|Poetry by Sheikha A., Claudia Riseborough, Denny Marshall
and Carrie Polega
By Sheikha A.
The needles in the back have returned,
with it arrhythmic dispersal
of the cells in my blood. I see a knife
slicing through fresh fruits
and I lay myself out in a buffet
at which you’ll bring your plate
to sample my traits
deciding which to pick –
imagine being picked
from a group within yourself –
my inability to drive a narrative
over a cliff of metaphors has branded
me inadequate. I tell you we must
savour secrets between us; I have
told you I don’t want to be possessed
by an unseen thing; I am telling you
the rope is weak under my acrobatics.
You bring the earthquakes despite
my wheelchair, and I teeter on your
emphatic redundancy of me.
By Sheikha A.
How does a person combat
bones in a war of souls –
moths crawl the carpets of the hall
like an intervention, clinging to
curtains shuttering under a bellowing
breeze; the problem with dreams is
they don’t recur with images rapidly
deleting upon awakening. In one
of these you asked about marriage
and I woke up to a sawing on my arm.
The sensations of a maturing night
can be sensuously misanthropic.
Find me here, my eyes moving
like a pledge of the hour –
the thrush on my tongue
singing a disorderly note –
story of a woman that birth
from a peacock.
|To read other short stories,
click one of the titles below.
|My boogeyman chant, age 6
By Carrie Polega
In the corner, something sits
where shadows laugh, light cries.
The lamp shows its belly, whines and submits.
In the corner of my room, I see something sit.
It toothy-grins, shakes its black hair tips,
red eyes watch me decipher its guise.
I swear something sits in that corner,
where shadows laugh and light cries.
|About Sheikha A.
Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and
United Arab Emirates. Over 200 of
her poems have appeared in 70
literary venues and several
anthologies by different presses.
All about her can be accessed on
edits poetry for eFiction India.
|About Denny Marshall
Denny E. Marshall has had art,
poetry, and fiction published. See
more at www.dennymarshall.com.
|My Evil Angel
By Claudia Riseborough
I can feel you in the back of my mind,
Scratching at my feeble barriers and biding your time.
Waiting for me to break down and hear,
Your soothing voice whispering poisonous poetry in my ear.
As you've said before, I'm your favorite pet,
You tell me I'm just the poor victim of an unfair bet.
You know about unfairness, you truly do,
Once your Father's favorite 'til he disowned you.
When I'm engulfed in darkness, you're always there,
With sweet words, you swear that you care.
Offering guidance when I'm lost at sea,
You say it's okay to drown in beautiful grief.
Spreading charred wings to fill the space in my head,
Softly stating it's okay to wish I were dead.
Your serpent venom fuels my hatred and rage,
Convincing me that I'm trapped in a cage.
Your art is every nightmare I've had, every broken dream I've buried,
The darkness you place in my soul affirms that we are married.
Drawing me in with your forked tongue's lies,
Promising salvation while hellfire blazes in your eyes.
I'm stuck with you as time ticks and clocks turn,
My head-friend Lucifer.
By Denny E. Marshall
lost in the dark woods
see a small white light shining
turned out to be teeth
after the implant
creatures use remote control
to enjoy humans
gravity takes shape
form fingers around your neck
the invisible hand
two heads are better
than one, that is not true
said two-headed monster
the dog found a bone
it turned out to be human
Part left arm missing
woke up by a noise
thinking it is a burglar
sound is just a ghost
car eating monster
devouring small engine
could have had V-8
felt a hand pulling
saying wake up from this dream
did not know I died
By Carrie Polega
A fan, it sighs and runs with bliss tonight.
It whirls and talks to me just like the way
a cardinal dances on a redbud branch.
My eyes roll back, lids are closing now,
fan murmurs and sings to aid my death,
a death of five to eight sometimes much more.
My blood begins to settle, my breathing slows,
and then—the hoofs of Wake, a beast within
my mind. It stomps just once, enough to make
me jump from under sheets, my blood fizzy,
a shaken Coke. I curse beneath a fog,
the Wake clomps off until another night.
|About Carrie Polega
Carrie Polega lives in Mount
Pleasant, Michigan. She is a
creative writing graduate
student at Central Michigan
University, as well as the
creative non-fiction editor for the
literary journal, Temenos. Her
work can be seen in the Central
Review. Carrie really likes scary