Prose
Discarded Souls: The Old Woman & The Old Robot
INTRODUCTION In the year 2230, faces are no longer fixed things. People shift. Machines shift. Even memories shift, flickering like old film reels caught between timelines. The characters you meet in these fragments — the Old Woman and the Old Robot known as Echo — may appear in different forms, bodies, or styles, depending on which recovered file you’re viewing. This is not a mistake. It is the nature of shape‑shifter stories.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 8 months ago in Poets
The Shape of Safety
I dream of being held. My head on someone’s chest, listening to their heartbeat. Their hands in my hair, not to escalate, but to comfort and ground me. A moment of real peace. Where I don’t have to be strong. Where I can just exist and be held. I would breathe them in and fall asleep in their arms.
By Alicia Melnick 8 months ago in Poets
Beyond the Blue Horizon: A Journey Through Family Addiction and Recovery
My feet sink into the wet sand as the tide comes in, covering everything with warm ocean crystals that fade away. I’m running, I think, and the spray sticks to my ankles, hiding my legs from view. My head is turned toward the horizon, my body flailing on its own. Dad is in the picture too, right next to me, supporting my little brother with impressive strength. He wears his Bahamas fish shirt, the most comfortable of all his clothes. It's soft and covered in colorful angel fish. I know that once I get cold, that shirt will be mine, and I’ll happily wrap myself in it. I’m content now; everything feels peaceful, and my family is happy. I remember thinking that would never change. But I was wrong. So very wrong. I don’t know it yet, But the woman behind the camera is sick. Her struggle with addiction has already begun, and it will take about 6 years before my father realizes it. He accepts it, Allows it, Works long hours to cope with it, And is rarely home because of it. Five years later, my first year of high school nearly destroys me. I am a child, and I refuse to grow up because it hurts to bear the weight of these big feelings. I raise my little brother in my parents’ place, and I do a terrible job. I’m not a good parent, and we both fall into addiction of different kinds, along with a distant, uncomfortable silence. We bond over our love for drugs once he enters high school, But the gap widens when he starts using heavier substances. Suddenly, the little control I thought I had is gone again. I’m in college when my father gives him an ultimatum. At the same time, my mother enters rehab for the third time, and he chooses a life of service. Letters from boot camp arrive four months after he signs up, just three days before my birthday, and they’re awful. I hold onto hope that this will help, That he will come home improved, Different, Maybe even healed. Even though he isn’t fully healed, he is more himself when he returns. By this time, I’ve learned to appreciate small victories. We celebrate past our bedtimes. I keep this picture as a bookmark for decades, only recently putting it away because the edges are so frayed they’re damaging my cherished memory. In between the spray, my missing shins, the bluest water in the background, and the endless sky are all the things that have hurt me. The white, chalky paper creeping in on the colors feels like an attempt to take this joy away from me too. I’m 28 by the time Mom is completely clean. I’m 35 when my brother and I find common ground again and create a shaky peace between us. I’m 37 when I finally retire the picture and place it on my wall, choosing to preserve the goodness of the memory while separating it from all the pain hiding between the clear sky and the endless, blue water crashing onto the sand.
By Rosalina Jane8 months ago in Poets
