Adonis Prison

 

                                                            By Simon Collinson

I was warned this could happen but I just didn’t listen. Just too busy looking at myself to notice. I loved myself so much I could not bear to stop looking at myself in the mirror and taking endless selfies. I would have been alright if I was discreet and private about it but in public I couldn’t help myself.

You see I was just so good looking.

I’d go past a mirror in the pub or restaurant and I’d be there for ages looking at my reflection. I would stop at a shop window to admire myself for hours. I‘d stop strangers and ask them if they agreed with me that I was the best looking person in the room. Someone informed the authorities about me. Naturally there are a lot of jealous people out there who are envious of my handsome looks.

And eventually, I was taken to the court, having been accused of crimes of vanity. The court was packed out. All eyes were on me. I loved every minute of it. The judge found me guilty of vanity on all counts. I had to plead guilty as I am really good looking.

I was given five years in Adonis prison.

Adonis prison was beautiful to look at from the outside like pristine white marble. I was taken in there by hooded guards. I could not see their faces. They wore special glasses. I suppose it was so that they would not feel down when they compared their ugliness to my stunning beauty.

The gate was locked behind me. And it was just empty. Just me in there. That's right, just me. And only me.

Everywhere I looked there were pictures and posters all of me on the walls, windows and doors. There were photographs of me everywhere. In the library all the books had pictures of me on the front, back and every page. In the canteen my picture was on the menu, the cups, plates, bowls on the tables and chairs.

The only thing on TV was my smiling face. The weekly film show was just a picture of me set to the music of Wagner. All the visitors wore masks of my face. The guards and staff all wore masks of my face upon their faces.

My cell was just walls, doors, ceilings and floors of mirrors. Every day I saw reflections of myself and only myself. I thought I looked fantastic.

I was the only inmate of Adonis prison. Everyone was looking at me. fabulous!

At first I thought it was heaven. How great it was to be able to look upon my superb looks every hour of the day? I thought I look even better in prison than I do outside. I am one of those lucky people who get better looking every day.

But after the fifth month it began to get monotonous. I could spot every single feature. Even perfection can look tedious if you look long enough at it. I grew tired of looking at myself all the time. I began to hate seeing myself everywhere. I found I was avoiding myself and staying in bed. I tried to keep my eyes shut in my cell to avoid catching a glimpse of my chiseled features.

I found that when I walked past the mirror I no longer had the urge to look at myself or take selfies.

Five years came round. It felt like five hundred. I was ready for release. Just got to go to the Artemis room for the final procedure. They strap you down as a machine cuts a big scar into your face from your ear to your jaw. They couldn’t take any chances with my astounding good looks.

I’ve been out of Adonis prison for a while now. My face is no longer perfect. It looks scary. I suppose they had to do it as I was so dishy before. It wasn’t fair on the rest of the world to have to look upon my stunning beauty. I no longer excessively love myself or admire myself. In fact I hate the person I was. He was so vain. I no longer look at mirrors or have taken a selfie in years. I wasted so much time looking at myself. I am much more productive now.

I’m glad I’m cured.

About the author: Simon is a writer from England who likes to write stories.

Finishing Touches

 

                                                            By Susan Shea

You gifted me with a fragrance

called Wild Rose, stirring me

to find I can fully inhale myself

wanting more and more…

 

After years of standing

alone at a perfume counter

trying so many drops

of mismatch up and down

my arms

ran out of extensions

until finding you.

 

Now

I have become a rejoicing

balm in your private garden

finding full sun with

vines entwined.

About the author: Susan Shea is a retired school psychologist, who was raised in New York City and now lives in a forest in Pennsylvania. She has had a little over 100 poems accepted by publications including, Across the Margin, Ekstasis, Feminine Collective, Triggerfish Critical Review, Amethyst Review, Litbreak Magazine, A Time of Singing, Invisible City and others. 

Ritual

 

                                                          By Ali Ashhar

It’s the month of October and the transition

is up for the day, the chirping birds witness

desolate leaves at the onset of fall season. Beyond

the aloof horizon belies a vibrant ray of hope;

the caretaker's metaphors get busy in bridging

the gap between the inner voice and the outer discord,

the syllables get heavy in the contemporary weather

for they carry the onus of vacant melodies

from erstwhile summer. The breeze of conscience around

the garden leads to a boulevard where fellow caretakers

vie for utopia; they follow a ritual in the toughest of times

they profess what comes easiest to them—enlighten the dark ambience.

About the author: Ali Ashhar is a poet, short story writer and columnist from Jaunpur, India. He is the author of two poetry collections: Mirror of Emotions (Notion Press, 2021) and Across the Shore (Zorba Books, 2024). He was chosen as the Best Debut Author for the year 2021 by The Indian Awaz and was the recipient of an India Prime 100 Authors Award. His works appear in Indian Review, The Raven Review, Wild Court International Poetry Journal and The Bosphorus Review of Books, among others.

Harmony

 

                                                    By Fabrice Poussin

It is a mysterious language hovering above the two

still as if at a loss for words, they read sounds

written upon the ether of the world they see.

 

A sign of a small pleasure like a tsunami

changes him in all his fibers to make him new

the scents of her breath dance before his eyes.

 

Caressing his brow with a delicate kiss

he lets her into the tale of his hours

her insides share in the passion of the day.

 

In the vacuum of eternal seconds they plunge

into the oceans of serene blues and greens

swimming to the recollection of a first contact.

They know not to speak, no sound exists

but for the symphony of a perpetual waltz

as two souls fuse in delightful harmony.

About the author: Poussin is a professor of French and World Literature. His work in poetry and photography has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and hundreds of other publications worldwide. Most recently, his collections In Absentia, and If I Had a Gun, Half Past Life were published in 2021, 2022, and 2023 by Silver Bow Publishing.

What Else Could I Be...

 

What else could I be,

When the life I knew

Seemingly failed to recognise me?

 

I chose to be an unnoticed face,

Silently staying out of the race,

Where peace is compromised

Without ever allowing a pause

In keeping up with the pace.

 

Scared away off the dazzling beauty

In the bottled up love and fidelity,

I sought to find solace and serenity

In solving the perplexed math of

Adjusting half-fed stomach with cut-off coffee.

 

What else could I be

When there is no life left

Between you and me…

 

 

© Atique R.

Nature’s Flight

 

                                                            By Matthew Spence

Jessica Beckingham first heard about the flying plants from one of her neighbors. She'd been tending her flower garden when she noticed that some of her plants were missing. At first she thought an animal might have dug them up, or that they might have even been stolen, but the holes where the roots had been were too neatly scooped out for that. Then she heard about the flying plants on the news, and told Jessica what had happened.

 

"I don't know why mine left," she sobbed. "I took good care of them."

Jessica tried to be sympathetic. "Maybe it was just instinct, or something-they just wanted to follow the others? The rest of your flowers are still there, after all."

"Yes, but why is it happening?" Jessica's neighbor suddenly sounded afraid. "What if something else is next?"

 

Jessica began to wonder about that too, as the news about the flying plants spread. But as she had pointed out, it was only some plants, not entire groups, or colonies, as they were called. Videos were shown of trees, flowers, bushes, even weeds, pulling themselves up out of the ground as if by invisible hands and floating up until they were caught by the jet stream or other air currents and deposited hundreds, sometimes, thousands, of miles away, where they took root again.

 

"It seems to be a migration pattern," one of her other neighbors, a man named Scott, said one afternoon. He was a biology teacher at the local high school, and had been following the flying plants online. "They're staying in their own hemispheres, however. And different plant species seem to be deliberately avoiding each other. It's like they treat each other as invasive species infringing on their territory."

"But what does that mean?" Jessica asked. "Are they intelligent?"

"Plants do communicate with each other in nature," Scott pointed out. "And...yeah, that worried me. What if...what if they start to organize-against us?"

 

Jessica had wondered about that herself, and thought about it as she somewhat nervously looked at the sky. There were a few flying plants up there now-trees, elm and birch, probably from the nearby national forest area. She wondered where they were going, if they were going to take root there permanently, or if they might leave and go somewhere else. And what would they do then?

 

Jessica hoped she wouldn't have to find out, as the herbs on her kitchen windowsill began to stir restlessly.

About the author: 

Matthew Spence was born in leveland, Ohio. His work has most recently appeared in Tall Tale TV. More details of the author can be found here: 

Sometimes I Cry on the PATH Train

 

                                                            By Dave Nash

Between Harrison and Journal Square when writing my fiction becomes non

and I look upon brown marshes patched with frozen puddles,

refracting a sullen February sun

gives way to diesel rigs,

corrugated containers,

half-finished landfills

repurposed for renewables.

 

I’m spared when we go under the cut bedrock and new people get on

who couldn’t have seen the tear,

the slow drip.

 

I’ve sucked it back like a proud pouchy man posing for his picture.

 

Finally underground for good

I can breathe again knowing

I kept it together for another morning.

Whatever it was will stay buried

until I come out from under.

 

The slight touch of strangers sharing

this ride breaks that train

of memory that

plunged me into this abyss.

 

Without the kindness of crowds,

alone in my car I would bawl to my job

where if I just work as hard and

cross my fingers just right

I will live the same life for another year until my contract comes up

and I’m renewed in the same old.

 

But it’s another distraction from the real things.

The things that I wake up thinking about.

The things behind the things that

make me cry between Harrison and Journal Square.

About the author:

Dave Nash writes on Northeast Regional trains. He is the Nonfiction Editor at Five South Magazine. His work appears in places like South Florida Poetry Journal, Bulb Culture Collective, Jake, and The Hooghly Review. You can follow him @davenashlit1.