Poem/Short Story Feature

January 7, 2025

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POEM: "IN PIECES"

All of my life

I was just like a mirror.

When it's broken in pieces

It is so hard to recompose it

Most are unequal

As size and as shape.

I found some remnants

But other pieces were lost

During the breaking process. I got lost too, not finding myself.

How is the noise of a broken identity?

The sound of glass shattered all over the place.

SHORT STORY: "SHATTERED MIRROR, SHATTERED SOUL"

I am a shattered soul with a shattered identity. I was a beautiful mirror before, with a beautiful frame. But I discovered mirrors don't have an identity, especially when people break them into pieces. Who is going to cry after pieces of glass?

The sound of shattered glass is actually the sound of my soul. I never knew the true story of my family and that's why everything seemed so beautiful. Until all the lies shattered, the mirror broke. The truth was sharp as the glass of the mirror, it was cutting so deeply.

I found the journal of my mom after 37 years, in which I found out my father never loved me. He never loved his children. I found out about a broken marriage, before she passed away. Reading this journal was like my mother's wounds.

What should I do with all those pieces? Nobody wants broken glass anyway. It is said that broken glass brings bad luck but for me, this glass earthquake brought light. All this time, I was a shadow. Now, I am beginning to find out myself.

Behind a mirror, there must be a wall. The wall is raising the double illusion. I am a piece of glass with an imperfect story.

© BOGDANA GǍGEANU

Romania

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POEM: "THE MIRROR'S DARE"

I sit, still as the moon, Silver-plated in its iron throne, waiting for the glass to crack,

to splinter this thin, spooled shadow

into shards of unbecoming.

Yet suddenly -

a hand like a hawk's talon rises,

unbidden, fierce.

It strikes the mirror's taut silence;

silver rain cascades,

a storm tearing light

from its roost of calm.

What remains? Only me,

wild and raw from the rupture,

my face splintered into maps

of a thousand foreign roads -

each one a place I've fled,

each one a place I must return.

SHORT STORY: "THE LAST TRAIN"

The clock above the platform is silent. Its hands, sharp as razors,

slice through the moments I can't reclaim. I stare at it now, watching time

collapse, one second swallowing another.

Behind me, the train hums low, like a beast coiled to spring I should

board it - this was the plan, wasn't it? To leave this town, to leave

everything behind. I thought it would feel certain, like throwing a stone

into still water. But now, my feet feel rooted, unwilling.

The air is metallic, heavy. Passengers swirl past me, blurred, faceless.

One figure stands out - a woman with a frayed red scarf, leaning against

the far wall. Her gaze finds mine, steady and sharp, as if she knows me.

"Go," she mouths, barely moving.

I take a step. But not toward the train. Past her, past the yellow line, past

the barrier separating the platform from the tracks. My boots crunch

on the gravel as the air shifts - the train's roar grows deafening.

Wind tears at my coat. The ground trembles beneath my feet as the train

barrels closer, screeching metal and fury. I close my eyes for half a breath,

frozen in a storm of noise.

And then, it's gone.

The silence is louder than the train had been. I stand there, unscathed

but trembling, the air still heavy with its ghost.

I scramble back onto the platform, my chest heaving. The woman with the red scarf is gone. I look for her - along the wall, in the crowd - but find only

the shadow she left behind.

For the first time, I smile. I don't know why I did it, only that I'm alive,

more alive than I have ever been.

When the next train arrives, I board without hesitation, my pulse still

pounding in my ears. I never look at the clock again.

© Concetta Pipia

U.S.

Poet's Notation: These shared tones are inspired by Sylvia Plath, author of "The Bell Jar" and "Lady Lazarus."

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POEM: "ECHOES OF MEMORIES"

In twilight's hush, where shadows play

Memories linger, like whispers of yesterday

A melancholic breeze, stirs the heart's deep sea

As I wander lost, in the labyrinth of me

In this introspective night, I search for the light

A guiding star, to navigate the darkest plight

The wind whispers secrets of love, loss and longing past

As I confront the ghosts, that forever will last

In the silence, I hear the echoes of my soul

A melancholic refrain, that makes me whole

A reminder of the love, the laughter and the tears

A bittersweet nostalgia, that calms all my fears

So let me wander, in this introspective night

And let the melancholic winds, guide me to the light

For in the darkness, I'll find the strength to carry on

And in the echoes of memories, I'll find my way back home.

SHORT STORY: "THE OLD PIANO"

As I sat n the dimly lit room, surrounded by the shadows of the past, I couldn't help but feel a sense of melancholy wash over me. The old piano, with its yellowed keys and cracked wood, seemed to whisper secrets of the past, of love, loss and longing.

I ran my fingers over the keys, and the notes seemed to echo through the room, like whispers of memories. I closed my eyes, allowing the music transport me to a different time, a different place.

As I played, the room seemed to fade away, and I was left alone with my thoughts. The music was a reflection of my soul, a melancholic refrain that spoke of love, loss, and longing.

But as I played on, the music seemed to shift, to become more introspective, more contemplative. It was as if the piano was guiding me, helping me to navigate the darkest corners of my mind.

And when I finally opened my eyes, the room seemed brighter, the shadows less ominous. The old piano, with its yellowed keys and cracked wood, seemed to smile at me, as if to say, "You are not alone, for in the echoes of memories, you will find your way back home."

© CHIDIEZEGO IFEMEMBI

Nigeria

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POEM: "TEMPESTUOUS BLANKET"

An intense placid feeling

had an impassioned tone

Uncovered by a volatile voice

Ardent flames of rage

Felt through the vibes

Fervid tint is contagious

Sacred play was staged

Vehement fingers were hungry

Fiery barriers weren't limited

Phlegmatic music was laughed at

Apathetic deafened

As ungovernable thirst was animated

Tumultuous soul was overtaken

When wild lover invaded it

Hot blooded melodrama was staged

Sacred whispers became prayers

Strokes of mercurial waves orchestrated

Excited lovers smiled, passionately!

SHORT STORY: "A PLACID HEART"

Meghana wasn't an easy girl who fell in love with anyone easily. It was time for her to choose some guy as her friends were already in a relationship. Each one used to talk abou their guy, but she had none as she had already given her heart to Surya. She didn't know whether he loved her or not!

Meghana hated him because she couldn't forget him nor be with him. She tried to go out with guys who admired her but her heart was already given to Surya.

Slowly, years turned into decades and they were very far from each other. She never heard about him but hadn't forgotten him. The most interesting part of this love story is she was never attracted to him or anyone, physically.

Meghana wasn't passionless. She was a very passionate lady with an intense desire for life and its outcomes.

The unique feature was kindness, to which she was attracted. She was crazy for street smarts and a stable personality.

Sometimes she wondered whether Surya had all these.

Somewhere, her crooked smile told her that Surya might not be that kind nor brilliant nor stable. She couldn't take him out of her mind, easily. Actually, she concluded that he's not her type. She led a happy life away from him. If technology hadn't improved, Meghana would be the happiest but she met again on WhatsApp and Facebook! Surya wasn't the person she thought! He was street smart! He loved helping others! He was never outspoken.

He was a hardworking man. He was a VIP but never exhibited it.

One character which overtook everything was that he was himself without a fake identity, which he didn't need. Meghana was more than surprised when he started at her with the same expression, like decades ago. There wasn't a

reason not to fall in love with him. But when she met him and they talked, she started to feel more comfortable with him. It was his humble nature that was the most attractive of all.

What next?

The placid soul of Meghana was in love with this beautiful being of Surya. Meghana felt his presence without him, faraway. A few minutes of chat with him gave her heavenly solace. Her soul connected to his soul with a deep desire for love from him. Their lips met through the hearty sensation with a gentle touch that's aromatic with an ardent sense! They touched each other eagerly, as though the moment had stopped for their zealous pursuit!

After the act, Meghana smiles at Surya and they continue to chat about their impassioned relationship for hours, together. Was it a dream? Meghana got up from her bed and looked at his profile and said, "You designed an apathetic heart into a passionate one! I am always yours and only yours."

Although faraway, she has a smile meant only for him!

© SONAL RAO

India

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POEM: "SUFFER IN SILENCE"

I am hurt

The pain

The suffering

Doesn't the world know

I'm worth more

Cascading down in

Abyss

It's hunting me

Shadowy and vague,

I feel I don't

Deserve much, but

I'm staying still

It's drowning me

Little by little

Suffocating me

Like a monkey

When its hurt and there

Is a wound on its body

It just keeps meddling

With it

And won't let the wound

heal

Don't I deserve

Healing

Don't I deserve

Safe space

Without you I'm blind

With you I'm weakened

Oh,

The predicament

Enough is enough

It is such a burden

To carry you in

My heart

And my soul is telling

Me

To let it go.

SHORT STORY: "SMITHEREENS"

Yes, the heart is like a rock that can protect from some of the harsh realities.

But it can't life up or change dramatically after a situation, it is not made of iron or stone. The heart is a living thing, pumping blood and egotistically

breathing.

Yes, when the heart is so viciously hurt, it seeks vengeance, not a retribution.

I like to sunder your bones till it becomes ashes and throw the rest of you

to a pack of wild wolves. Ominous dark clouds gathering overhead. Rain takes

together, every inch of water to cool the hot, molten lava of the brimstone heart.

Ah, yes, the heart is like that, the notion for breaking it to smithereens.

In the end, the heart asks God to take revenge, typical. Forgives but never forgets, every idiom that people have put fire into the heart.

Like a sunshine on the first day of spring

Our lips are adorned with a beautiful smile

Our hearts are adorned pale dark as a night.

© SHEILA ANN PACKIRNATHAN

Malaysia

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POEM: "MOTHER'S CHRISTMAS WISH"

On Christmas Eve, mother is looking at the star

Wholeheartedly wishing

For father's love to destroy hate

For her children to find solace in her arms,

For the guardian angel to keep evil at bay

For the Nativity to fill the house with light,

For joy to fill her heart and her family as well

For traditions and customs to be kept alive

And to have the strength to overcome the obstacles of life.

SHORT STORY:

In the parental home, mother stands near the window, looking beseechingly at the twinkling star that was looking at her, too.

So many wishes her heart desires! Part of her has high hopes that someone up there will make them come true, the other part doubts

they will ever be fulfilled. Remembering what holiday will be tomorrow,

she starts to tell the star what's on her mind and heart: I wish that divine love will conquer all the hate in this ever-changing world."

even if they are grown-up, I dearly wish my own flesh and blood will

find solace in my arms as they did before they've grown into graceful

swans and lion hearts." Since Christ will be born soon, I devoutly wish

He fills my home with holy light and the guardian angel to keep evil's

filthy hands away from me and my family.

She pauses for a minute, then continues:

I pray to the Holy Father to remind everyone to keep

traditions and customs alive because that's how we

show respect to our ancestors. Last but not least, despite

age that keeps creeping in, I heartily wish to have the

much, needed strength to continue to overcome the

obstacles of life just like I always did."

Now that she told Him and the star what's on her mind and heart,

Mother retreats into the kitchen to make the last preparations for the upcoming Christmas Dinner.

© GHEORGHE LAURA

Romania

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POEM: "TRUE LOVE"

The tale told by your wrinkles

Is just a half-told story.

It completes when it is added to My wrinkle's story

We together faced.

The blunder and bliss of life's journey

The oozing wound of your feet

Narrates the Odyssey of life

But it is half-narrated.

It will be whole

When the bleeding wounds of my feet

Will be together.

We, hand in hand, tread on the path

Thorny and flowery

To reclaim our meaningful existence.

You are my sun

I am your spectrum

Without you, I am non-existent

Without me, you are meaningless

When you smile in your eyes

Wrinkles around my smile, too

And my heart turns into a rainbow.

You are the cloud containing elixir

I am your earth always thirsty

Your shower of elixir

Gives my tired atoms

A vitality of being reborn, revitalized

I become your Phoenix.

SHORT STORY: "LET US BEGIN AGAIN"

That was the day when finally my son and his wife bluntly told me and my wife to leave the house...The house where he was born, where I was born.

After my retirement, I had fallen ill...too ill...and out of some stupid passion, I had made my will and gave my every asset to my son...I even forgot my ailing wife...perhaps I had thought that after me, he will take good care of his mother.

But fate has to show me it's more ugly face. I recovered from my illness and my wife, too. But now, my son and his wife were undergoing a metamorphosis into maleficent new beings.

We two became a burden to them. Round the clock we were breathing venomous humiliation and we had to endure. And then the day came when my son told us to go away from their life...far...very far from them. They could not bear our presence in their house...yes, now it was their house.

I and my wife moved out of that house. My wife had tears in her eyes but I don't know why my heart was without any emotion...I held my wife's hand, looked into her eyes and a smile lit my face. She also smiled, a tear-soaked smile.

I felt fresh air and felt alive again. My wife too, holding my hand, reassured me...

Let us begin again.

© KUMAR MALAY

India