She holds two swords of societal success. Her career of achievement, her marriage of love realized. Nice house, nicer car. The look that men look at – even her husband. Meditative dreams on summer days under a comforter of cool breezes. Still, one regret reflects the swords’ sharp edges. Cut her caesarean style – deep as you like; take out the child she cannot carry… his son. The single thing she cannot give him. Justice, she feels, is not in the cards for her. She seeks to be satiated through gluttonous eyes. Where are maternity clothes, the infant boy she must steal?

From Guest Contributor. Keith Hoerner

Keith lives, teaches, and pushes words around in St. Louis, Missouri.

If This World Would Allow it, I would Curl You Into Me, Caught from Flinging

I will build a catapult against instruction, an implication of backward, showing you from the cupped seat to base, flat and without lacquer, just how far necessity sounds through an ear’s tunnels, when the breath propelling the assertion is something past love. Sentiment is reactionary, but I promise fullness and recompense after the flight. Thatches of bendy straws still wait, splayed in divided nests under my pillow to serve as extra reminders after you inevitably ask: “What does it mean to land, to really land?”

From Guest Contributor, Kelli Allen

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge and holds an MFA from the University of Missouri. She is currently a Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Allen gives readings and teaches workshops throughout the US. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, from John Gosslee Books (2012) was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.

Herbert surveyed the battle raging before him. Never had he seen his living room in such disarray. The coffee table, seven degrees askew, was at war with his sofa and chaise. The casualties were everywhere, as the legroom between sofa and table had practically been murdered, and the rug underneath was suffering its death throes as it bunched up under the strain.

With the furniture righted, and the correct layout restored, Herbert knew all that would remain would be his PTSD.

In an effort to eradicate the disease carrying pigeon population from the city, the mayor signed into law an ordinance requiring all pigeons within the city limits to wear pants. His hope was that they would be forced to flee the city as they did not possess the dexterity necessary to fashion their own clothing. He underestimated the pigeons’ solidarity and the ordinance instead sparked an uproar in the garmentless pigeon community. The pigeons quit their jobs as letter carriers in protest and decided to focus their efforts solely on their cynical hobby of defecating on large man-made objects.

From Guest Contributor, Sean Franklin

Hey there! Do you like novels about murder, grave robberies, and ghosts? Do you like historical fiction? Did you ever play the Oregon Trail computer game while you were growing up?

Then do I have the Kickstarter for you!

What is Quitting The Grave?

Eugene, Oregon. October, 1999. After three graves robberies–in each case, the abducted corpse was a John Doe–the police have few leads and little interest in the story. Caya Blumenshine, a reporter for the local newspaper, canvasses Eugene, questioning anarchists, wyccans, and politicians, until her search hits upon a secluded house on the outskirts of the city. Its owner, Alexander Hilyard, a history-writing hermit who hasn’t been seen in years, may be involved in the grave robberies, or may have been the most recent victim.

As Caya digs deeper into the mystery, she becomes absorbed in Hilyard’s controversial narrative of Eugene’s earliest residents and their cross-country journey from Indiana to Oregon in the summer of 1846. She realizes that the recent crimes may somehow be linked to events from 150 years in the past. And she discovers people may be willing to commit murder to prevent Caya from unearthing their long-buried secrets.

What exactly would I be donating to?

Quitting The Grave is intended to be more than just an e-book. As my first entirely original novel, Quitting The Grave will take full advantage of its digital format. This Kickstarter will help me raise the money to travel the Oregon Trail along the same route as my protagonists in the book and conduct interviews with historical experts on the characters and events of the historical section of the story.

I’m going to travel from Fort Wayne, Indiana to Eugene, Oregon over the course of a month, with stops at Fort Sutter in Sacramento and Fort Vancouver outside of Portland. Once finished, I’ll compile the interviews and footage into a series of one- to two-minute documentaries on the history of the Oregon Trail that will be included in the enhanced e-book version of Quitting The Grave.

In support of my Kickstarter campaign, this month is Oregon month at The Chaos Factory. Expect daily posts on Oregon history, the Oregon Trail, pictures of rain, etc! I’ll also be posting excerpts of the novel, to whet everyone’s appetite. Please help spread the word, and go to Kickstarter to find out more about how you can support the effort and make this enhanced e-book a reality.

And believe me, it’s a lot more than 100-words long.

Unicorns are not a figment of my imagination. They are as real as I am and I know where to find them.

I should’ve been ecstatic but I couldn’t stop thinking about how much more I wanted to ride a Pegasus over a Unicorn.

From Guest Contributor, Kristen Lum

When Inspector Grimes arrived at the scene, a flood of details cried out for his attention, as they so often did: the layer of grime between the flagstones, the single shoelace tied around a stack of books, the taste of almonds hovering in the air. Any of them might be important, but it was the recumbent bicycle the inspector focused on now. Someone had knocked it to the ground.

Being a good detective requires blotting out emotions and staying focused on the meaningful details. But right now all Grimes could think about was that his best friend had been murdered.

You are the hair against my belly, left too long in slick cooling foam. You are the pull of my arm as it leans closer to ground than shoulder. You are the gelatin near my breast where I am found waiting, one more time. You are sorted beyond shape, into one scent I’ll accept, one I push heavily against, a reminder of reverse birthing, of what inside might mean if wrapped, warped by artifice and vivid yellows. You are this sweetness I take instead of a lesson—a cabbage of greens kept to hide the reds left in your leaving.

From Guest Contributor, Kelli Allen

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge and holds an MFA from the University of Missouri. She is currently a Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Allen gives readings and teaches workshops throughout the US. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, from John Gosslee Books (2012) was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.

Henry was an old man. In the last ten, maybe twenty years, he realized that he had grown invisible. When shopping, picking a loaf of bread off the shelf, or choosing a couple of oranges at the produce counter, young people would pass by, almost brushing into him, but not making eye contact or offering a greeting. At the front entrance of the post office, an attractive young lady appeared, face to face at the large, double doors. She stared straight ahead, not changing her expression. She looked through the old man as if he was glass in the door.

From Guest Contributor, Thomas Pitre