My Near-Death Experience by Shirley Smothers

Jo Kassis

My Near-Death Experience

Someone asked me what my Near-Death Experience was like.

For the first time since it happened more than 35 years ago, I have found the courage to put it into written words.

When I was 29 years old, I went into the hospital for a D and C (dilation and curettage). This procedure is common. Mine was being done because I had several miscarriages within a short period of time.

I was placed under general anesthesia. During the procedure, my tube ruptured. In fact, had not had a miscarriage, but had a tubal pregnancy. My blood pressure went very low, and my breathing was minimal. The doctors realized what was happening and were able to remove the ruptured tube. I was given a pint of blood, and this saved my life.

But not before I had a NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE. I was floating in the air. I looked down and saw myself lying on the operating table. My surgical team was all talking at once. I could not hear what they were saying because there was a loud whooshing sound. But then there was nothing but blackness. What looked to be a million miles away was a faint light like a twinkling star. It grew bigger and stronger. It was vibrant and brilliant, not blinding.

A voice said, "Shirley, it's time to go." I said, "What! No! I'm not dead!" The voice said, "It's time." I still refused to go. Other individuals who were refusing surrounded me. They all seemed to be unaware of the others. They were lost, desperate, desolate souls. We were between worlds. This world was nothing, just a bone -chilling bleak darkness. I saw people in the light. They seemed to be dancing and beckoning us. It seemed to be welcoming, loving, and accepting.  

The voice said, "You may return; there is a soul waiting to be born unto you." I returned, and then two years later, I had my son, Matthew Smothers. So I was allowed to come back to give my son a chance at life. I now know there is life after death. I have worked to become a better person and to help others realize they should work to become better.

© Shirley Smothers

Shirley Smothers

Shirley Smothers is an amateur writer, artist, and poet. She mostly writes short stories. Some of her short stories can be viewed at Shirley Smothers @storystar.com. Her second book can be found at Shirley Smothers "Solasta" @pothi.com. Creative Beacons published her online poetry flip book, Shirley's Poems from the Heart. 

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Tell me again the story by Dorisa D. Costello

Leeloo The First

Tell me again the story

of us in the midnight

corners, how you

called my secret name

among your stars

I have breathed you in:

felt the amalgam water-dust

of my limbs reach for you

and heard the universe

stretch to meet me

what are the galaxies

but the expansion of 

your lungs as you sing

a lullaby for your children

and call us into the infinite

© Dorisa D. Costello

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Dorisa D. Costello

Dorisa D. Costello is Associate Professor of English at Jessup University. Her poetry and prose look for the sacred in the mundane and the holy in the human. She is a 2026 Pushcart Prize nominee in poetry and lives in Northern California with her cats, Benedick and Beatrice.

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Hospital train by Mykyta Ryzhykh

Hospital (Medical) Train Doctors Without Borders

Hospital train

Definite article

Infinitive of rain

The carriage is filled with emptiness

The body which had lain on the floor for three days

No longer shudders from the sound of the wheels

hitting the rails

Time is draining from the station walls

Here in the basement people with weapons are hiding

They will kill the air they will eat the names

of the murdered

The carriage hurtles into the unknown

The world revolution of the revolutionary world

Messy red tumor of the bloody world

From the left edge of the sky the right rain falls

And metallic rain falls from the naked air

And acidic rain falls from the trees in

endless autumn

Old-hoarse voice stopped the stop for the sleeping 

And the dead and it is not clear who is who

Sleeping death made of smoke and cigarette butts is

chasing the train

Nothing is certain

Everything is flooded

(Previously published in Tidings of Magpies)

© Mykyta Ryzhykh

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Mykyta Ryzhykh

Mykyta Ryzhykh, an author from Ukraine, now lives in Tromsø, Norway. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2023 and 2024. He’s published in many literary magazines іn Ukrainian and English: Tipton Poetry Journal, Stone Poetry Journal, Neologism Poetry Journal, Shot Glass Journal, QLRS, The Crank, Chronogram, The Antonym, Monterey Poetry Review, Five Fleas Itchy Poetry, and many others.

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BUTTERFLY WOMAN by John Grey

 

David Levinson

BUTTERFLY WOMAN

The black-dotted fritillary

inquires as to the nectar

of her nose.

A fluttery eastern comma

presses down on her temple

with its hindwings.

One eye is the white-rimmed black

of a fanciful admiral.

The other boasts the tigerish stripes

of a swallowtail.

One lip is orange sulfur,

the other light-gray copper.

And her throat lights up 

with skippers, 

rusty gold and bright yellow.

She is a woman

who makes the most 

of a relaxing rest-stop 

in an open field.

A checkerboard of flighty beauty

is a look in her direction.

© John Grey

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John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, a US resident, and has recently been published in Midnight Mind, Novus, and Abbey. His latest books, “Bittersweet," “Subject Matters,” and “Between Two Fires,” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Alchemy, Touchstone, and Willow Review.

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The tyranny of cognizance by Vandana Kumar

Саша Соколова

The tyranny of cognizance

Being clear-eyed is such a

Burdened state

Cognizance of time and clocks

And deadlines

The understanding of governments

And their infinite power

To unleash tyranny

Be inebriated, my friend

The intoxicating city lights

Shall fall on abandoned cars

In the grey and misty evening

Feeling like sunshine on your visage

On a pitch-black night

You shall have it in you

To count all the imaginary stars

In all the languages you can recall

Be so drunk

That inflation shrinks from memory

Like the value of real currency

That the dime gleams with possibilities

As you toss it in the air

For good luck

Hitler and Robespierre

Both teetotallers

Recall how that went down in history’s lane  

Being sober carries that inherent risk

To smell potential love stories

From afar

With it 

The knowledge 

That they seldom end The way the heart desires

© Vandana Kumar

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Vandana Kumar

Vandana Kumar is a translator, recruitment consultant, cinephile, Indie Film Producer, and multiple award-winning poet from New Delhi, India. Her poems have been published in over 150 national and international websites and anthologies of repute. Her poetry collection Mannequin of Our Times has also won several awards. Mannequin of Our Times has been translated into Greek and French. She received the Global Icon Award at the Global Vision Summit 2025 held in Athens, Greece. 

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Remembering Mali, Custodian of the Apartment Building by Mani G. Iyer

Arya Suraj

Remembering Mali, Custodian of the Apartment Building

My mother's voice quivers over the phone from Bombay,

'No one missed him till the rotting stench grew unbearable.

They burned his hut with him inside.'

In soiled khaki shorts and a tee-shirt once white 

he'd pick frangipanis and marigolds at dawn 

for the Brahmins' morning worship of their stony gods,

sweep the building's yard and tend its flora,

be the landlord's servant in lieu of rent,

do any chore any tenant demanded of him,

and pestle sun-dried chili peppers for them

in a mortar waist-high, an eye-smarting grind.

His nights were routine– head straight for King’s bar,

stagger back home with near-misses on gutters,

sully the quiet with slurred profanities,

swear to break the neck or leg of those

who paid him a measly rupee for his drudgery,

shout till he could settle on his open-air charpoy, 

and sink into a welcome oblivion.

Sunday mornings, I'd find him squatting

on a patch of sunlight, his calloused fingers

rubbing his temples and drumming his bowed head.

I’d greet him. His lips darkened by beedi smoke

and teeth rust-colored from betel leaves he rolled

with areca nuts and tobacco; he'd grin at me.

I smile at the memory and linger on 

his sober swagger set off towards the distant holler of his name.

© Mani G. Iyer

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Mani G. Iyer

Mani G. Iyer is deaf-blind due to Usher Syndrome, a rare, progressive genetic disorder. His poems have appeared in Book of Matches, Right Hand Pointing, Naugatuck River Review, and The Helikon Poetry Journal (translated into Hebrew). His debut chapbook, I Am the Dancing, was published by Yavanika Press in the fall of 2019.

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A SECOND CHANCE FOR BIMAL by Snigdha Agrawal

Muhammad Atik

A SECOND CHANCE FOR BIMAL

"Why are you late for work?" Madam asked Bimal in an irritable voice.

"I was knocked down by a cyclist and had to go home to change my clothes and apply Dettol to the bruises on my knees." Bimal pulled up his pants to show his bandaged knees stained with blood.

"Okay...go run and get the jalebis. The kids are waiting for breakfast," was her indifferent response.  Bimal made a quick exit to visit the sweetmeat shop selling freshly made hot jalebis, a favorite breakfast with the Guptas, washed down with glasses of hot milk. 

Ramlal's shop quickly ran out of jalebis due to high demand. Bimal was a regular, and noticing he had not arrived at his usual time, Ramlal kept his portion out of the customers' sight to avoid any unforeseen problems. 

When Bimal arrived, there were other customers in the queue.  Ramlal noticed him at the end of the line and raised his eyebrows as if to ask why he was late.  As Bimal reached the counter, he was sure the supply would be exhausted, and he would have to face the ire of Mrs Gupta.  Ramlal saved his day, handing over the oil-stained brown paper packet from under the counter, whispering to him, 'I have kept the normal quantity and added a few extras for you. Enjoy.  And consume them before reaching home."

Ramlal saw in this fourteen-year-old lad his son, whom he had lost a decade ago.  A victim of dengue fever.  He knew Bimal had to work for a living and, from his appearance, guessed he was not treated well by the Gupta household. 

Putting the jalebis on a plate, Bimal set them on the dining table, setting aside the extra four pieces for himself. The overnight dishes needed his attention first. Otherwise, he would be in trouble. Mrs Gupta was always picking on him for the slightest aberration. Just when he was about to bite into the juicy, sweet, the mistress walked into the kitchen and exclaimed, "You thief!  How ungrateful of you.  We employed you as our domestic help because our driver vouched for you, saying you came from a good family with no bad habits.  Pack your belongings and don’t even think of coming back.  The security guard at the gate has instructions to hand you over to the police if you even attempt."

Bimal wasn't even given a chance to explain as Madam stormed out of the kitchen to tell her husband and children of the incident.  Shame-faced, Bimal let himself out and walked aimlessly on the streets, not having the courage to tell his father that he had lost his job.  Ramlal came to his rescue when Bimal narrated the events leading up to his being thrown out of the Gupta home. 

"Arre beta...you don't have to worry.  I will employ you in my shop.  That way, you will continue to earn money as well as learn how to make the best jalebis in this town."  The relief on Bimal's face was visible. 

There was a spring in his step despite the pain as he walked home to announce to his parents the new job that would fetch him more money.

For Ramlal, it was like having his dead son back!

Notes: Jalebi – an Indian sweet made of a coil of deep-fried batter that is soaked briefly in sugar syrup. 

Arre beta – Oh, child.

© Snigdha Agrawal

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Snigdha Agrawal

Snigdha Agrawal (née Banerjee) holds an MBA in Marketing and has over two decades of corporate experience. She enjoys writing in all genres, including poetry, prose, short stories, and travel diaries.  Educated in Loreto Institutions, run by the Irish Nuns, and brought up in a cosmopolitan environment, she has learned the best of the East and West. She is a published author of four books.  Her works have appeared in several anthologies and e-journals, published in India and overseas. She has recently been nominated for the 2024 Pushcart Prize in poetry.

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One Day in 3020 by Soodabeh Saeidnia

akın akdağ

One Day in 3020

children will be riding viruses,
galloping them off to playgrounds,
and dashing the most stubborn ones over the rocks
the way their ancestors tamed wild horses,
they will be sprinting
through the fields of sunflowers toward schools

mothers will cook tonic soursop soups
and servant viruses will help them
to clean dishes without water and soap

fathers will construct towers
with help of virus workers
and skyscrapers will rise
in a matter of days without cements
we will love them
and forget the dark days they killed us

they won't hate us
but they won't forgive the mutation  
that brought them down to the level of slaves

© Soodabeh Saeidnia

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Soodabeh Saeidnia

Soodabeh Saeidnia lives in New York City but is originally from Iran. Her English poems have appeared in American and Canadian anthologies and literary magazines, including Careless Embrace of the Boneshaker, Squawk Back, Indiana Voice Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, Sick Lit Magazine, Dying Dahlia Review, Sisyphus Quarterly, and NY Literary Journal, among others. Her poetry books, Street of the Ginkgo Trees, Voice of Monarch Butterflies, and Apple Fruits of an Old Oak, are now available on Amazon. She is the editor and translator of the bilingual anthologies in English and Farsi, including Where Are You From, Persian Sugar in English Tea Vol I, II, III, and Saffron Flavored Rock Candy Vol I, II. Her micro-poems are found on  X @SSaeidnia and Open Art Forum. She routinely posts many of her poems on her weblog https://soodabehpoems.wordpress.com/ and Facebook https://www.facebook.com/soodabeh.saeidnia. 

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The Treasure by Bilal Al Masri

Gizem Gökce

The Treasure 

How can I be sure 

that language is the treasure 

in the hinterland of the soul? 

I doubt that balconies – 

which dangle from buildings 

like the earrings of women – 

are the entire city! 

Rather the body is the original place 

where Time was born.

Sometimes I feel the Earth 

is a morsel in the mouth 

of the universe – 

this predatory being 

expanding endlessly, 

like paradise is

a search for pure nihilism, 

yet that discovery 

brings no new knowledge, 

.just hell growing out of questions

© Bilal Al Masri

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Bilal Al Masri

Bilal Al Masri is active in the Lebanese literary community and known throughout the Arab world. He has published four poetry collections. He has written three novels and two plays as well as children’s stories, which were translated into English in Canada. Selected poems have appeared in six anthologies, including English and Polish, and some of his poems have been translated into French. He has received four different awards, including the “Zheng Nian Cup” national prize in China in 2023. His most recent poetry collection is Crushing His Head with the Stone of Memory, part of Ishraqat – a series on Arab Poetic Voices curated by the iconic Syrian poet Adonis. Bilal and his wife, Sonia Essa (of Palestinian heritage), have two children.

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