Ponder by Selma Dulic
[editor’s note – Which is ultimately more essential: technical perfection or emotional truth?]
While glancing through the list of unknown words and their definitions trying to learn and use as is well. Known that, words can charge the direction of the course, life destiny, either for a good or bad. Ponder stuck out, just like that with a little pingpong ball on a stick standing and, one can think that is hiding strongly between other words and letters.
Ponder, I said. Looking at it thinking it will give me approval for actually say it out loud correctly the first time. Turning around and looking for the closest English-speaking person, who can verify my pronunciation. It was Tommy, little four foot nine lady that always had a mad face walking around, actually scary.
Pondering later while doing the same job and have the same stress as she has I realized was not mean, just stressed. Politely, with a low voice I showed her the word and said “Ponder.”
Tammy smiled and said “Yes.”
The pride of me verbally and loudly, correctly read and use my little ping pong word made sure it stuck in my memory while I ponder thought past in my memory lane.
Rays from the Sun
It’s been 23 years, and many stories and things have happen and is still happening. Many are there too with a remembrance (satkan – A Serbian (Latin) word that translates to “weaved” in English) in brain part, that requires actual therapy (shrink) in order to remove negative cells and have to le-rearn new behavior.
After all hope and disappointment happens from humans and their offspring their only hope is Rays from the Sun that come through window, early in the morning, above the head to let everybody know – Everything is going to be fine.
Is amazing, it always sneaks behind, gentle. Even though the window is large, with 8 ft. high and 14 ft. wide with metal brackets in between to hold it properly so it doesn’t fall.
Behind those windows is a whole wall of glass. Those ones are 4 ft high and 50 ft. wide. (which always gives problems for being cleaned due to the size of it).
No matter how dirty or any obstacles are in between, Rays of Sun always find a way to gentle sneak in and touch the top of the head.
I’am trying to draw words in the Sun Rays that come through windows in the morning above my head.
About the Author
Selma Dulic came to the United States when she was nineteen years old. She has raised two teenaged sons and keeps a sharp eye out for abandoned firewood on the side of the road. She speaks Bosnian, German, English, and she writes stories in a little notebook under the counter where she is employed.
How to Draw by Mya Smith
Start with a blank sheet of paper.
Make sure to grab a few from your grandfather’s printer.
The ones that have streaks of ash and smell like
The nicotine in the cigarettes he leaves between his yellow-stained fingers.
Look for a pencil and its wife, the sharpener, in the junk drawer full of note cards,
Dried out markers, and the cat-like staple remover you like to play with.
And don’t forget, the most important step when taking time to draw,
Find a quiet place.
A quiet place to empty the ever-consuming thoughts about
how your mother and father can’t communicate without using
you as the rope in their game of tug of war or
about how your grandmother can love and hurt you at the same time.
How about the cat you had when you were 12? You miss him, right?
The feel of his fur, draw that. Remember the features of his face,
How his black, brown and gray coat looked when you cradled him in your arms.
How you watched the ghost in his empty bed next to the cold fireplace.
You like drawing cats. What about lizards? Draw Tibbles.
A spiked, chubby bearded dragon that produces joy with a touch.
Draw his large, triangular head with scales that feel refined and silky like petals
And his shortened, stubbed tail from that surgery he had 2 years ago.
What about the second one? Remember Nugget?
Draw her frail yellow body dragging itself forward, trembling with each step.
A body with hard, rough, spiky scales from years of neglect and abuse.
Don’t forget her eye that went blind or the knot on her knee from MBD.
Imagine the silence of dying alone –
trapped behind glass, lungs slowly collapsing. Draw that.
Draw the tears that are streaming down your face in your dad’s car.
Draw the gaping hole you have for a mouth as you scream her name
Into nothing but the hum of the engine and the dashcam tuning in.
Stop drawing before you ruin it.
Or keep going until you do.
Stop waiting for it to be perfect.
Now do it again.
About the Author
Mya Smith is a student writer. She enjoys reading, video games, animals, and drawing. Her writing often focuses on sensory imagery and emotional storytelling inspired by her personal experiences and family relationships. She has written several unpublished poems and literary pieces, and she currently owns two bearded dragons named Tibbles and Ivy.
I Never Thankt Berryman
Maybe I was busy being twenty-one
When he lifted off. I dunno.
Berryman took liberties to bed and heart.
I later learnt not to spark something that would
unmagic my life with some other life likely
to ruin me. I had a father who warned
of men looking mostly for a house-
keeper in keeping with what they believed
they were owed. Early on I lost interest,
of course. But balance being what it is,
I would have liked to thank Berryman
for spelling as he did, with or without
spellbinding me (I may seem impressed
but rarely I assure you), I just like justice
About the Author
Sheila E. Murphy is a Pushcart-nominated poet, recent appearances include Fortnightly Review, Lana Turner, Poetry, Poetry Bay, and others. Most recent book publications are I Want to Be Your Radio (Unlikely Books, 2025), Escritoire (Lavender Ink, 2025), and Permission to Relax (BlazeVOX Books, 2023). She won the Gertrude Stein Poetry Award for Letters to Unfinished J. (Green Integer Press, 2003) and the Hay(ha)ku Book Prize for Reporting Live From You Know Where (Meritage Press, 2018). She lives in Phoenix, Arizona. She is listed in Wikipedia
“Do You Think This Is Bad?” by Ace Boggess
question asked by Randi Ward
Words worry. Words reveal.
One says hope to an oak, &
a gray squirrel falls.
Then comes money: the kitten
you found broken in the road,
tried to salvage with a vet,
prayers from a needful priest.
Maybe was a word then, &
improving. No word
named the sadness after.
Rescue is heard often:
anemic dog, robin chick,
spiders under the sink.
One can’t save a world intent
on immolation. Immolation—
there’s a good two-dollar word, &
a bad one, an end, a burning.
Be satisfied you did your best,
weren’t the last survivor
on a raft, found adrift
with blood dried on your lips.
“What Are Your Feelings About Social Media?”
question asked by Mark Danowsky
I’m an actor after the show, saying,
Bring flowers to my dressing room.
I’m a convict guiding your tour
of my cell: bars, toilet, bunks, floor.
Here’s my cat, dinner, pajamas;
there my shoes caked in mud.
Read my deathbed confession, please,
or this tanka autobiography.
I’m a shadow erasing itself in lights.
Welcome to my gallery of lies.
About the Author
Sheila E. Murphy is a Pushcart-nominated poet, recent appearances include Fortnightly Review, Lana Turner, Poetry, Poetry Bay, and others. Most recent book publications are I Want to Be Your Radio (Unlikely Books, 2025), Escritoire (Lavender Ink, 2025), and Permission to Relax (BlazeVOX Books, 2023). She won the Gertrude Stein Poetry Award for Letters to Unfinished J. (Green Integer Press, 2003) and the Hay(ha)ku Book Prize for Reporting Live From You Know Where (Meritage Press, 2018). She lives in Phoenix, Arizona. She is listed in Wikipedia
Except Me by Huina Zheng
My parents’ cold war felt like a wet blanket during the rainy season. Heavy and hard to breathe under. Every Friday after school, I took an hour-long subway ride to my dad’s new apartment. I switched lines twice, squeezed between people, watching Doraemon on my phone and thinking: Nobita’s dad never had to sleep in a different house. On Sunday nights, I took the same ride back to Mom’s place.
But it was still better than listening to them fight. When they argued, Mom turned into an opera singer, yelling about Dad’s smelly socks, dirty teacups, and earthquake snores. Dad hid on the balcony, pretending he couldn’t hear, then made a weird, twisted smile and told me to go do my homework. Now I didn’t have to pick sides. I could just watch cartoons in both homes.
But going back and forth every week was tiring. A year went by, and Dad still didn’t come home. One night, while he heated up his company’s best-selling pre-made pickled fish for dinner and hummed a Teresa Teng song, I finally asked, “When are you coming back?”
“When things get less busy,” he said. His chopsticks froze for a moment, but he didn’t look at me. “This place is closer to work.”
He had worked there for ten years.
“Is your company laying people off? Like Uncle’s?”
Dad gave me a tight smile and put a piece of fish on my plate. The fish was so white it almost looked fake.
Right then, I felt like I’d asked something dumb. After COVID, my classmates complained their parents stopped taking them on trips, but Dad had taken me to the Eiffel Tower, the Alps, and the park with the bowing deer. His company must’ve been doing fine.
One Tuesday after school, my neighbor Lan came over to do homework. She swung her pigtails and asked, “Is your dad on another business trip?”
“Yeah,” I said. Same as always.
“No, he’s not.” She looked way too proud, like she knew something I didn’t. “Yesterday my mom and I saw your dad with a young, pretty lady. He had his arm around her.”
I jumped to my feet and pointed at her. “You’re lying!”
“I’m not! My mom says something’s been weird with your family forever.”
“Liar!”
She stomped her foot. “My mom says your parents must’ve divorced already!”
I wanted to yank the door open and shove her outside. But when my hand grabbed her arm, something even scarier hit me:
I was the only one who still thought everything was okay.
Let It Choke
“Don’t expect a few hundred yuan’s worth of medical checkups to detect any serious illness,” the CEO of a major health screening chain told the camera.
Like thousands of people online, I laughed in fury at his “honesty.” So, it was our fault, apparently. Naïve to believe their ads promising to “catch it early.” And then he told us: we just couldn’t tell a checkup from actual medical care.
I stared at the screen, my fingers itching to speak out for Ms. Zhang. For ten years, she had gone there for annual checkups, each one stamped “all clear.” But last year, she was diagnosed with late-stage cancer. In a burst of anger, she took the health screening center to court. And the CEO’s response? No apology. No reflection. Only arrogance. He held a press conference and announced that he was suing her for “spreading falsehoods,” claiming her words had “hurt staff morale.” On screen, we could all see it clearly. His faint smirk. His arrogant gaze. Oblivious to the outrage he was stoking. He had no idea how damaging his words would be to the public.
Does Ms. Zhang stand any chance of winning this case? Does she even have enough time left to see it through? An individual against a corporate giant. This sounds like something out of a film, but this is our reality.
I, like thousands of viewers watching that press conference, have spent nearly a thousand yuan each year on these checkups. For my health. For my family. For prevention. Just as their advertisements promised. And now we’re told that this money was insignificant? That it couldn’t even buy peace of mind?
I wonder: is this just one rotten company, or an open secret across the industry? If a few hundred yuan buys nothing but placebo reassurance, must I spend more on a “premium package” just to feel safe?
I am being gaslighted. My hesitation and compromise feed the fanged beast this institution has become. It swallows not just my money, but my health.
In the flood of furious comments, in the burning words scrolling past, my hands reach in. Into the screen. I pry open its mouth, push my hands inside, and pull out the money and the trust it has swallowed over the years.
Let it choke.
About the Author
Huina Zheng either writes as an admission coach at work or writes for fun after work. Her creative work has appeared in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and other literary journals. She lives in Guangzhou, China, with her family.