“There,” she said as she quietly used me. Etching away with her instrument of pain, a black pen. It was supposed to be pressure sensitive but it was I who was forced to feel it. I always knew in my heart that it would stop, eventually… She would either tire of me or I would fall into the deep darkness of sleep. The only question left is which would come first? Could I manage to hold out? Or would some kind soul save me from this hell, distracting her while I drift off? This is my life, I endure, iPad.

From Guest Contributor, Erik Menches

Allen awoke from his morning dream reluctantly because he didn’t want to face the disturbing reality of what it might mean.

Sure, he’d been sleeping with Samantha for months, but that was just sex. It didn’t mean anything. Yet what if he actually had some affection for her. That would be a betrayal of his friendship with Tim.

There lies the gun.

There lies the gun.

It’s hard to believe, but there was a time in the early 21st century when serious art had fallen out of fashion. Everything was pop culture and reality TV and Banksy.

Of course, in order to be considered art now, a piece must include at least one monkey, but like Earnest Hemingway used to say, monkey art is better than no art at all.

She had not seen a human before. She had read about them, of course, and heard endless stories from her father, The General. How they had saved the remaining few, bringing them back before Earth finally died.

He was as clumsy as the books suggested, but his eyes shocked her most. Shapeless, lonely grey eyes. Only regret was left. It was too late for anything else.

From Guest Contributor, Amy Evans

Road curling up the mountain. In the rearview a city smears towards a gunmetal ocean. Escaping its saliva slip is rebirth.

A stretch opens up. Open road. Serpent ropes reach out, a single newspaper sheet escapes, rises up; twisting, turning, laying itself flat, across his windshield. Centre fold, it’s her, smiling sweetly at him. The heavy saloon hurls itself into space.

From Guest Contributor, Matthew Evans

The old man who lived on the hill was named Mr. Hill. He was so stingy, he even begrudged giving affection.

Although Mr. Hill and Mrs. Bottoms did indeed marry, their union brought neither of them happiness.

The prince lives in a gated estate deep in the Hollywood Hills. The paparazzi shadow him everywhere, heralding his arrivals and departures. His office, now purely ceremonial, still holds the attention of the populace, many of whom harbor secret hope his family will one day be restored.

Also, he likes to sleep around. The prince is a slut. A discrete slut.