Minuscule irritants in nasal passage of the cosmos, we insist on festering and aggravating, even destroying the dust particle on which we blew in.
While some continue solipsistic hedonism, others try to repair the sins done by action and prayer.
Watery-eyed, The Maker sneezes.
“Gesundheit!” an archangel declares.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.
I don’t mind what you call me
Mum, Mummy, Mother
but I care how you treat me.
Have respect for me.
Care for me.
I am dying and time is running out.
There’s no going back.
So much wrong.
Too much to heal.
I’m your Mother.
I am Mother Nature.
Jean lives in Bath in the UK. She is trying to care for her corner of the world.
Seas warming by degrees, growing more acidic, weakening the skeletons of animals and plants. The scientists call it “mass bleaching.”
Giant clams with green dots on their flesh. The hawksbill turtle and hammerhead shark, damselfish and manta ray turn paler, swimming through rippling tendrils of ghost coral.
Nemo seems unaffected.
Beth Sherman received an MFA in creative writing from Queens College, where she teaches in the English department. Her fiction has appeared in numerous publications, including The Portland Review, Sandy River Review, Blue Lyra Review, Panoplyzine, Peacock Journal, 3Elements Review, Gloom Cupboard, The Delmarva Review, Sou’wester, Sinkhole, Compose Journal, Ponder Review and Marathon Literary Review. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has written five mystery novels.