist.
And I am still here.
Unable
to find parking
in the complicated structure
that is my life.

Every witch has a magical familiar,
but outsiders cannot understand them.
They are a witch’s poison and puppet.
 
My mistress loved to bake. “To lure
the dear children in,” she’d say.
Their bones littered her garden.
 
Two brave ones tiptoed inside once,
without her knowledge,
without my usual warning.
I wanted to see how far they’d go.
 
The boy was on a mission,
his sweet tooth crying out
for the gingerbread men,
who waved, sneering and daring
the boy to munch on their bodies.
 
The girl was more cautious,
hesitating at the open spread feast
my mistress had spellbound eternal.
No one is able to resist, not even the girl,
and one bite can corrode control.
 
Like flies to honey,
the pair fluttered to the food,
and I sighed in disappointment,
aware that my mistress was hurrying,
salivating from my call.
 
Mistress trapped them in the kitchen
and prepared the oven, but
the fire refused to grow hotter.
The girl volunteered, claiming
she knew a trick with extra firewood.
 
She knew a trick indeed.
I watched helpless, as she pushed
my mistress into the oven
and sealed her inside.
 
My mistress burned.
Her screams polluted the air,
her fingernails marked the oven door,
as her flesh blackened to ashes.
 
I never saw the boy and girl again,
and though it pained me
to lose my mistress, my host,
I can’t say things will change much.
 
Mistress called me Sugar,
invisible, chronic, unknown,
whispering children inside
my gingerbread walls
like a sickness.

Again She defeated me in the battle 
and as usual I came back as winner 
with a broken heart full of petals given by 
the golden moonlit night for whom I always kept 
a thorny conversation for her and she always 
smiled to remove the pride of sultry days 
and she does always.... 
and I always do the same and get defeated... 
 
And it is still night in a silent tent 
and I have to bow down to kiss the feet of the nectar 
 
I have to be alive to be winner 
after being defeated and defeated and defeated .   

​About the author:
Partha Sarkar, a resident of Ichapur, a small town of a province West Bengal Of India, is a graduate who writes poems inspired by the late Sankar Sarkar and his friends (especially Deb kumar Khan) to protest against the social injustice and crimes against nature. His poems have been in different magazines both in Bangla and in English. Once, he would believe in revolution but now he is confused because of the obscurity of human beings, though he keeps fire in soul despite.

How cathartic, this roving mind,
This absent functionality!
All schedules and packed deadlines
Cast off, adrift in sunbeams.
Oh—that indigestion, tender head,
The aching in my wrist?
Whisked away by Vagrant’s touch,
Cured by idleness.
I dérive, as the French might say,
And take the landscape’s hand,
It leads me in a quick foxtrot,
Laughing with the band,
With the blue jays’ bouncing tune--
This lack of destination
Is my destination,
This drifting out of gloom.
And when I perch back on my chair,
And set my hands to strive,
I find the Vagrant’s straying
Has re-aligned my mind.

Inside the dead of winter
Curls a fiery soul
A little bear that sleeps defiant
Waiting out the cold.
 
She does not let it press her
Or file down her teeth,
The wind of sorrow whipping ‘round
Is flummoxed by the beat
The steady, measured beat
Of a soul crouched for the thaw -
A soul with wherewithal.
 
The snow intones a chant, a curse
And drifts down in layers deep,
It wants to choke
It wants to damn
The soul to darkened sleep.
 
It comprehends too late,
As it trusts grief’s gravity,
That the little bear has prepared
For this very thing.
 
She’d swallowed embers in the summer,
And fireflies in fall,
To keep her soul e’er burning
Inside Depression's squall.
 
And when springtime rears its roses,
And the wind softens for the bees,
The soul, she wakes her willpow’r,
And rises with the green.

Perhaps an existential crisis
Shook the universe’s mind,
And sent out blasted aftershocks
To certain human vines--
Those coupled with the cosmic
Tropic, all matted
In the dense, humid questions
We utter in the quiet.
The eerie sun rolls out re-runs
And charges the same fee.
A seventh grader gets a 116
Percent on her paper, and cries
In the closet because
That’s what she wanted, and now
What?
It can be triggered by nothing,
A button tearing off a coat,
And pop! Freedom! Wandering,
Wondering. Where’s everyone going?
A planet-sized pied piper plays
But the song stops in my ear,
I pull out a hearing aid,
And forget what
The point is.
And it’s hard to force it back in,
It’s hard to settle the brain back in,
When I’ve heard the booming silence
Of the cloudless sky,
And asked what’s the meaning of walking,
Of pushing the muscles upwards
When every movement seems inane,
Insane, incredulous,
Laughable and ridiculous,
No—even laughing seems meaningless—!
For what are jokes, but pointing at mirrors?
But I digress.
Does this confession
Rattle anyone? Tear a button off a coat? 
Don’t leave me out in the eerie sun
I can’t be the only one
Drifting all afloat.

About the author:
Emmie Christie’s work includes practical subjects, like feminism and mental health, and speculative subjects, like unicorns and affordable healthcare. She has been published in various short story markets including Ghost Orchid Press, Infinite Worlds Magazine, and Flash Fiction Online. She graduated from the Odyssey Writing Workshop in 2013. You can find her at www.emmiechristie.com.